Author/pseudonym: Clotho & Cathy
Email address: clothomoerae@hotmail.com and huntersglenn@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Status: 5/8
Pairing: John Carter/Dave Malucci
Date: May 22, 2001
Archive: Not without permission. The story and its prequel, "Bottoms Up", can be found at Clotho's fanfic site http://home.talkcity.com/antennaav/fatespinner/ and at the Carterfics site http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Boutique/7087/
Category: "E.R."
Disclaimer: "ER" and all its characters belong to Warner Bros. No infringement of their copyright is intended. This story was written for the enjoyment of "ER" fans everywhere, and may be downloaded for your own pleasure. We owe a huge "Thank you" to Alice and Melissa, our wonderful editors. We couldn't have done it without the two of you!
Summary: It's New Year's Day - the morning after the night before. Contains spoiler for Season 7.
Dave stood up and grabbed Carter's hand. It felt large and warm and slightly oily. And he felt like he was back in 6th grade for even noticing.
John retrieved the bottle of oil. "This way." John laced his fingers through Dave's, then led the way to the large kitchen, taking Dave to the stainless steel refrigerator. "This is the fridge. The walk in freezer is over there, but I'm not going in there stark naked. Let me know if you see anything you like. There's stuff in the pantry, too." John sat on one of the stools and waited for Dave to find something for them to eat.
Dave looked in the fridge. There were eggs; eggs were a good start. And bacon with some foreign language on the packet - well bacon was bacon. He pulled them out, "Fry-pan?" Then went to the pantry. No fresh tomatoes, but a can of them. "Bread?"
While Dave was in the pantry, John got out several pans. He had no idea which of them was a 'fry-pan' -- his Gamma and Corrine used saute pans and skillets and omelet pans, but he'd never heard either one of them mention a fry pan. So, John figured that if he set out almost all the pans, then he'd be bound to have a 'fry pan' in the bunch. "Bread. Got it." John went over to the breadbox and pulled out a loaf. "How many slices do you want me to cut?" he asked as he reached for a large knife to slice with.
"Um," Dave quickly assessed his appetite and doubled. "Four." He reached for the largest pan, and lit the stove. He returned to the fridge for butter, and put some in the pan, watching it slowly melt in the heat.
"Four. Thick or thin?" John made note of which pan Dave grabbed. So that was what a fry pan looked like. He'd remember that from now on.
"Um, 1/2 an inch." The butter was hot. The bacon went in first, four slices of it. They smelled good, so another four followed them. Then there were only two in the packet, and it seemed scarcely worth keeping, so they went in too.
John carefully cut the bread, then put the remainder of the loaf back. He put the bread on a plate and carried it over to Dave. "Toast?" He looked at the frying bacon and the smell of it made his stomach growl. "Do you think that's going to be enough?" John seriously asked.
Dave shook his head. "Fried bread." He shrugged. "Cut more if you like." Just then the bacon and butter began to spit. Dave leaped backwards, and began looking around for a towel. There were some things that just should NOT be done naked.
John had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as he watched Dave search for a towel. Hell, he couldn't cook and he knew better than to fry things while naked. Then he looked from the bread to the bacon, then back to the bread. "Fried bread? I'd rather have more meat. I like meat."
Dave frowned, and dived back into the fridge. Sure enough there were some sausages there. Whoever had stocked the fridge before leaving had done their best to leave lots of easy-cook food. "Coming through." He put down a circle of links around the outside of the pan.
"I'll wait over here." John headed for the counter to sit on one of the stools, then he noticed that he had yet to put the oil back. He grabbed the bottle and tried to remember which cabinet he had found it in. Shouldn't be too difficult a task, since he had left them all open. John walked from cabinet to cabinet, finally finding the one with all the cooking oils. He put the bottle on the shelf, then noticed that he had grabbed olive oil earlier -- Extra Virgin, no less. He grinned at that and debated about whether or not to mention it to Dave. He didn't want to make him angry or upset again. Aside from needing him to make breakfast, John didn't like conflict and he didn't like it when Dave got like that. John closed the cabinets, then sat down. "Do you need me to get the plates yet?" he asked.
With a few spare minutes before anything else needed to go on, Dave began to think about upgrading from fried bread to French toast. "No. Milk." He broke four eggs into one of the pots that Carter had dragged out earlier, and began searching through drawers for a fork.
"Milk. Got it." John opened the fridge and looked inside. There was cream. There was half and half. He was sure Dave didn't want those. Gamma or Corrine always asked for them by name. Whole milk reduced fat -- 2% and 1%. Skim. "Which kind? Whole or skim?" John hoped that Dave didn't need anything else.
"Whatever. Whole." Dave held his hand out for it.
John grabbed the carton of whole milk and took it over to the stove, steering clear of the greasy food pan. "What's it for?" he asked as he handed it to Dave.
"French toast." Dave said, by way of explanation. He had a sudden idea, he'd teach Carter to cook. He poured some of the milk into the pot with eggs, and told Carter to beat them well together, then handed him the bread, and told him to soak it in the mixture.
John looked at the fork, then at the mixture of milk and eggs. "French toast? You mean that French toast is made with milk and eggs?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "I never would have guessed that." John started to beat the milk and eggs together, sniffing it from time to time. "Corrine's French toast smells different. Or does it change when you cook it?" John asked as he dropped a slice of bread into the pot.
"It changes." Dave frowned. "Add some cinnamon if you like."
"Cinnamon." John liked cinnamon but wasn't sure where Corrine kept it. "That's a spice, right?" he hazarded a guess.
Dave grinned. "Good thing that wasn't in the MCATs. Yes, it's a spice, genius."
John rolled his eyes at Dave and went to the spice cabinet, feeling pretty good that he knew where that was. He found the cinnamon, then returned to the pot. He opened the small jar. "How much?"
"Um, a couple of shakes." Dave was busy concentrating on turning the bacon and sausages. "Hurry up. It'll need to go in soon."
"Okay." John shook it a couple of times, but he thought it looked pretty dark. Maybe he should have let Dave do the shaking. He set the cinnamon aside. "Now what? This is a lot for just one piece of bread, isn't it? Does each piece take this many eggs and stuff?"
"Ah, a bit of sugar." The bacon to Dave's eyes looked just about perfect. "Nah, we've got 4 bits of bread. More if you like. Just cut."
"A bit of sugar." John grabbed the sugar bowl, wondering just how much was a bit. He grabbed a handful of it and tossed it on top of the soaking bread slice. "Sugar is added. What now? Do you need me to cut more bread?"
Dave was concentrating on getting no kinks in the sausages as he turned them over. This was going to be a perfect breakfast. "How much do you want?"
"Enough. I'll cut more bread. You'll have to cook the French toast though. Um, how long is that bread supposed to soak?" John asked as he hurried across the kitchen to the breadbox. Cutting bread was something he felt secure with.
Dave shrugged. "A while." The first slice should be about ready now, in fact. He reached for the little pot. "Whoa! Did you use cocoa?" The liquid in the pot seemed to be dark brown.
"I used cinnamon and sugar, just like *you* told me to. Why?" John looked up from the bread. "Is there something wrong with it?"
Dave bent down and sniffed at the pot. It *smelt* like cinnamon. "There's way too much of it. Give me a spoon."
"I put in how much you said. A couple of shakes. That's what you said." John muttered as he got a spoon from the silverware drawer and passed it to Dave. "It's not ruined, is it?"
Dave shrugged, "I didn't say to put in *that* much. Hope it'll be okay." He started skimming some of the floating cinnamon off the surface.
"You didn't tell me to measure it," John replied, feeling bad that he had ruined breakfast for Dave. "It's all ruined now, isn't it?" he asked, slumping into one of the chairs, a frown on his face.
"What? No? The rest'll be fine. You take over this. It should look, just um, *light* brown kinda speckled." Dave pushed the pot and spoon toward Carter, and returned his attention to the frypan. Time to put the tomato and eggs in. He moved things around a bit to make sure they weren't sticking, then looked around the room for a can-opener.
John slowly got up and looked into the pot. It didn't look as dark as it had before. "What do I do with it now?" He didn't think he liked cooking. Didn't like it at all. He wasn't good at it and he didn't like having to do things that he wasn't good at.
"Just keep skimming the dark stuff off." Dave spotted his can opener, there was a great big electrical wall mounted one. He grinned - nothing so lower-class as a hand one here. He lightly slapped Carter's butt on his way over. "Just keep skimming."
John jumped. He knew that Dave meant it in play, but with his back already sore, all the smack did was send little shock waves up into the lumbar region. Please don't start to spasm, John prayed. Please. He didn't want to put up with the pain or aggravation of having to deal with his back acting up. Concentrate on the skimming.
Dave looked at the can-opener. He was sure he could figure out how to use it. Put the can here or there or somewhere else? And press which button. "D'ya know how to use this?"
John put the spoon on the counter and slowly walked over to Dave. He took the can from him and quickly removed the lid, then handed the can back. "The recycle bin is under the sink," he told him. Then John slowly walked back to the French toast pot, trying his best to not limp in front of Dave.
"Thanks." Dave hurried back to the pan, and shook it. It looked like nothing had caught. The tomatoes went in. Dave wasn't too sure if the French toast would be retrievable or not - probably, . . . but there was enough food in this kitchen to feed lots of people and Carter had said he was hungry, so he'd make it 6 eggs instead of 2 or 4, just to be safe.
"Okay, there's no more dark stuff. Well, maybe a little, but not as much. What now?" John asked.
Dave pulled another pan out and set it to heat with more butter. There was no point mixing the sweet stuff with the savory. "'kay bring it over here, and the bread."
John grabbed the rest of the bread, then picked up the pot and took them all over to Dave, handing them over. He hoped that Dave was going to be the one actually cooking the stuff. John could manage making a grilled cheese sandwich, but he didn't think he would be able to manage French toast.
Dave pointed at the newly buttery pan. "Get yourself one of these." He waved his slice in the air, "And soak the bread and put it in there."
"What about the bread that's already in the pot?" John asked as he picked up a fresh slice. "There's no room in here to soak this one."
Dave had forgotten about that. "Take it out, and put it in the pan." He returned his attention to his own pan. The tomatoes were beginning to bubble, and a wonderful smell was filling the room. This would be good. He took half a moment to put his arm about Carter's waist, before returning to ensuring that nothing was sticking.
John put down the fresh slice of bread and then stuck his fingers into the milky stuff to pick up the other piece. The crust disintegrated under his touch. Not just once, but twice. So John put his entire hand under it, lifting the slice and a whole lot of the milk and egg mixture with it, then plopped it into the pan. It felt good to have Dave's arm around him, really good. John put another slice into the pot, thinking that this time he wouldn't let it stay in there for as long. But it didn't look as if there would be enough liquid for all of the bread they had. Then John's nose twitched as he began to smell something burning. "Dave?"
Dave turned his attention to Carter's pan. "Get that extra gunk outta there." His own panload was nearly ready. "Where're the plates?"
Plates? He had forgotten to get the plates out earlier. And how was he supposed to get the extra gunk out of the pan? Okay, he could handle this. After all, he ran traumas all the time, right? This wasn't as hectic as a trauma. "Plates are in that cupboard over there -- left of the fridge," John pointed it out. Then he tried to use the spoon to get the gunk off. It only half worked. Gunk was still there. And John thought that maybe he should turn the bread. Hell, if he knew for sure. "Dave? When do I turn this?" And how, he silently added. He put the spoon down and tried to get the gunk away from the bread using just his fingers, doing his best to ignore the heat coming up from the bottom of the pan. Finally it was all gone and he scooped it up with the spoon and dumped it in the trash.
Dave headed for the cupboard, and quickly found a stack of china. Fancy china. He pulled out two of them, and looked at them. They seemed to be the kind of thing people would have dinner parties on, not fry-up breakfasts. He absent-mindedly answered Carter's question. "When it's golden brown." He carried the plates back to the stove. "These ones?"
"Yeah, those are fine," John replied, not even looking. Okay, Corrine and his Gamma used spatulas for pancakes. But where did they keep them? He started to open drawers until he found one, then he cautiously approached the pan and the lone piece of French toast that didn't look golden brown at all to him. It still looked like milk and eggs on the top. Okay, he could wait.
Dave looked in his pan, the eggs were done - the whites somewhat solid, and the yolks golden. They looked great. And everything else was done too. He pulled the pan off the heat and shared the food out between the plates. Five rashers of bacon, 4 sausages, 3 eggs and 2 tomatoes each. A pity about the fried bread, but never mind. He grinned, "Carter, come'n get it. Where do we eat?" He looked over and saw the solitary piece of French toast in Carter's pan. It was sweet - for dessert - anyway. And this looked good now. The plates were getting warm from the food's heat. "Leave that for later. This now."
The food *did* smell good. Very good. John's stomach rumbled. He looked from the pan to the plates and back again. "Won't it burn if I leave it?"
"Not if you turn the stove off, or take the pan off it. Where's the cutlery? Let's eat."
"Okay." John turned the knob, then walked over to Dave, grabbing silverware from the drawer on the way. "We can eat at the counter or at the table. Your choice."
Dave shrugged, either suited him, but now that he looked at it he could see chairs round the table. "Table." He put the plates down, grabbed himself a chair to sit on, and slid into it, then looked up - expectantly - at Carter waiting for the delivery of knife and fork.
John was almost to the table when a spasm shot through his lower back and down his left leg. The leg immediately gave out on him and he found himself falling -- right into Dave's lap. Luckily for John, Dave saw him falling and he caught him, so the end result was that John was seated nearly properly. "Sorry," John muttered, feeling his cheeks grow red from his embarrassment at having his body betray him.
Dave reached out for Carter, and pulled him back, nearly onto his knee. "What happened? You trip?" There were certain advantages to having Carter's back in this position - but one main disadvantage - he couldn't see his breakfast.
"Yeah, I've always been a little clumsy that way." It was nice there on Dave's leg. Very nice. John was tempted to stay. But, he wasn't going to ask about it. Every time he asked Dave if something was okay or if he wanted John to do or not do something, they would get into a fight. So John decided he wouldn't move unless Dave told him to. "Breakfast smells good,"
John said.
"It does. But I can't see it. Shove over." Dave used his hands to try and twist Carter around a quarter turn.
John turned sideways, bringing his other leg up on Dave's lap as well. With both of Dave's thighs -- and what nice thighs they were, John thought admiringly -- under him, John felt a little more secure in his *seat*. "Is that better?" John asked as he picked up his fork and scooped up some eggs. He noticed then that the tips of his fingers hurt a bit, probably from getting the gunk out of the French toast pan. So, he transferred the fork to his left hand. And the eggs fell off halfway between the plate and his mouth, dropping down onto his thigh. And they were hot. "Damn," John jumped, not able to move too far since he was on Dave's lap. He quickly grabbed the eggs with his right hand and tossed them back to his plate.
"Ow!" Dave watched the by-play with sympathy. "Want to put water on that?" Not that he wanted Carter off his knee, but that had to hurt.
"No. It's okay," John replied. He wanted to eat. He gave up on the fork for now and picked up a piece of bacon with his left hand. *That* he could handle with the wrong hand. The bacon was good and the eggs looked even better. John was about to try the fork again when he picked up an odd smell. "What's that smell?" he asked, turning to look at Dave. "It smells like something burning, doesn't it?"
Dave frowned. It did. He turned around, and saw black smoke billowing from the pan that Carter had left on the stove. "Shit. Get up." Even as he gave the command, Dave was pushing his chair backwards trying to get upright.
John got to his feet as fast as he could, which wasn't too fast, all things considered. He saw the smoke, too. "I cut the burner off like you told me to." John told Dave. "I know I did."
Dave grabbed the pan, as he did so flames began to leap from it. He nearly threw it into the nearest sink. He turned the cold water on hard, and watched as with a hiss and a bellow a great cloud of steam arose.
Since Dave's back was to him, John limped over to the sink. "I guess that's too brown, huh?"
"What the. . . How did that happen?" Dave looked over at the stove, and saw that the burner was still going, and going with a hot flame. "You turned it UP?"
"No, I didn't. I cut the burner..." John's voice trailed off as he saw the flame on the stove. He had turned it up. So stupid! He looked down into the sink at the ruined French toast, it was still steaming. He had ruined Dave's breakfast and his Gamma's pan. Dejected, John limped back to the table and sat down, pushing his plate aside so he could rest his head on the cool surface. He wasn't hungry any longer.
"No you didn't . . . " Dave, too let his voice trail off. With the flames out there was only a little bit of adrenaline pumping through him - no need to be angry. He shrugged. "Never mind, we've still got 1/2 of breakfast." He sat down and grabbed a rasher of bacon before looking about for a knife and fork. The bacon was good - crisp in a way that the supermarket stuff he sometimes bought never was.
"You can have mine." John didn't even bother to lift his head as he pushed the plate in Dave's direction. "I'm not hungry anymore." His back was really hurting, his hip and leg were hurting. His pride was hurting. And Dave was acting as if nothing was wrong -- just being nice, most likely. What John wanted was something to dull the pain or even take it away completely. But he couldn't have anything. He could however, get some relief from the whirlpool. John got to his feet. "I'll be back in the pool room. You can find me when you're done." He tried his best to walk as if his leg wasn't bothering him, but it was difficult.
"You don't want breakfast?"
"Not hungry. You have it." John headed for the doorway, then remembered how easily Dave got lost in the house. "Can you find your way back to me?"
Now there was a no win question if Dave had ever heard it. He could say 'no' and sound like an idiot. Or 'yes' and have Carter leave *again*. He settled for a shrug, and "Dunno" - which also had the minor merit of being truthful.
"Well, if you shout for me, I'll hear you and come back to get you, okay?"
This wasn't part of the plans. They'd talked about maybe going back to bed. That had sounded good. "Thought we were going upstairs." That would work, they could always take the food with them.
Upstairs? Well, John could always stand under a hot shower spray until Dave finished eating. That sometimes helped. "Okay, I'll head on upstairs. I'll be in the shower."
That damned shower again. Dave hated that shower though he'd never seen it. "Whatever. Go take a shower." Carter obviously wasn't interested in this breakfast that he'd cooked. Or anything else.
John felt an anger start to grow as soon as he heard Dave say 'Whatever'. He was really beginning to hate that word. John felt as if he had said everything he could, either Dave didn't want to listen to him or was just too dense to understand. Either way, John was tired of talking. Tired of having to explain everything he did. Everything that made Dave say 'whatever'. John just happened to be by the sink by then and the pan was the nearest thing. He grabbed the handle and hurled the pan across the room, taking some satisfaction in hearing the crash of metal as it slid across the cooking island and hitting the other pans there, sending a lot of them into the floor. Tossing the pan helped to alleviate John's frustration over his bodily aches and pains. "Whatever," John firmly said, then he turned around and walked out of the kitchen, not caring if Dave showed up in the bedroom.
