Fic: Day One, Tom/Carl, PG

[readingredhead.livejournal.com]

Title: Day One

Author: readingredhead

Recipient: rusting_roses

Beta: araine

Characters/Pairing: Tom/Carl

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: ~1350

Summary: They are Advisories now, and life goes on.

Notes: This originated as a response to a bittersweet prompt, which it doesn’t entirely answer, but I figure the world needs more Tom/Carl (and also more whipped cream) and I also figured rusting_roses would not mind too much!

Tom woke up slowly. It was a strange sensation, and he took a moment to really savor it, luxuriating in semiconsciousness. It was a nice change from startling awake at the insistent beep of Carl’s alarm, which inevitably did a better job of waking Tom than Carl, who typically didn’t budge from their bed unless lured with the promise of freshly-brewed coffee or physically kicked out. 

There was an utterly transgressive pleasure in still being bed at—he fluttered his eyes open and checked the clock—9:13AM on a Friday. It ought to have been a work day for Tom and Carl both, but Carl had asked for time off and Tom had negotiated around his deadlines so that the two of them could take a long weekend to congratulate themselves on their new status as Advisories. They didn’t have the money to go anywhere, and they weren’t supposed to leave their new catchment area without giving advance notice anyway, but it’d been long enough since they’d had time to relax at home together. 

Lying on his stomach, face half-buried in his pillow, Tom stretched out his arms and legs as far as they would reach. He was surprised when none of his limbs encountered Carl. He’d been looking forward to waking him up.

From downstairs, Tom heard the shriek of a macaw, followed by a metal clang and a few choice curses. “Well,” he said to himself, “at least it’s not the alarm clock,” and rolled out of bed.

When Tom made his way to the kitchen a few minutes later, Carl was standing at the kitchen counter, with Peach perched on one shoulder. He held a mug of coffee in his left hand and a measuring cup in his right, and it appeared as though he was trying to simultaneously drink from the mug and measure out an appropriate quantity of flour into a measuring bowl. Ingredients covered the counter, nearly obscuring sight of a cookbook.

“What in the world are you doing?” Tom asked, shaking his head and allowing himself a smile.

Carl turned, and Peach squawked and fluttered from his shoulder to the kitchen counter. Tom winced as the coffee sloshed in its mug and a flurry of flour puffed out of the measuring cup and dispersed into the air, leaving a dusting of white on Carl’s CUNY sweatshirt. “I’m making pancakes!” he said, grinning and gesturing to the kitchen table, where he had already set out plates, a pot of English breakfast tea for Tom, and various pancake toppings, including maple syrup, nutella, and a can of whipped cream.

“I didn’t think we had pancake mix,” Tom said, walking over to pour the tea into the mug his partner had thoughtfully set out at his place. 

“We don’t,” Carl said, turning back to his culinary disaster-in-the-making and adding the depleted cup of flour to the mixing bowl. “I’m making them from scratch.”

“Does the recipe call for this level of chaos?” Tom asked, looking around for the milk. Unfortunately it was on the counter where Carl was working, which meant it was in the Danger Zone, and Tom seriously contemplated just doing without. 

“I’m improvising!” Carl said, flashing Tom a wicked smile that would not have been out of place on a mad scientist. “They were supposed to be done by the time you got up, but the bird decided to provide her assistance.” He rolled his eyes in Peach’s direction.

“Cooking is like love!” Peach squawked, fluttering along the countertop and upsetting more flour as she went. “It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”

“I didn’t know Julia Child had a recipe for pancakes,” Tom said, walking slowly back to the counter. He assessed the location of the milk in relation to Carl, who was now vigorously whisking the contents of the mixing bowl. ”Come to think of it, I didn’t know we owned a cookbook.” Any attempt at the milk would put him in range of the droplets of batter that were beginning to flick outwards, but sometimes, sacrifices had to be made. As quickly as he could, Tom reached past Carl and grabbed the milk, then poured it evenly into his tea in one smooth motion, not spilling a single drop.

Carl rolled his eyes and kept stirring the pancake batter. “I borrowed one from the neighbors.”

Tom capped the milk and raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, probably something about wanting to reward the loving devotion of my partner in life and in wizardry with some good home cooking,” Carl said.

Tom spluttered, almost choking on his first sip of tea. “Oh god,” he said. “I’m just imagining the look on Mrs. Dunn’s face.” When they had still lived in the city, during and after college, they’d been surrounded—at home if not at work—by other similarly liberal-minded twentysomethings, unlikely to be bothered by their friends’ sexual orientation or wizardly practice, but when Tom and Carl had moved to Long Island, the changing demographics of their neighbors had resulted in a kind of self-imposed “don’t ask don’t tell.” The Dunns were an older couple with children only slightly younger than Tom and Carl, and while Tom was sure they were good people, he was also sure that knowing some of what really went on next door might give them a heart attack.

“Maybe not those exact words,” Carl said, setting the mixing bowl down and grinning. “Though,” he added, leaning back against the counter and facing Tom, “they would have been the truth.”

Tom set down his mug of tea and reached forward to wipe a smudge of flour off his partner’s face. “I love you too, you walking disaster,” he said, hand lingering on the curve of Carl’s jaw. “Though why they’re trusting you with any kind of wizardly authority is anyone’s guess. This degree of culinary disorder has to count as an increase of entropy.”

“Obviously, the Powers That Be are certain my partner’s brilliance will more than make up for my incompetence,” Carl said, taking hold of Tom’s free hand and drawing him closer. “And if you’re so concerned about disorder, you are more than welcome to dish duty.”

“You are impossible,” Tom said, and kissed him. Their lips and bodies and minds moved against each other with the ease of long practice, and Tom was overwhelmed again—still—by the fierce joy kindled in him at their first meeting, the joy of never again having to go through this alone.

They eased apart slowly, Tom’s hands at Carl’s shoulders, Carl’s at Tom’s waist. “You’re worried about this Advisory thing,” Carl said.

“You’re eavesdropping,” Tom said, though he didn’t deny it. He sighed. “What if someone asks us a question we can’t answer?”

“We find someone who can answer it,” Carl said, quite sensibly. One of his hands began to massage a small circle on Tom’s lower back. “And we learn the answer for next time.”

“What if we give bad advice?” Tom asked, softly, not wanting to voice the fear that had haunted him ever since learning that he and Carl were up for the Advisory role. “What if, in trying to slow down entropy, we speed it up?”

“We won’t,” Carl said, with a calm certainty Tom was desperate to believe in. “The first rule of spelling with a partner: check each other’s work. The spells might be getting harder, but we’ve gotten better at them. And if one of us slips up, well, that’s what partnership is for.” 

Tom let out a long, slow breath. “Right,” he said.

“So,” Carl said, his tone shifting from serious to playful, “are you done with your moment of personal crisis? Because I would very much like to get back to kissing you.”

“What about the pancakes?” Tom teased.

“I’ll be fine as long as I get to eat whipped cream off of something,” Carl said, and Tom figured it was his duty to kiss the wicked smile off his partner’s lips. 

Read on AO3

Comments

[rusting-roses.livejournal.com]

::wibbles:: Oh. Oh.

First off, no, there can NEVER be enough Tom and Carl. Their partnership is one of my favorite things in the fandom. Furthermore, as someone who ADORES to cook, specifically cooking for other people whenever possible, there's something about the idea of Carl cooking for Tom and doing it so choatically and ridiculously and Tom's philosophical reaction to it all that just makes me want to give the pair of them an enormous hug. This was such a delight to read, and I just know they'll continue to be amazing—one day at a time.

Also, whipped cream? ::grins deviously::

[readingredhead.livejournal.com]

Oh I am so glad you like it! It started out as the first half of a story that was going to veer into the depressing (sort of responding to that first quote-prompt you provided), but then it kept getting bigger and bigger and I realized I didn't want to write anything depressing, I just wanted them to relax and be adorable together! I, too, love cooking for others -- it's pretty much an essential part of my comforting/care-taking strategy -- but like Carl I am also not exactly the best at it?

I am not so fabulous at writing sexytimes, hence the fic stops here, but I'm sure that shortly after the curtain drops, someone gets a hold of the whipped cream, and shortly after that Carl gets to show off his talent for gating by efficiently short-transiting them both back to their bedroom.

[rare-fandom.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is lovely. I love the easy companionship, and the imagery is just lovely. Thank you for sharing this.