the_lioness | (no subject)

(no subject)

There aren't many clocks in Adam and Alanna's flat; the ticking gets on her nerves. Early one morning, Adam had found their solitary alarm clock smashed to bits on the bedroom floor. It was an experiment that was not repeated.

Clock or no clock, it's easy to tell it is currently the middle of the night by the way the moonlight shines faintly through the window.

It's the middle of the night, but Alanna is not in bed. Nor is she in the bathroom.

Judging by the silence, she's not anywhere nearby.

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Adam blinks around blearily. He's not quite yet gotten the hang of not waking when Alanna can't sleep, leaving him more than a bit sleep-deprived.

He yawns as he stands, stretches, scratches his belly. A few more blinks and his eyes have adjusted a bit more to the light. Soft pads as he works his way to the bathroom.

Not there.

Maybe the livin-

nope. Not there, either.

The kitchen?

Nope. All empty.

It's possible there's a muttered curse as he pulls on a pair of boxer shorts and slips out the door through the hallway and into the main bar.

Oh. Right.

People.

Luckily (well, it's not so much luck, now is it?) the people don't see Adam as he noses his way around the tables, behind the bar and into the kit-

oh.

It could be said that Adam facepalms at the image of his wife sitting in front of the oversized fridge, surrounded by containers of food.

It's like she's created her own personal shrine to the god of sustenance and odd food cravings; several different containers of ice cream on the left, fried chicken and meat pies on the right, and a loaf of bread in her lap. Licking the corner of her mouth, she stares up into the refrigerator and grabs a container of yogurt. Only then does she turn to see who has walked in on this very private moment, eyes wide with something that might be guilt, but is more likely a challenge.

Her expression softens at the sight of Adam facepalming. Very calmly, she dunks a chicken leg in plain vanilla yogurt and says,

"You aren't wearing very much."

Neither is she, truth be told. Her rumbling stomach hadn't left time for more than pulling a robe over a thin nightgown.

"Aren't you cold?"

It could be that he's talking about the nightgown, more likely he's talking about the jar of pickles between her legs.

Best to avoid thinking about the actual combinations of food for as long as possible.

Absently, Alanna follows his gaze and looks down at bare legs and the jar of pickles. She doesn't say that it's the container of mayonnaise pressing against her hip that's truly sending the odd chill up her spine, instead shrugging with a small smile and taking a bite of chicken.

"Probably," she says while chewing, "but I'm too hungry to care."

The situation must be dire, indeed.

"You couldn't have called for room service?"

He sits down nearby, fingering the bag of cheese curd.

"I wasn't sure what I wanted," Alanna says, frowning, "and I didn't want to limit my choices."

The chicken leg makes another foray into the yogurt container, and she offers it to him.

"I tried to be quiet. Care for a bite?"

Adam tries to hide his disgust.

It almost works.

"That's, uh. Alright."

Almost.

"Okay."

Brow furrowed, she ducks her head and examines the chicken leg like one might an alien specimen. And then she takes another bite, because as disgusting as it might be to her at any other time, it tastes delicious now.

"I told them to keep a tally."

One hand waves idly at the rat watching from across the kitchen.

"Of course."

Adam smiles, sort of, at her feasting.

"Could we just . . . take this to go?"

Alanna gives him a skeptical look.

"All of this?" She tosses the chicken leg in the trash can and reaches for ice cream. No spoon, no spoon, no spoon: sighing, she uses her finger and licks it -- mint chocolate chip -- off. "Mmmm. I don't think we have that many hands."

Adam sighs himself.

"Just tell me what you'd like. You could've woken me, you know."

Opening her mouth to reply, Alanna quickly closes it again and gives the food surrounding her a helpless look. She's not entirely sure she's going to be able to stand.

Blushing, she smiles sheepishly.

"Why would I do that? You don't get enough sleep as it is."

She hurriedly looks down again and begins putting nonessential items back in the fridge.

The mayonnaise and chicken are the first to go.

"I'd rather that than find you in the main kitchen.

What if somebody else'd found you?"

Alanna blinks and bites her lip.

"I'd assure him or her that I can afford it and then offer some chicken?"

Laughing uneasily, she puts the cap back on the cookie dough ice cream and pushes it over to him.

He takes it, but doesn't take any ice cream.

"I meant more you're, uh. outfit."

"Oh."

She looks down.

"I hadn't really thought of that. Though I'm not sure anyone would notice."

It would be hard to notice much beyond the food, she thinks. A few more items go back in the fridge, a few more slide towards Adam. Alanna smiles with something like relief as the to go pile stays relatively small.

Adam smiles back at her, shaking his head and grabbing out to snag her hand.

"Are you laughing at me?"

The question is firm, almost argumentative, but a smile plays about her lips as she squeezes his hand.

He doesn't answer her, but instead pulls her closer, giving her a kiss.

"Woah...kinky."

Says a voice from the doorway.

"It's like, the Iron Chef home edition. Secret ingredient: Looooove."

Startled, Alanna sits back amongst the many remaining food containers and peers around Adam.

There's a shadow -- she squints, trying to get a better look -- and an unexpected amount of green.

"Donnie? Leo?" Her mind tells her it must be one or the other. But his voice... "no, it can't be. Mike?"

Her mouth drops open. It's been a long time.

"Um, I was hungry?" she explains weakly.

"Nahhh, Tom Cruise."

Says the turtle with the oh so familar smile. He walks further into the kitchen and whistles.

"Yeah, I'd say. Any particular reason you and your army are bivouac'd in the kitchen and not saaaaaay, your own room? Not that I mind, I mean me cucina es su cucina."

Adam can't quite keep himself from staring.

"Apparently the lure of the cold floor and the possibility of being walked in upon were too much for a woman to resist."

More then a little embarrassed, Alanna manages to stop gaping and hurriedly shoves the rest of the food back in the refrigerator.

(The watching rat makes a twittering noise when the ice cream is stuffed in alongside the pickles. Doesn't the human realize that goes in the freezer?)

"My army and I were just breaking camp, I promise," she tells Mike, clearing her throat. "The floor is cold, and, well..."

She feels her cheeks heat again.

Tucking the loaf of bread under her arm, Alanna reaches for a nearby cabinet door for leverage as she attempts to stand. No sooner does she have one leg under her than it slides out. She frowns. Standing up used to be easy. It's the bare feet, she decides. Totally the bare feet.

He pays no heed to the staring, it's something he's just gotten used to regardless of the form he's in.

"Woah! Woah woah woah! Hold up there!"

Mike rushes to Alanna's side.