Just Dessertsby devra
Daniel places his finger on a line to mark his place and glances at me over the rims of his glasses with a look of disdain.
I'm not above begging. I hate food shopping, despise it with a passion that I can equate with Washington budget meetings, but the truth of the matter is that the Stargate is down for a technical look-see, there will be no 'gate travel for at least two weeks and there isn't an item of food in my house that has an expiration date with the numbers '04 marked on it. "Please."
"You're whining." Nonplussed, Daniel shakes his head and resumes reading.
"I know I am." And if he would look up again he would see the damn pout accompanying the whine.
"Go, shop." He waves a hand at me, then licks his finger and makes an exaggerated showing of slowly turning the page of the War and Peace tome balanced on his lap. "Pick me up some Oreos, the original kind, not the bastard store brand you got last time."
"No company. No cookies."
He shrugs. "Okay, fine," and buries his nose once again in the book.
"I'll take you to Starbucks."
*Now* I have Daniel's attention. His head shoots up so fast his glasses actually do a little bounce on the bridge of his nose. "Janet will be pissed."
"You would risk her wrath to have me go shopping with you?" I can see by the flick of his tongue on his bottom lip that he's already tastes the caffeine. A staple that he's been deprived of for almost a week, one that has left him short tempered and annoyed at my every honest attempt to help him.
He slams the book shut, shoves it off his lap and leans heavily on first the arm of the couch, and then the back, in order to stand. "Stay," he hisses when he catches me stepping forward with my arms outstretched. He grabs the crutches and in a practiced move, slides them under his armpits and hobbles towards me.
I stare at the bruised man, the reason for which the 'gate is closed. I mentally catalogue every bruise his body received when it impacted the metal ramp at a faster than light re entry, a glitch that Carter and her team promised would never happen again. Daniel's leg is healing, the bruises are that wonderful Crayola mix of colors which are just beginning to fade. The way he looks is a definite guaranteed cut to my waiting time at the deli counter, sympathy works wonders. The store, during the week, is filled with older woman and mothers with little kids, all of whom are suckers for blue eyed, damaged, archeologists.
"Yup. Just let me grab my wallet, keys…"
"Can we go to Starbucks first?"
"No way," I growl, stuffing my wallet into my pockets. "I know your tricks. I'm wise to your ways. You'll get your coffee, sit in the truck and refuse to go into the store with me."
"Yeah, and according to Fraiser, you'll survive."
"Whatever coffee I choose, I want it extra large."
I swing the keys in front of him. "Who's calling the shots?"
Daniel swivels on the crutches, blinking innocently as he waits for me to open the front door. "Why, I am, Jack. If it wasn't for me, you'd have to fend off those shoppers all by yourself."
I follow him to the Avalanche, wondering how he knows me so very well and when the hell did I let him get so close to me, all the time following his six, watching it bounce up and down as he maneuvers the cement pathway on crutches. God, I'm so shallow. Unable to resist--I grab a cheek full of his ass as I help him into the truck. I tactfully ignore the swipe to my head with the crutch as he hands them to me so I can place them on the floor behind his seat.
* * *
"Ow," he mutters, accidentally putting weight on his injured leg before I can even hand him his crutches as he slides out of the passenger seat.
"Damn it. Can't you just give me a minute?"
He takes the crutches and hops up and down until they are situated. "Couldn't you have just brought me home the cookies and coffee?"
"Cause misery loves company, that's why."
"I was just sitting on the couch, minding my own business…"
"No, you weren't just sitting, you were becoming *one* with the couch."
"You're just jealous that I have the ability to sit and *focus* for more than ten minutes at a time."
I stops and tilt backwards, looking behind Daniel, checking out his ass, then quickly resume walking when it hits me that that action probably isn't the smartest thing to do in the daylight, in a parking lot of a major Colorado Springs grocery story surrounded by mini vans. "Yup, your ass looks like it was becoming one with the couch."
Daniel stops and appraises me, then glances quickly sideways.
"Ha!" I yell and point at Daniel, barely catching myself from jumping up and down. "I caught you checking out your reflection in the window."
"Was not." Daniel quickens his pace and he and the crutches thump right past.
"Hey, wait up." I catch up to him, snagging a shopping cart along the way. "You know, I've heard they make Oreos in a low fat version, maybe you should look into those." Both the cart and myself manage to sidestep the crutch that Daniel accidentally places in our path.
* * *
"Daniel, no one eats asparagus." I wheel the cart in frustration as he studies the stalks like he studies ancient languages.
He stands there counterbalancing and shoves the lucky bunch of those veggies into a plastic bag, then gives them to me to put into the cart. "Look, I'm sorry I made that remark about your ass. It's fine. You don't need any…what the hell is that?" I waggle the cart just a little, just enough to catch his attention.
"Anise," he answers, examining the bulbous-like entity he's holding in his hands.
"What? What the hell is she doing…?" I whip my head around, trying to imagine our scantily clad Tok'ra in the vegetable aisle.
"It's a vegetable."
"What's a vegetable?"
"This," Daniel says, waving yet another plastic bag in which he has deposited the white weird thing that to me looks like an onion that has been left too long in my fridge. "This is anise."
I grab the bag and hold it at arm's length, eyeing it suspiciously. "What does it taste like?"
"Licorice. Black Licorice."
I snort, he totally ignores me and hobbles along to bag up what looks like moldy cauliflower. This time I hold my tongue when he deposits that bag into the cart. Me? I nonchalantly throw two cucumbers and a bag of carrots into the cart while his back is turned. I'm sorry, but I like my vegetables to resemble vegetables.
* * *
Daniel stops short and I swerve the cart, coming very close to knocking him over. "Daniel… what the hell do you think you're—"
"Fish? Now?" I check my watch. "If we leave the cart here, and just get the essentials, run home, I'm sure I can gather up my fishing equipment."
"What?" I know that voice. That's the customary Daniel tone, which means that I should shut up and pay attention if I know what's good for me. "No fishing?"
"Fishing, no—fish, yes." He taps on the glass display case right in front of me. Rows of fresh, already fished fish, resting in beds of ice.
"I'm going to get some salmon for dinner."
"Take out, something that comes in a white box whether it be the size of a pizza box, a Chinese food container or something housed in styrofoam."
"No," Daniel reiterates slowly, as if I'm deaf, and thumps up to the fish department and begins to make conversation with the guy behind the counter. I park the cart and side step up to Daniel.
"No," I whisper into his ear.
"Too bad. You get take out, I'm cooking."
I tap his shoulder and point downwards. "In case you haven't noticed, you're on crutches, which means *I'll* be cooking. And I don't *feel* like cooking."
"Then don't. I can manage on my own."
I back off to the front of the cart, thinking that maybe now, standing by the fish counter wouldn't be the best time to remind Daniel that this past week at my house, he has broken more things than in all the time I've known him. He's definitely pissy, though, and I take a stab in the dark. "Are you okay? Anything hurt?"
He hands me a bag of fish and a scathing look and hobbles away, leaving me befuddled, confused and with an intense, sudden desire for fresh fish.
I place the bag in the seat of the cart and take off after Daniel. "I feel bad that you want to cook."
Daniel begins to laugh and since I don't believe the boxes of rice he's holding in his hands are that entertaining, I'm waging it was something I said. "What?"
He shoves the rice at me, then grips the handbars of the crutches. "I'm going to cook… what the hell did you think you were going to do, sit on your ass?"
"Well, no… I didn't," I stammer. "I can set the table."
"Do the dishes."
"You have a dishwasher, Jack. Dishes and dessert."
I hide my lascivious smile as thoughts of Daniel, ice cream and chocolate sauce run though my brain.
Daniel mirrors my smile and bursts my balloon. "Not chocolate sauce, okay? I have to visit Janet tomorrow, whipped cream is better, easier to remove from those…"
"Okay." I wave away *that* visual and lose myself in the chocolate sauce-in-all–the-hard-to-reach-places one.
* * *
"Excuse me?" I'm totally befuddled by the question; my attention has been focused on Daniel's ass as he tries to decide on the type of bread for our evening meal.
"Your friend. Car accident?"
"Him? Nah…" I guiltily gaze at Daniel as he awkwardly pivots between two racks of fresh bread while I'm leaning on the push bar of the cart. "He, umm, fell." I lie easily to the older woman who is Daniel-watching with me. Though in retrospect he did fall, through a wormhole onto a metal ramp, but that's semantics. "Fell," I repeat with a bit more confidence.
"Must have been some fall."
"Should he be out shopping?" She points a well-manicured, bright red finger at Daniel as he leans over, checking out the array of fresh bakery items. "Even from here, he looks very pale."
"Ya think so?"
"Listen." She moves into my space but there's nowhere for me to go, the end cap is filled with this week's special of toilet paper which is to my immediate left, and she's to my right, her cart turned at such an angle that the corner of my cart is imbedded in the toilet paper display. "I had a friend, bad car accident, swore she felt fine, went to the store by her house, for just a few items, and splat."
"Felt dizzy, collapsed, hit her head on the freezer counter, in a coma for five days."
* * *
"Want any cold cuts?"
"Cheese," Daniel answers, distracted by something I'm not privy to.
"Daniel, in case you haven't noticed, there isn't *just* cheese here."
He pushes his glasses up by bending into his shoulder. "I don't care."
"I hate Swiss cheese."
I know he hates Swiss, I just wanted to see if he was paying attention. "Well then, maybe you should be a little more explicit considering you do care what is ordered."
"Next, please." The deli person yells at the exact moment Daniel grimaces and rubs his forehead. I motion for the woman with the young child in line behind me to take my place, then I hurry to Daniel's side. "Are you okay?" I hiss.
He looks up at me, and there's no missing either the look of confusion on his face or the fact that the woman was right, he is pale, pale enough for me to tug emphatically on his arm. "Let's go. Screw the fish, the cold cuts, I'm taking you home."
"You obviously don't feel good. Headache?" I mimic the hand rubbing across the forehead.
"Headache? Huh?" He eyes the hand still hovering by his forehead and sheepishly drops it. "No, I was wondering if I bought lemons and enough…"
"Lemons," I mouth, thinking that maybe it's the fluorescent lights affecting his pallor. "Do me a favor, order the cold cuts, I'm going to get some dessert."
"And lemons," Daniel interjected.
"And lemons," I repeat.
"Pay for it."
"Pay for what?"
"Pay for the dessert, Jack. Pick out something, go the cashier, have her put it in a brown bag and *then* put it in the truck."
"I want to be surprised," Daniel replies with a hint of indignation, which is followed up by a grin that shoots straight to my groin. "Can you surprise me?"
"Don't go anywhere. Wait here for me."
He looks at the wagon filled with food, glances down at his crutches and his expressive eyebrows speak loud enough that I get the idea that my remark was totally a no-brainer.
* * *
Dessert is bought, brown bagged and placed in the cab of the Avalanche. The things one does for love. I won't even *mention* to Daniel the weird look the cashier gave to me when I asked her to double bag my purchase.
Even as I approach, I see that Daniel is leaning a little too heavily on the curved glass of the deli display. Maybe taking him shopping as his first outing after his accident wasn't one of my more intelligent ideas.
I rush to his side and grab the bag of deli items from the guy before Daniel has a chance to. "Ready to go?"
Daniel gives me a grateful smile.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Hmmm?" I look up to see another bag in the deli guy's hands. I point to my chest and he nods.
"Guess I got carried away," Daniel replies, sheepishly eyeing his order.
* * *
I'm positive Daniel believes that I don't notice him self-massaging his injured thigh as we drive home. He keeps chatting away, thinking that he's distracting me with his words, but I didn't get to be colonel without observing what's going on around me. But I know he's hurting when we drive right by Starbucks without him saying a word.
"What time do you have to start dinner?" I ask nonchalantly, while in reality I'm doing a mental calculation of how long I can get him to rest thanks to the muscle relaxant I'm going to ply him with when we get home.
"I don't know, what time do you want to eat?" He places hands on either side of the seat and adjusts his position, then physically shifts his leg, a move I pretend not to notice.
It's oh-twelve hundred hours now, home in fifteen, stick him on the couch, shove a pill down his throat which will give him a three to four hour recuperative nap. I choose to err on the side of caution and make a decision. "Eighteen hundred hours…give or take." I honk at the car in front of me. "Is that okay?"
"Fine. That's doable."
* * *
I get out of the truck, go around towards the trunk and rummage through a few bags until I find the two I'm looking for, snatch them up and then proceed around to the passenger side door. Daniel already has the door open and I reprimand him when I notice he's awkwardly bent around trying to grab his crutches. "Hold your horses," I grumble a little harsher than I mean, and I make a feeble attempt to soften my words with a smile when Daniel gives me a questioning look.
"I could have done this myself."
"I know you could have," I lie shamelessly as I shift the bags, snag the crutches, hand them to Daniel and then step back, looking everywhere but at him, pretending not to notice that he's moving a little slower on the return trip.
"Bed?" The first words past my lips the moment Daniel hops through the front door.
"Couch," he counters. Not even waiting for my answer, he thunks down the hallway into the den.
I don't even watch him get settled, instead I drop the bags I'm still holding onto the kitchen counter and paw through them until I come upon the items from the deli counter. Opening two that I can recognize, I hastily make Daniel a ham and American cheese sandwich on white bread, plain, not even bothering to slab on any mustard. I throw a pill on the plate, a handful of chips for good measure and I get a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
He's already on the couch, the crutches on the floor, his leg propped up on the table. The massaging stops the minute he senses my presence.
With a sigh, he takes the proffered plate. "Put the fish away," he orders, locating the pill under a chip. He pops it into his mouth and follows it up with a swallow of water from the bottle I hand him.
"Eat," *I* order and stand, arms folded looking down, watching him lift the plate and eye the sandwich.
"Fisth with go bath," he mutters around a bite of food.
I motion for him to take another bite when he moves to put the plate and the bottle on the table. He takes another bite without argument but gazes at me expectantly over the rims of his glasses. "Fish?" he reminds me before taking another bite. I stand my ground and leave when he's finished half the food on the plate. It'll be enough to soothe his stomach against the pill's harshness, the rest of the meal will be just icing on the cake.
* * *
It looks like the grocery store threw up in my kitchen. I've emptied all the bags, folded them, stuck them in a corner out of the way, and am now standing dumbstruck at the quantify of food we've purchased 'cause there isn't a spare section of counter top space or a part of the kitchen table that isn't covered with some souvenir from our shopping expedition. Some of it I recognize as food stuffs I've eaten or seen before, some of it is Daniel's choice and is either unrecognizable or are things I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.
I swear the shelves in the fridge groan as I place the last bottle of juice away, then close the door. The kitchen is back to some semblance of order and I pat myself on the back for a job well done before heading off in the direction of the den.
* * *
Daniel has slid down on the couch, lying along its length with his head propped up on the armrest. He's on his side staring at some program on the TV screen, eyes open, but I can see they really aren't focusing at all. He blinks lazily at me and offers me a woozy smile as I block his view. "I think I was watching that." His annoyance falls flat.
"I think you're sleeping." I grab the blanket from the back of the couch and spread it over him.
"Don't let me oversleep." Daniel raises his arm in front of his face, squinting at his watch.
"It's 1330." I tuck his hand back under the blanket.
"Wake by four so I can make dinner."
"Four, I can do that."
* * *
Oh fifteen forty five and counting. I sit on the edge of the coffee table watching Daniel sleep, almost willing him to open his eyes so I don't have to do the dirty work of waking him.
He draws a deep, shaky breath, coughs, stirs and I wait patiently. Two more breaths like that, then a moan follows as he changes position and I see movement under the blanket as his hand works its way down to rub his leg. A lip smack, a sigh, then lids lazily raise to show me slivers of blue.
"I hope you have fresh coffee." His voice is low and slow, his words slurring together.
"You're not really allowed caffeine."
He closes his eyes. "I'll just go back to sleep."
I stand and adjust the blanket around his shoulders, planting a kiss on the temple. I pat his shoulder. "That's fine with me, I'll just call for Chinese or maybe pizza."
Daniel touches the place where I kissed him, a smile ghosting his lips. "Don't want pizza or Chinese. Want fish," he drawls. He tosses back the blanket and offers me his hand, and between us we right his body and I step back, allowing his to stretch out the kinks. "Sleep well?"
Thinking a minute, he nods, rotating his shoulders. "Yeah, I did." He squints and moves his gaze around the room, but I locate his glasses before he does and hand them to him, then give him the crutches. I stand close enough to offer assistance or to pick him up if he lands on his ass, but he manages to pull himself up, situate his body to become one with the crutches and then thumps out of my reach.
"Hey, where'ya going?"
"To take a piss, Jack." He doesn’t even turn to look at me as he hobbles out of the room.
"Do you need help?"
* * *
I'm concentrating so deeply on Daniel as he makes his way into the kitchen that when he stops short between the kitchen and the dining room, I nearly bowl him over. I hurriedly clamp my two hands onto his shoulders to keep him upright.
"Oh," is all he manages.
"How should I interpret that 'oh'?" I ask with a kiss to his neck.
"Surprised 'oh'." He shrugs his shoulders to shuck off my kisses to the sensitive spot on his neck.
"Hey, I figured you were cooking dinner, the least I could do was set the table."
"Those aren't paper plates."
"No, they aren't."
"I'm touched that after all these years, you've brought out the good china for me."
I snort in response. "Good china *and* real silverware, I went *all out*. Check out the cloth napkins."
"There's something very unmanly about me getting all choked up about dishes, Jack."
"No there isn't," I answer, kissing his neck once more. "Think of it as an archeologist's find. They were my great grandmothers, they're antiques, you're just doing your job."
"Okay… I guess that's alright. I was starting to get a bit uncomfortable that I was getting all smooshy inside over your setting the table."
"Hmmm, smooshy? I wonder what will happen if I tell you I made the salad and was going to wash the dishes *and* the pots without being reminded."
"Fuck you, Jack," is Daniel's answer as he moves off into the kitchen.
"That's what I was counting on," I say, following him.
* * *
"Do you need anything else?"
Okay, he looks secure sitting on the stool that I've pushed up to the edge of the counter, every known cooking utensil and even some I didn't even know *lived* in my kitchen are within arm's reach, the pan, the cutting boards, the spices, and a cup of coffee. "Do you want me to…"
He takes a sip of coffee and shakes his head. "No, I'm fine. I promise I'll call you if I need you." He waves me away with a hand that holds a very pointy knife.
"This is really mine?" I touch the tip hesitantly and with extreme, overstated caution.
"Should I refill your coffee?"
"Jack." With controlled movements and a huge sigh, he puts the knife on the counter, then turns on the stool to face me. "I'm fine. I'm not going to sever any body part or fall off the stool and accidentally plunge the knife into my body. Promise. The only thing I'm going to do is cook dinner. The only thing you're going to do is *relax*. Can you do that?"
I think watching Daniel in the kitchen is relaxing enough, but the look in his eyes tells me he believes otherwise. "I can… " and suddenly I'm at a loss as to what can provide me with distractions.
"How about watching some sports show on TV, you got two hundred channels, read, mow the lawn. Come on Jack, help me out here, relaxing can't be that hard to do."
He picks up the knife. "Don't make me use this on anything other than the fish."
I waggle my eyebrows at him. "Are you threatening me?"
My lips meet his in a surprise attack. "Hmmm, threatening your lover with a knife. Kinky… Maybe after dinner, we can use those nice napkins as a blindfold…" I lean over and snatch up the dishtowel. "And we can use this as--"
"If I say yes, will you let me cook dinner?" He bats his eyelashes at me. "Or should I tie you up right now? How about a gag instead of a blindfold?"
* * *
I'm drooling. I'm actually sitting in the den, watching a movie and drooling over the smells floating in from the kitchen. My stomach has been growling for the past ten minutes.
I had been called into the kitchen only twice. Once to deny Daniel's request for a glass of wine and the second time was to put dinner in the oven. My stomach insists I cannot wait any longer and I get up and casually wander into the kitchen.
"Whoa," I yell when I enter the kitchen. Daniel is standing by the open oven, bent over, precariously balanced on his crutches and obviously contemplating removing *our* dinner from the oven. My eyes scan the counter and I scoop up two dishtowels and gently push Daniel to the left.
"I have it, Jack."
"I'm sure you do." I bend down, allowing the fantastic odor fill my nostrils. "But I want to make sure that dinner makes it to the table and doesn't land on the floor."
"I said I could handle it."
"Humor me, okay?" I slide out the pan and stand slowly, savoring and salivating.
"And you," I indicate a half filled wine glass sitting on the counter. "Are drinking."
"First off I said no before, and second, it's number eight on Fraiser's list of Ten Commandments—thou shall not ingest alcohol when taking medication."
"What are commandments one through seven?" Daniel gives me a shit eating, loopy grin that goes straight to my groin, and *I'm* the one that almost drops our dinner on the floor. Right then and there I know there will be a number of these commandments that we're going to be breaking tonight.
"Dinner's gonna get cold."
Daniel nods in agreement and I motion for him to go ahead of me, which he does, but not before leaning swiftly to the side and one handedly grabbing the glass off the counter.
* * *
"Will you marry me?" I beg, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my satisfied belly.
Daniel snorts, an endearing sound that makes me smile. "Why, cause I can cook?" He feigns hurts with a flash of a pout then pours another glass of wine for himself. He's pleasantly relaxed and I'm sure not only is he slightly drunk, but he's feeling no pain at the moment.
"Yeah, cooking is a good a reason as any." I pick an errant crumb of macadamia nut breading off my plate, then pop it into my mouth.
"Any other reasons?" He studies the wine as he swirls it around in the glass.
"Maybe one or two." I pick up a lone spear of asparagus and shove it in my mouth.
"Thought you hated asparagus."
"So did I." I lick my fingers for emphasis.
"There's always room for dessert."
I look up and smile at Daniel's covert attempt at seductiveness. He's cute when he soused but I wouldn't even dare mention the word 'cute' out loud in conjunction with his name if I wish to live to see tomorrow. "How about if you settle on the couch…"
"Bed," I change the destination without a pause, "and let me finish up in here."
"Yup, pots, dishes, everything. You get settled in..."
"Yes, bed," I sigh, "and as soon as I finish I'll be in there with dessert."
Daniel upends the glass and finishes the wine in one gulp, then puts it down and reaches for his crutches.
* * *
Daniel wiggles his ass out of my clutches. "I can manage to walk down the hall, Jack. And even if I *couldn't*, how does holding onto my butt keep me upright?"
"Handles to grab onto when you fall." I squeeze the cheeks in my hand for emphasis.
"Bastard," he hisses, but I hear a contented smile in that voice.
I'm on his six, following him in a difficult two-step as we make our way into the bedroom. He manages to get into bed without falling or without me tripping over him, and as he maneuvers into position to drop down onto the bed, I reluctantly let go of his ass.
"You can leave now," he orders with a dismissive wave of his crutch before lowering his body onto the bed.
"Don't fall asleep," I order as he scoots up the bed to rest his head on the pillows.
"Don't take too long with the dishes and I won't. You have a dishwasher, remember," he states around a yawn.
"Here," I say, tossing over an archeological magazine from the dresser on my way out. "Keep yourself entertained."
* * *
It's all about incentive. The proverbial dangling carrot, though that is a piss poor, *way* too visual analogy. Just knowing that a tipsy Daniel is lying in my bed flipping through a magazine moves cleanup detail at lightening fast speed, and I proudly resist the urge to check on him to make sure he's still awake.
Dishwashing running, wine glasses draining, it's now time for dessert. I open the doors to the deck and grab the still wrapped-in-brown-paper-bag goody. Refrigeration wasn't called for, but sometimes a touch of chill makes it taste a little better. Milk would really be the drink of choice, but I truly don't think milk and wine at this point would mix very well, and it would be a shame for Daniel to vomit up a dinner that he worked so hard to prepare, so instead I start a fresh pot of coffee. Coffee brewing, I locate a platter and artistically arrange dessert, covering it with a plethora of paper towels so I can prolong the surprise as long as possible. Mug of coffee in one hand, I throw a clean dishtowel over my arm and waiter-like, I lift the tray up and walk into the bedroom.
* * *
Okay, the magazine may have worked to my disadvantage because Daniel is so engrossed in some article that he doesn't even look up when I enter the room. I stand there for a moment or two before clearing my throat.
"Oh." He looks up, and I can see the words of reprimand for being interrupted when he takes in the covered tray and the mug in my hand.
"Coffee?" Unceremoniously, he drops the magazine over the side of the bed and reaches out for the mug. "I promise I won't tell Janet tomorrow about either the wine *or* all the coffee today," he states as he waves the cup under his nose, the fumes as intoxicating to him as the actual drink of caffeine.
I sit on the bed and move the covered tray into his personal space.
His eyes light up. "Dessert?"
I nod and whip the paper towel covering off.
He looks at the tray, then at me, his eyebrows lifting as he obviously questions my sanity. "Jack?"
"There were too many choices, so I decided to go with something I know you love."
He reluctantly parts with his coffee, placing it on the night stand before he plucks a treat off the plate and examines it, turning it over as he would an artifact. "It's an Oreo."
"And you love Oreos."
"Yea, I do but…"
With an exasperated, pained sigh, I put the tray on the bed and grab a cookie of my own. "Look." I twist the top and bottom apart and then slowly lick the cream middle, closing my eyes and 'mmmm' at the taste.
"Oh," he gulps, "I see the merits of Oreos… I mean," he stutters, "I knew they were good…"
"Better than a chocolate cake." I lazily swipe at the remaining cream still stuck on the bottom on the cookie. "Why don't you try it?"
"I'm an old pro at this." He separates his cookie and his tongue flicks out to taste the white filling, though his eyes are trained on me.
"Niiiiiice," I admit, admiring his technique as his tongue makes circular motions against the cream and my cock makes straining motions against my denims just at the sheer dexterity of that tongue.
* * *
I was just on the edge of sleeping, holding a naked, satiated, tasting-of-cookies-and-coffee Daniel. "Are you okay? Your leg?" I move my arm down to find and massage his thigh.
"Not that," he grumbles, pushing my hand away. He lifts up his hip and makes some sort of sweeping motion across the sheets. "Crumbs."
"Ahhhh, guess we need to apply the no eating in bed rule."
"Didn't say that," he gripes, wiping the residual crumbs stuck on his palm down my side.
"Ice cream next time?" I swiftly swipe away the crumbs he leaves behind.
"Too sticky." Then he kisses me, his tongue making that same circular motion inside my mouth as he did to the opened Oreo.
I lick my lips when we separate. "There's always room…"
"Jello, Jack. That's the ad for Jello."
"Bet you can't eat just one?"
"Potato chips." He kisses me once again as I rack my brains for the Oreo jingle.
"I don't believe there is one," he says, reading my mind.
"Nope there is… something about the cream in the middle." My insistence is cut off by a kiss and a grope in the area of my cock. "I was just falling asleep," I groan when he allows me a breath of air.
"Dessert," he whispers.
"You already had your dessert." My hands drift down his body, my fingers wrapping themselves around his hard on.
"Dessert's the best part of the meal." His fingers stroke downward, fingering my balls.
"No argument from me." I roll over until I'm covering Daniel's body with my own and I feel hard chocolate Oreo crumbs embed themselves into my elbows. But I don't even bother to shake them off, because sometimes in life, with its ups and downs, in the scheme of things, a touch of crumbled cookies stuck to naked body parts sorta puts things into perspective. It's not all about the mundane everyday things, or with us, or the not so mundane things in life, but rather about the dessert that awaits us at the end of the day.
Author's Comments: To the sisters of my heart who have shown me the true meaning of having a family. A big hug and thank you to jo who always keeps a ready supply of sharpened red pencils handy--you are the bestest beta though any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone
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