Domestic Disturbance
Ripped from his sleep, John bolted upright in bed. The smoke detector overhead blared angrily. The smell of something burning drifted through the open door. His bleary eyes searched the room for his partner. The other side of the bed was empty.
Throwing back the covers, he screamed, "Randy!" John raced out of the bedroom, not caring that he wore only his boxer shorts. "Randy, where are you?"
He got his answer as he rounded the corner, skidding into the kitchen.
A frustrated, flustered Randy Orton waved a dish towel at the open oven door like the white flag of surrender. From the cavern of the appliance came that awful burnt smell. "Fifteen minutes, my ass!" he grumbled. With ungloved hands, he reached into the oven. "Son of a bitch!" The metal baking tray, heated to three hundred seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, clattered to the floor.
"What the hell is going on here?" yelled John. He figured that after being wrenched from REM sleep, he was entitled to raise his voice.
Randy shot him a contemptuous glare as he sucked on his injured fingers. "This is all your fault! The one time I try to do something nice for you and look what happens!"
Look was all John could do. Every surface of his typically immaculate kitchen bore signs of Randy's handiwork. Crashed eggshells, some with the innards still attached. A white powdery substance that John narrowed down to being flour, salt, or anthrax. Shriveled pieces of what had once been bacon sat in a blackened skillet, congealing in its own fat. Little black hockey pucks littered the floor. He nudged one with his bare toe. It was warm.
"You're wearing an apron." John chose to focus on his partner's attire, rather than his ruined kitchen.
Randy continued to scowl. "And you're wearing red and yellow plaid jockeys, if you wanna be all Project Runway about it."
None of it made any sense to Cena. He reasoned that he was probably still asleep and it would turn out to be one of those dreams that ended quite happily. Maybe Randy would remove his apron, revealing his perfect nakedness beneath it.
"I tried to make you breakfast," Randy finally explained. "I expect some serious brownie points for the effort. I may have done irreparable damage to my hand." He sucked his fingers harder for emphasis.
John quickly realized the futility in riddling out a plausible explanation for his behavior. At that early hour, he simply did not have the brain power. Instead, he took hold of Randy's uninjured hand and led him to the bathroom. He would have to remember to replenish their first aid kit after treating Randy's burns.
"C'mere, Ro-Ro." John opened up the small metal box.
Randy glowered at the mention of his pet peeve of a pet name. "I told you not to call me that!"
Taking great care, John set about treating the burns. At least, they didn't look too severe. "Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream," he sang.
"I hate you so much sometimes," growled Randy, not liking the song one bit.
"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream." He finished his work, securing the bandage just above the wrist. "There we go."
Randy looked at his wrapped hand. He had been too wrapped up in anger to feel a thing. Sometimes, John proved worthy of keeping around. "Thank you," he said, softly.
"You're welcome." He continued to hold his hand, even though Randy no longer needed nursing. "And thank you for trying to cook me breakfast."
"I burned the biscuits," Randy quietly admitted. He couldn't look John in the eye.
John would have none of that. He grasped Randy's chin, making sure to hold his gaze. "That's okay."
"And the bacon."
"That's okay, too. All I care about is you." The kitchen cleanup could wait. "How about we go upstairs and I show you my appreciation."
It was a rare thing when Randy blushed, which made it all the more beautiful in John's eyes. "My hand is kinda messed up…"
Smiling the smile he knew would win Randy over, John chuckled, "Don't worry. I'll do all the work."
END