Snoopy and Woodstock's Saturday Pancakes Special
This little lovely was written sometime around dawn, and I'm surprised there weren't any typos because I swore my eye sockets had been filled with wet cement sometime in the middle of writing this.
Anyway- I wrote this for an anonymous prompt over at puckurt's Fic Meme. "Drooling, bitchy, morning Kurt with messed up hair, after very active night is the most adorable thing ever for Puck." Come on, how could you resist writing that?
I also managed to cram in my current obsession with chocolate chip pancakes, with a patent Noah Puckerman twist. I hope you like this...!
Every Saturday morning, Puck likes to wake up at six. Some (read: Kurt) call him fucking masochistic-"Though last Thursday clearly solidified that as fact," Kurt said with that irritating (but still sort of sexy) smirk-and possibly out of his mind. Puck claims he likes spending one of his days off jogging outside, feeling the crisp air tingle at his lungs as he chases the rising sun, or some cheesy shit like that.
His Nike's always remain untouched, buried deep in the hall closet.
Kurt never brings it up, and Puck doesn't know if it's because his partner is selectively oblivious, or just kind enough to leave Puck's ego alone. (Puck is more than sure it's the former-Kurt has this freakish mind-reading thing and always knows just when to move the communal plate of pancakes so that Puck stabs his fork into Formica instead of that last beautifully golden chocolate chip beauty.)
The reality of the matter is that Puck never goes on jogs. At least, not at six in the morning on a Saturday. (He's a bit eccentric, but he's not a fucking moron.) No, he saves his six-mile runs for Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings so he can take out his frustrations with the morons at the office with his rubber soles against the asphalt.
Every Saturday morning, Puck will wake up at six, give or take a few minutes. You might say he's a liar, because who the fuck wakes up like clockwork on one day of the week? But whatever, Puck was never big on proving himself to anyone who wasn't of his blood or close enough to be related (or Kurt, because thinking of his man-candy being his relative was sick).
Puck slides into consciousness that Saturday like a well-worn pair of slippers, his eyes slowly adjusting to the indecisive dark-lightness of their bedroom as he yawns. His eyes meet the blank red stare of the alarm clock, and a sort of smug satisfaction wells up within him at the sight of fife fifty-eight. Awesome.
He lazily flips his body over à la hamburger-on-grill, not worrying too much about jostling Kurt awake. (Their mattress is one of those special memory-foam ones-you know, the ones you could use to recreate your high school choreography to "Jump" without spilling a cup of wine that perched precariously on the mattress. Plus, the dude is a seriously heavy sleeper, especially after being fucked to oblivion and back.) He takes in the serene, gorgeous yet adorable picture that Kurt makes, his hair all frazzled and splayed about on his pillow (which he's cuddling) and his mouth slightly open. The ends of his hair are glowing warm orange from the sunrise streaming in from the open windows, and the pale skin of his face is tinged blush-pink, with dark shadows where the sunlight doesn't reach.
Puck sits up after the few minutes he allows himself (because staring for much longer makes him feel like a creepy Peeping Tom), and somehow manages to disturb Kurt. The man makes a low noise in the back of his throat, hands clenching fistfuls of his pillow. Puck leans up against the headboard and lets his fingers gently trace Kurt's slightly furrowed brow until the muscles relax again. Kurt puffs out a contented sigh, murmuring in his sleep as he shifts half-onto Puck's lap.
Puck doesn't really mind, his bladder can wait a little longer. He rubs gentle little circles into Kurt's back, paying special attention to where he feels knots (yeah, last night was like birthday sex to the tenth power) and tracing the hours-fresh bruises that pepper Kurt's delicate skin. After a few moments, Kurt grumbles and begins to show signs of waking. Puck takes this as his cue to hightail it out of here, and he slips into the bathroom, closing and locking the door, just as Kurt wordlessly snarls into his pillow.
Of course, he's screwed (and not in the good way), and he can't exactly hide in the bathroom forever-Kurt is manageable only after his first cup of coffee, and a Kurt that isn't caffeinated can't function well enough to work the coffee maker without causing disaster. He sprints out of the bedroom without his boxers, a sacrifice in the name of the greater good. (Plus, it's their apartment and he can not wear clothes when he wants to.)
When the coffee is mostly done percolating-a full pot that will be gone within the hour-and he's turning out their typical Saturday Chocolate Chip Pancakes in the buff, Kurt stumbles into the kitchen, all squinty-eyed and spitting out curses like a ticked-off cat. Puck offers him a cheeky smile as Kurt nearly misses the chair, and cheerfully points out some dried spit Kurt overlooked in the bathroom as he dutifully makes sure Kurt gets his mug (the one with Snoopy and Woodstock-one of their weird, couple-y inside jokes) filled with coffee, because Kurt's preferences change with the day of the week.
Kurt is adding a drop of half and half to his cup when Puck slides the full plate of pancakes between them, making sure Kurt gets the one he'd shaped like a dick, balls and all. It gets a snort out of the bedraggled brunet, who looks far too pleased as his fork cuts it cleanly in half. Puck wisely pops out to put on boxers before sitting down for breakfast.
There's no table-talk, save for "Pass me the syrup" and "Get your own napkin, asshole," and it's all so second-nature that Puck doesn't care so much when Kurt pulls his usual steal-the-last-pancake stunt. Kurt never does ask how his morning jog went, and Puck leans over the syrup-sticky table to kiss his boy. It tastes stale and sweet and coffee-bitter, and Puck wouldn't have his Saturdays any other way.