Title: Sixteen Items or Less
Genre: Humour/Romance
Summary: If there's one thing John hates, it's lines; if there's one thing John loves, it's Tabs. Mostly fluffy/waffy John stream of consciousness first person flashfic, wherein he waits in line at a grocery store and thinks about his relationship with Tabitha. Set around episode 10ish maybe?
Rating/Warnings: M for language and lime-y mild smut. John drops the F-bomb in his head like it's going out of style.
Pairing: John/Tabitha
Disclaimer: Marvel owns everybody and everything.

A/N: This is set in basically the same continuity as lithiumaddict's much much more capably written Bonding for the Freedom-ly Challenged, the quintessential Pyro/Boom Boom fic for this verse. In fact, go read that, not this. Mea culpa Perc. I hope you don't mind too much, especially because you're the whole reason I fly this ship's flag heh :) for which I am thankful.

We all have thoughts that would shame the devil. I'm pretty sure Mark Twain said that, though I have a habit of attributing everything to Twain when I'm not really sure of the source. Right now, my thoughts are centered on punting the little bugger behind me in line who's whinging to his mum about getting a chocolate bar. I don't know if that would shame the devil though. I'm busy imagining receiving a cloven-hoofed pat on the back when the teenaged girls laden with ice-cream in front of me erupt in squeals over a picture of Zac-Jonas-Effron-Corbin-Drake, or whatever the fuck his name is, on the cover of one of the tabloids. It's like knives in my soul.

I glare at the "Express Checkout" sign as I shuffle two steps forward. It has betrayed me. The cashier is a distant oasis. Ugh, trite metaphor. That would look terrible on paper. I catch myself grinding my teeth again. Tabs yells at me for that. 'Chides' would be a better word. If she really wanted me to break the habit, she wouldn't send me to do trying shit like this. I gnash them extra hard to spite her, but it hurts my jaw and I stop almost immediately. You win this round, Smith. She wins a lot of rounds... which explains why I'm here on my day off, watching an old lady count out pennies like there's some kind of fucking exact change award.

I'm nearly close enough to put my basket up onto the conveyor, and I carefully rearrange the steaks on top in preparation. The thick, dripping meat shows the world that I am brimming with testosterone and masculinity, practically a T-Rex. I'm not going to unpack the contents for the whole store to see; I'm well aware that the foul, bright blue box hidden beneath the dead cow makes me a marked man. Whipped. I practically ran down the aisle to get it, stopping only briefly to lock eyes with another poor soul, a brother in arms, trying to decide just what the difference between regular and super was and which one he should buy to not get yelled at. I think we may have shared a moment.

I mentally cringe as the cashier scans a tin of tuna, number seventeen. The middle-aged woman has 23 items in total. I counted as she laid them out, secretly hoping there was some sort of grocery police that would force her to change lines, or at the very least, that the cashier would just refuse to accept anything past the allotted sixteen. The kid behind me is crying now, shrill and plaintive, and oh my god, Mike just totally sent one of the girls in front of me a text and he's totally dreamy I bet. I finger my trusty Zippo, briefly entertaining the fantasy of burning this place to the fucking ground, strolling casually through the sliding glass doors with my basket as an inferno blazes behind me.

I don't think taking down one of the two places for food supply on the island would win me any points with the bossman though, and I need the job, so I leave the lighter in my pocket. The things I do for Tabs. Recently, I've caught her thumbing through furniture catalogues longingly, when she thinks I'm not paying attention. I look at her a lot more when we're together than I think she realizes. We really do need an upgrade from the nest of pillows and blankets we have piled in the corner of our living room, acting as a surrogate chesterfield. I want her to have furniture. I want her to have a lot of things.

It's not the sex. I mean, the sex is great, don't get me wrong, but I've had better with other girls who I wouldn't put up with half the shit I do from Tabs. There's just something about her. I've known it since the day they dragged her past my cell, but I try not to think about it too much; it makes me restless, and Tabs too. Neither of us are long term people. From what I've managed to get out of her (and it's not a lot; she clams up, but so do I so I can't really blame her,) the men in her life haven't exactly been the most dependable. Her own father turned her into the MRD, for chrissakes. She just doesn't want to get burned (har har) by me too, and I can't blame her for that either.

I'd like to reassure her, I really would, but I don't exactly have the best track record with the women in my life either. Leave 'em before they can leave you, that's been my motto since mum...well.... Because women will all leave you eventually. Always. And it hurts less at least when you have the control. I think. I don't know if I'll be able to leave Tabs when the time comes though, and that's vaguely terrifying to me.

The boy behind me has raised his screeching for candy another octave, to the point where I'm beginning to wonder if only dogs and I can hear it. His mother certainly doesn't seem to, blithely chatting away now on her cell phone. The girls in front of me are next, but my turn is still not soon enough; my Zippo feels hot in my pocket and I have to take evasive action. "Hey kiddo." I put a finger to my lips. "If you shush, I'll buy you a chocolate bar." I notice the other patrons are watching our transaction hopefully as he stops wailing momentarily, considering my proposition.

Then he bites me in the shin.

"Hey, hotshot." Tabs greets me at the door in nothing but a singlet and Spiderman boyshorts. I try not to be jealous. I hear he's a bang-up guy, and I'm sure she'd wear Pyro skivvies if they made them. Plus, Spidey only gets to be on them. I get to be in them. I frown, thinking of the little blue box I have procured. But not this week. She kisses my neck, slow and wet and warm, and I almost drop the bag of groceries; the bag of groceries that I had to go across the island and get from the other store, because I'm no longer welcome in the one four blocks from the apartment.

It seems there is, in fact, grocery security, and while they don't concern themselves with such trivial matters as ensuring that people have the correct number of items in the express line (even though that's on the sign), they are very interested in screaming matches between stupid cows that are bad parents and concerned noble citizens who are merely suggesting said cows take their heads out of their arses and discipline their children (even though that's on no sign anywhere in the store.)

"Hey yourself." I wrap my free arm around her waist. "You're home early."

"Yeah, the restaurant wasn't very busy, so they let me off." She reaches behind me to close the front door and we walk awkwardly in tandem to the kitchen. Somehow, neither of us have shirts on by the time we get there. Funny, that. I have no idea what I've done to deserve this. I manage to get the steaks in the fridge. I think. She has me pressed up against the counter now and the kitchen cabinets are digging into my neck but I don't really care. "I was going to do the shopping when I got home but you were already gone. Thank you."

I'm fairly confident she didn't see my eye twitch just then. "N-no problem, sweet." I have the best girlfriend in the world. I'm thankful the counter is there to lean on, because I'm not entirely sure I have knees anymore. Maybe they disappeared with my shorts.

"But I'm very, very appreciative, John." Ever the writer, I am already transcribing. Dear Penthouse, I never believed these letters were true until today…

Her tongue snaking up my thigh suddenly pauses. She's looking up at me now, eyebrows quirked, a quizzical grin on her face, no longer the femme fatale but just my girl Tabs, calling me on my shit. God, I love that about her. "Are those teeth marks?"