Hi guys! Thanks for the reviews :-)
Little me's very happy and honored that you remember me XD

Okay, this chapter is a littel short, but I promise to write fast and post the third one soon! Enjoy!

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When we finally arrived at my place, Randy tossed his bag carelessly on my couch and walked straight into the kitchen. I followed him, stopped in the doorway and folded my arms, leaning against the doorframe. For a while, I watched him search through the kitchen until he grumbled something and turned to face me.

"Really, John?"

I frowned and asked: "Really what?"

He gesticulated around the kitchen, his eyes suddenly all big and almost reproachful.

"No food? You have no food? I'm starving!"

Randy was right, I hadn't been at the grocery the last days and therefore it was nothing to eat around. I pursed my lips and grabbed some flyers from the counter, Italian and Asian food, and threw them at him.

"Italian or Asian. Whatever you like, I don't care," I told him.

Shaking his head no, he crumpled them up and threw the paper-ball into the trash can.

"No meals on wheels, I want something fresh!" he whined and I couldn't help but smile when the spoiled brat came through.

Then he spotted three lonely and hidden tomatoes behind the dried bread and his eyes lit up.

"Tomatoes! Here we go," he whistled through his teeth and grabbed them. "And I saw some pasta..."

He began rummage through the kitchen cabinets and produced pasta I didn't even know I had bought and a few spicery and olive oil. Curious I walked up to his side while he busily began chop the tomatoes.

"Are you really going to cook?" I asked a little alarmed, since cooking and Randy is not exactly compatible in my opinion.

"Yeah."

"Okay, what have I done to deserve this punishment?"

He looked up and kicked me, lacking of free hands to punch me or whatsoever, against my shin. I pouted and kicked him back, halfheartedly.

"What's this actually gonna be? Pasta with tomato sauce?"

Randy nodded, his eyes never leaving his hands… well, I guess he had no interest in losing a finger. Again, Randy and cooking…mmh, nope.

"Kind of. Pasta with cold tomato sauce."

I frowned. Cold? Yummy.

"Well, that sounds… like I'm gonna get me something from the Asia-man."

"No John, you don't."

"Yes Randy, I do."

"Oh no, Cena, you don't."

"Oh yes, I do. You don't really think I'm gonna eat cold tomatoes."

The tomato-massacre finished, he put the remains of those poor vegetables in a bowl, added lots of spices and oil and mixed it to a sauce-wannabe.

Then Randy looked up to me with big puppy eyes – he knows that I can't refuse him anything when he looks at me like that – and whined again: "Come on, you gotta try it. It tastes a little like Bruschetta."

He held the bowl right under my nose and rewarded me with a bright smile when it took a hesitant sniff.

And that very moment it hit me: Since he started with that sauce, our mood had changed, from depressed and pissed to almost normal. The normal bickering and kidding around. It was like a swith being flipped. Back in the car, silence. Here with the tomato sauce, normalcy. I felt a wave of relief flood me and for the first time today I felt almost… good. Wow, a magic tomato sauce…

"Okay, okay, you win! I'm gonna eat that magic bruschetta-like cold tomato sauce," I agreed, holding my hands up in defeat.

"Magic?"

Without any further explanation I smiled at him and patted his shoulder.

"You finish that and I'm getting your stuff to your room."

With that, I left the kitchen, grabbed his bag and made my way to his room. While I climbed the stairs, I pondered I if I could really leave him alone down there, with all the knives, the hot burner and boiling water… there was a chance that he would end up cooked.

I switched the lights on and my eyes swept through the room. It was exactly how he'd left it: tidy, everything in order. Deciding that the sheets needed to be changed, I sat his bag on the chair in the corner and went to work.

Randy had always been and will always be a regular guest in my house, so I decided a while ago that this room – formerly known as my guest room – would be perfect for him, with his own bed and closet and, okay, a shared bathroom, but that had never been a problem – the bathroom is big enough and we've seen each other's naked ass often enough in the past.

To be honest, the room isn't only a sleeping-solution. I have to admit, in a way I used it as a bait on him. My house had always been a place for him to go when he wanted to get away from home and now he not only had a place to go, he had his own place to go, including a spare-key to my house, his own tooth-brush, shaver, towels, clothes, food… well, I guess you get the point.

The evening I gave him the spare-key and told him about his own room, he didn't say anything and just hugged me tightly.

It feels good to know that there's someone around. That he's around.

I threw the blanket on the bed and opened the closet to put the bedspread in, when my eyes fell on something very familiar. A baseball cap. My baseball cap. An old one, but definitely one of mine. I put the bedspread away and let my fingers brush over the fabric. It felt rough and worn and I tried to remember when I had given him that cap. In fact I couldn't recall that I had ever given him one of my caps… still it sat there, on its own shelf. I felt a warm feeling tug at my heart.

Funny that I never noticed it in there before…

Randy's voice startled me out of my thoughts.

"Oh Darling, get your ass down here and set the table! Pasta's gonna be ready in five!"

"Right there!" I called back, giving the cap one last tender brush before I headed down.