CHAPTER TWELVE
Of course when he wakes up, Alex is still dead asleep. Jonas rouses himself with a jaw-cracking yawn, pulling away from her enough to stretch out on the mattress before finally prying his eyes open. He feels more tired than he probably should, but that's a small price to pay for making sure she was alright, and for going out dancing. Even if he'd only danced a little bit. Still fun.
Glancing over to her after checking his phone for the time (10:30 or so, not terrible), he finds himself almost staring as his sight slides over caribbean blue hair, tanned skin and soft edges. Without a thought he's smiling, before he catches himself, gnawing at the inside of his cheek, but he doesn't take his eyes off of her. Not until a pit opens up in his stomach and hunger, along with the guilt from thinking things he shouldn't, starts screaming at him to go do something other than act like a lovestruck fool.
…Oh no.
Fuck.
Okay. That's a thing. That's a thing that Jonas will have to deal with sooner or later. Probably later. Later sounds better.
He climbs out of bed, having to untangle covers from his legs as he goes, dousing his face in water to wake himself up before starting for the kitchen. Now, what's he in the mood for? Pancakes? Toast? French toast, there we go, that's a winner. Even if the process of getting there is a bit odd. He has to search a bit to find cinnamon, but after gathering everything up, Jonas gets to work on beating the eggs and milk together before adding vanilla and cinnamon. Maybe a bit on the sweeter side, because that's how he always makes it, but hey. His food, his apartment, his rules. Every so often he checks on Alex again, either just before or just after putting another piece of toast in the pan.
When she isn't awake after he's finished off two plates of the stuff, he just rolls his eyes and leaves one of them on the bedside table with the syrup and a glass of milk. Not like he hasn't eaten in bed before.
.
Alex sleeps like a fuckin' stone after 8am. It's just how she works. 8-10 she's a rock, by 11 she's getting closer to consciousness, by noon she's up. (Sometimes. Sometimes it's 1. Or 2.) When she finally does stir, it's to the sound of ceramic on wood. By the time she's awake enough to look for where the sound came from, she spots a plate on the bedside table, and grins automatically. Things are always better the morning after a breakdown. Getting things out of her system, maybe. Regardless, the smile is determinedly back on her face for the day.
Day one of paying Jonas back for being such a fucking great person.
Which means she can't just take advantage of his absence to eat his food and snoop. Damn.
Alex hops up, pulling her hair back into a (slightly less messy) high ponytail, wincing a little at the pain in her foot, but hobbling out of the room anyway, sipping at the glass of milk, food in her other hand.
"Mornin', angel." She sets the food at the table and hesitates for a second before taking little steps (on the balls of her feet, 'cause that's way easier) into the kitchen and clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for last night," she grins, a little cheekily. It's half joke - a wink-wink-nudge at their lack of a one night stand - but there's some sincerity under it.
Sincerity she doesn't let last, hopping up to peck him on the cheek before asking, casually, as she steps away, eyes wandering, "Okay bud, where's the peanut butter? I know you have it, you're an adult with a kitchen that has real food."
.
"Okay one: don't walk on your foot because that's going to give me anxiety if I've ever had it before, and two," Jonas turns enough to grab a jar of peanut butter off of the top shelf, handing it over to her as she glances over the room. Looks like she's back to normal. Good. "Peanut butter? Why do you need peanut butter?"
He's in his usual position of eating while leaned on the counter, french toast drizzled in syrup and powdered sugar making his mood almost instantly perk up. Always has had a bit of a sweet tooth, even if Jonas would never admit that to anyone and admittedly takes his coffee black in public. At home he usually has about five sugars and some creamer in there. Which— is that really coffee anymore? Eh. Still counts, it's a caffeinated drink. Does that mean sodas count as coffee? Tea counts as coffee?
Jonas still doesn't know why Alex wanted peanut butter. He's far slower on the uptake in the mornings, even if he wakes up early.
.
"Fanfuckingtastic." Alex takes the jar from him in one fell swoop, heading back to her food on the table. "God, I should buy peanut butter. Did you buy me peanut butter? It's so frickin' delicious." She's spreading it over her french toast before drenching the whole thing in syrup. Sweet, salty, bread-y, egg-y, nutty. Perfect.
.
He was going to ask about the peanut butter, what exactly she planned to do with it, but that's out of his head by the time she's finished her sentence. That, and it's a pretty obvious answer when she starts slathering her toast with it. Odd. Not terrible, but odd.
.
She hums her contentment as she eats, taking the whole plate with her back into the kitchen to keep Jonas company, returning the peanut butter. The lighting is way better in the morning, and she's getting a lot better a look at him now than she did the night before. An eyebrow raises as she catches some ink peeking just over the waistband of his sweats. Looks like maybe a tree or something. She can only see a bit of it. Risque spot for a tattoo, though, which makes her smirk. She had her the piece on her upper thigh done wearing bikini bottoms (and had searched the West coast to find the right artist to execute it), but there's no way he could've gotten that done without getting awfully familiar with the artist.
Alex really tries not to show the sheer amount of appreciation she has for his body as she drags her eyes back to his face. Nope. This has been established. The kiss was a pity kiss, the cuddle a comfort cuddle, and if they hook up it'll be as friends and nothing more. If. No guarantees. Highly unlikely, actually, given his sheer Good Christian Boy-ness. Good Reformed Boy, maybe, given his admission of the night before. Even if her image of him doesn't quite gel with the 'picked up a girl at the club for a one night stand.' The girl hadn't been her. It had been some adorable charming southern belle, not a wild child with a dirty mouth.
So that was his type. She has to wonder what he looks for in a guy. She tends to go for sorts like herself, usually. Complete dumpster fires who are up til 3 on the regular. All genders. If she can find them pissing in an alley past 2am, they're (unfortunately) her type. It's a fact she acknowledges to herself wryly. Not to say she doesn't absolutely lust after Jonas's type. They just don't tend to run in the same circles, not since college, when she had a much wider range of daily encounters. And she definitely had some interesting flings in college. Alex blinks those thoughts away, 'cause they aren't particularly productive, even if she has a bit of nostalgic fondness for them.
"I'm gonna be your wingwoman," she announces, determinedly. "I owe you more than one— as you've stated. If I hooked you up with Li'l Miss Dimples, I can do it again."
.
And then Alex mentions his recent one night stand. Jonas nearly chokes on his drink.
"You're gonna what?" Jonas is really hoping he heard that wrong, because based off of his earlier realization, that might kill him. Literally. Coughing, he sets his plate down on the counter behind him, hitting his sternum in an attempt to clear his lungs. "Jesus Christ—" It's out of reflex that he crosses himself, "You don't have to do that."
.
Alex is laughing out loud. She can't not, with a reaction like that. "Ha! Wow, no, seriously! All you gotta do is tell me what you're looking for, and I'll keep an eye out and hype you up and— y'know… wingwoman stuff." Admittedly, she doesn't have a whole lot of experience in the field, but it can't be that difficult, right? And she's set on doing it now, smile growing with her enthusiasm as she forgets her peanut-butter-and-syrup drenched french toast.
"I'll be— like those pigs, right? The truffle hunting pigs." Those are a thing that exist. "I will sniff out your ideal hookup. But probably not use the term sniff, 'cause creepy." She tilts her head, tapping it in a see, I know what I'm talking about, I know creepy (because of course she does) way, still grinning wickedly. "I'll drag my finds to the Kanaloa for your approval, maybe. Bring you my catch of the day so you can have your wicked way with them." There's no possible way she could keep a straight face through this, so she doesn't bother trying. "I'll have contributed to the corruption of an angel and my demon overlords will be unendingly pleased."
.
"Truffle hunting pigs." Jonas opens his mouth to say more on the matter, but she's already off on a tangent. "No— No, do not bring them to me when I'm on the clock. I'd prefer if you just didn't at all."
Sure they need the business, but he doesn't need the extra problems that would come along with it. And besides, that had been a fluke. Maddie had been a fluke, he usually stays away from places like the Island, along with their patrons. Because there could be some bad blood going down. Even if it is new, and even if Alex is working there. Jonas has only ever been the once. He intends to keep it that way. Besides, they're the competition. Yeah. He can just keep telling himself that. Perfect.
.
Her gesticulation with a fork loaded with french toast may not have been the best idea. Luckily Alex spots the syrup running down her arm before it gets on anything else, setting the fork back on her plate and contorting herself to tongue at the sticky trail on the back of her forearm, shooting him a smirk. "What," lick, "too scared I'll find your-" lick "-perfect mate, and you'll be too distracted to keep working?" She looks to her arm again, cleaning up the last of the syrup. And, okay, fine, he has a point. It's bad business to sleep with customers. Doesn't mean it doesn't happen, though.
.
Jonas really shouldn't be staring at her, but fuck it, he is. Mental whiplash is doing nothing for him, and Alex is still talking, even as syrup runs down her arm and she's trying to get that last bit off of her elbow; which manages to make him laugh. Because no one can do that. But still, he shouldn't be paying this much attention to one simple little action. Instead he waves the intrusive thoughts of blue hair and tan skin away with a shake of his head, muttering, "Mostly afraid of whomever you deem randomly fuckable, but sure, we'll go with that. Seriously though. There's no way in hell I'm gonna let you just send people over. I don't— Okay, not often— Just don't. Please."
.
He doesn't… what? Alex is giving him that skeptical grin, a sarcastic "Mmmhm," as she works on the rest of her breakfast. Another bite and she looks down at the meal like she's just seeing it. "Okay, obviously this must be some kind of divine blessing, 'cause I don't think I've ever dated a guy who could cook for real." Not that they're dating. "Even Ren is pretty shit at anything beyond assembling a salad or cooking, like… eggs." At least, the last time Ren had been in charge of getting her meals. And yeah, alright, french toast isn't the hardest thing in the world, but this is now the second thing he's cooked her and both have gone beyond edible straight to delicious. But maybe her standards are low. Scratch that, she knows her standards are low. Still, she's impressed.
.
And he's going to choke on air, apparently, because when the hell did dating get into the picture? Jonas manages to cover it up with a confused kind of look, though her mention of Blondie is a good enough topic to jump to so he can avoid where the conversation might be going. "Well, I do in fact cook for real, whatever that's meant to mean. Seemed like he was getting most of his skills from his girl, anyways. She was nice." She was nice. Nona, Nona was nice. He's never been great with names. "You need to work tonight? 'Cause I'd advise keeping off the foot."
Seriously. He's going to have a heart attack if she keeps walking on it.
.
"Ah… Actually no." She's glancing down at her foot, pulling a face as she goes on. "Off for the night. Tuesday/Wednesday weekend for me." Alex points and flexes, pursing her lips at the little tug of pain. After a second of contemplation, she shrugs. "I can pad my boots. It'll be fine." At the mention of her own clothes, she is suddenly too aware that she is not wearing them.
"Oh." Stuffing the last bite of food into her mouth, Alex goes to the sink to dump her plate. "I should probably change back into my stuff from last night." Probably not the most beautifully scented thing at the moment, but she'll do a trip to the basement machines when she gets home. Speaking of which. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a ride home in your no doubt weirdly clean car, huh?"
.
He opens his mouth to warn her about the whole padding thing, and then she makes a comment about having a car. Which he definitely doesn't. "Wouldn't mind giving you a ride at all. Let me go grab the keys to my bike, I'll meet you out back."
Jonas gives her a little salute, and then ducks from the kitchen to run back into his room.
.
Alex might have gone a little weak in the knees, with a squeaked "…bike?" as he left the room.
A bike. A motorcycle. Fucking Christ, how— who— what even—
She takes the opportunity with him out of sight to exhale, bending over down to her knees and shaking her head. He's a fuckin' Lance. Okay? He's a Brick, or a Slade, or a Steele. Or a… fuckin'… Jonas.
Alex groans. Too hot. Why. He shouldn't be allowed. His mere existence at this point makes her dangerously into him. "…Fucking hell," she breathes, before straightening. She's got this. Even if the prospect of having her legs around him on a fuckin' motorcycle is swoon-worthy.
She never should've started reading paperback romances.
.
After tugging on one of his usual outfits (standard jeans and a tee) plus his biking jacket, he grabs both the keys to his motorcycle and a pair of sunglasses before heading out. Just a quick trip down the stairs and around the back, and then he's pulling the bike around to the front, sunglasses perched on his forehead so that he can flick them down when they actually start the ride. Here's hoping she doesn't mind the windblown look. Based off of his prior experience, though, he doubts that's so uncommon for her.
.
After stripping off his clothes to change back into her own (dry, but a little stale, and she totally steals his deodorant to help with that), Alex is unusually quiet waiting for him to pull his bike around. Her shoes from the night before are a pain in the ass, but again: walking on the balls of her feet is better than on her injured heel.
Also, okay, maybe some small vain part of her is cackling madly that she looks so fuckin' badass riding on the back of a bike in heels. She's like a 50s pinup and it's glorious.
The trip back to her apartment building is short, but she doesn't mind taking the opportunity to straight-up bear hug Jonas and be creepily into the feeling of riding on a motorcycle. "This is so fucking cool," she mumbles into his back as they go, mostly to herself, since she's pretty sure he can't hear her (admittedly childish) delighted whisper.
.
Jonas cannot, in fact, hear her. Though he's more than happy to drop Alex at her apartment building (and walk her up the steps because he's not a cretin), circling back to grab his equipment and go to the gym just after.
Notes: Eyyy have another chapter my friends! A bit short, but sweet. ^^