AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once again, sorry, everybody. I had a total mental blank on what I was about to do, but I've figured it out now, so, without further babbling;
Chapter Twenty-One
Marceline's P.O.V.
My alarm went off in my face the next morning, and I groaned. It was too early, it couldn't possibly be 7.30 already? I buried my head under my pillow and reached out to turn the glob-forsaken thing off. My hand batted around in the air a few times before landing on something sticky. I muttered a question to myself as I peered over the side of the bed, only to see Gumball, sound asleep on the inflatable mattress next to my bed.
I winced as I pulled my hand away from his face, sticky strands of gum snapping back into place on his face. He frowned and muttered in his sleep, rolling onto his side. I snickered to myself as I floated downstairs, opening the fridge, which was fairly well stocked, due to Bonnibell and Finn and Jake, and looking inside.
"Let's see..." I said to myself. Bacon, bug juice, milk... bacon, strawberries, ice water... bacon... my gaze kept flickering back to the top shelf, where the packet of bacon lay innocently. I shrugged to myself, thinking, what the hell?
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Pretty soon, I had the bacon sizzling in a frying pan on the stove, inhaling deeply and grinning.
Upstairs, there was a thump and a sleepy yelp. "Well, Bubba's awake... ish." I smirked.
He slid down the ladder, landing on the carpet with a dull whump, using his stretchy legs as shock absorbers. I peered at him through the window from the kitchen to my living room, watching as he yawned. He was wearing dark shorts, a rock t-shirt (which I recognised, because I was pretty sure Marshall had given it to him a while back), and odd socks, his hair slightly squished from being slept on.
"Morning, dude." I called.
He jumped. "Gah! Uh... good morning." He said, slightly stiffly.
I floated out of the kitchen. "Dude..." I flew around him in a circle, studying him. "Okay, why the stuffed-shirt act?"
"What do you mean?" He asked quickly. "I'm just being polite."
"Yeah..." I nodded earnestly. "I believe you, Bubba."
"Wait, is that..." He sniffed. "Bacon?"
"Yep."
"Why are you making bacon? I thought you drank red, like Marshall."
I do, I just..." I trailed off. "I just wanted bacon, okay?"
"Fair enough."
I walked back into the kitchen and peered at the flames underneath the frying pan. I frowned. They were way too hot, and the bacon was gonna burn. So, I blew a few of the pyres out. I stood back upright, brushing my hands off on my jeans, then swished the bacon around in the pan a little before tipping it out onto two plates. I turned around to Gumball. "Hey, you want toast?"
"Uh... yeah. Why'd you do that?" He was staring at me with an odd look on his face, a question in his eyes.
"Why'd I do what?"
"Never mind." He shook his head before drifting over to the table, where I set the plates before returning to the kitchen to dutifully make toast.
Gumball's P.O.V.
After I questioned the bacon, Marceline went back into the kitchen. She bent over and stared at the flames under the frying pan, seemingly entranced by the flickering fire. Suddenly, she blew out three with quick, precision puffs of air, in some pre-planned pattern in her head. I blinked as she went on, humming as she served the bacon as though nothing had happened.
She asked whether I wanted toast, and I asked her why she'd done... whatever it was she'd done. She shrugged and put the plates on the table before floating back into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a pile of thick, golden buttered toast. I smiled my thanks before digging in. Marcy was a really good cook, especially for someone who eats colours...