(?/?/20XX)

A young boy, barely tall enough to reach the counter without standing on his tippy toes, is in the middle of a daring heist. Undaunted by the herculean climb before him, he deftly balances on top of the dining chair he'd so cleverly commandeered. There's a fire in his eyes, an insatiable hunger that he must, uh, sate. Recently his mother had been learning to bake, and as her skills increased and her compendium of recipes grew larger, so too did the boy's uncontrollable desires. Chocolate caramel cake, souffle pancakes, parfaits! The palate was teased by innumerable temptations. Yet they all paled in comparison to the most delectable delight of all- the lavish lemon bars made lush with love. A delicacy so precious that his mother guarded them with lethal intent. There were few things that made his mother truly livid. Attempting to make off with the lavish lemon bars made lush with love before his mother allowed them to be consumed would likely result in being made a carcass before he'd even learned what the word carcass meant. And she'd doubtless be justified too. The firm hand of justice could come careening around the corner at any second, sentencing him to spend the rest of eternity, or the hour, whichever was longer, with his legs dangling around the cold iron bars which held up the timeout seat.

But there was no need to entertain such dire scenarios. His plan had gone off without a hitch so far, and now, as his hands steadily approached the tasty treasure, all he had to do was pocket a few of the ill-gotten goods, he wasn't greedy after all. Then all he could let his father take the fall for it. There would be no stains of chocolate on his shirt to incriminate him this time. In mere moments he would claim his precious prize, and nobody would be any the wiser. His finger was nearly grazing the pan. Just. One. More. Stretch...

"Hey. You know you're not supposed to eat those yet."

It's neither his mother nor father, but a parental figure just as familiar. He hadn't anticipated this confrontation. This would be a coinflip; if he played his cards right, he still just might be able to pull it off.

"Uh, Mom said I could have one. 'Cause I've been good."

"Then why are you acting all sheepish?"

"I'm not."

"You're trying to hide the pan behind your arm. You-you're trying to shield the pan from me! And are those crumbs on your shirt?!"

"N-no."

"You haven't even taken a bite yet and you're already covered in crumbs. Thievery really isn't your strong suit."

The boy sighed, seemingly resigned to his fate. "Are you gonna tell Mom then?"

"I should. It's my job to watch you when they're not around, and I don't want to catch any lip for your crime. But, maybe just this once I can look the other way, if you'll 'accidentally' leave the fridge open for me. That leftover salmon fillet is calling my name."

The boy thought for a moment. While he might actually get in more trouble for allowing the fish to "mysteriously" disappear, he'd be less likely to be labeled a suspect.

The devil on his shoulder, or rather the devil brushing against his leg watched him with anticipation, was already certain of his answer, but wanting to hear the words come out of his mouth.

"That's the deal. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

"I already scratch your back every day. And under your chin. And behind your ears. And sometimes on your belly. And I don't want you to scratch my back, it'll hurt."

"It's a figure of speech. I'm not really going to...look, yes or no?"

"Ok. You promise you won't tell Mom?"

"Thieves' honor."

"Pinky swear."

The boy's accomplice stared down at its own feet. "I don't have pinkies."

He looked down as well, then gave a shrug. "Guess I'll take your word for it."

The grade-schooler sprung down from the chair and skipped over to the fridge, opening it and nodding to his partner in crime, ushering him to take possession of his loot.

Said partner licked his lips, his eyes starry. "We make a pretty good team. But let's not make a habit of this. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to follow rules, they exist for a reason."

"I know. But we're breaking a stupid rule, so it's ok."

The shorter of the two thieves gave his reasoning some thought. "This time, yeah. But it won't always be so simple."

The boy rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to teach me lessons again?"

"Hey, my wisdom is invaluable. Just ask your dad how many times it saved him. Uhh, speaking of, we're letting him take the fall for this, right?"

"Yep."

"Good."

A young boy, barely old enough to tie his own shoes, has taken his first steps towards learning the value of teamwork, thanks to the unforeseen arrival of an unlikely ally. A newfound comradery, the seeds of a partnership formed from more than just the love for the child they helped raise, are planted. And somewhere far beyond the kitchen and the house it's in, but not as far as it may seem, in the deep recesses of the room that exists between the conscious and subconscious, a man with a long nose finds his unnaturally wide smile growing just the slightest bit wider.

But back in the realm of the conscious, the cocky grin of one young man is wiped clean when he hears the front door open, and, having ate into valuable time by aiding his friend, he found himself without a chance to climb up the chair once more.

Fish in mouth, his accomplice manages to mumble a muffled, "Sorry, you're on your own," before scurrying off.

A young boy, old enough to know some swear words, but not old enough to say them aloud without repercussion, has just learned a second valuable lesson. Secure the loot first, talk later.

Later that night, a man no longer young enough to be considered cool for breaking rules, but too old to care how cool he looked walked into his bedroom to find his wife sat up in bed, watching TV. He sauntered over to his side of the mattress and flopped down, snuggling his face into the pillow and sighing.

"You closed late. Busy day?"

"Busier than usual. So six people instead of five. But one of them was there for hours. Ran me around wanting to sample a bunch of blends. I should really institute a two cup limit."

The woman giggled. "You can't fault them for wanting more, you are a master of your craft."

"You think? You should tell the boss that. But then again, I don't want him to think I think I've usurped him."

She smiled, but then a look of uncertainty crossed her face, as though she wanted to say something, but was struggling to find the words.

"May I be candid with you?"

He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Of course, always. You know that."

"This feeling has always been somewhat difficult for me to process, but I-I'm a bit jealous of your culinary skills. They seem to come so effortlessly to you, and yet I practice and practice and still falter."

"Falter? What?! Your baking is great! You've caught on so fast. You're being way too hard on yourself."

"Thank you, but..." She rubbed her arm sheepishly. "...Well...the evidence is quite clear. Nobody has touched the lemon bars I made."

The husband's eyes went wide for a second, and the slightest hint of perspiration wet his forehead. "Oh, umm..."

"I left them out so you could all partake. But I guess there was little interest. You were at work of course, so it's understandable you wouldn't have, but..."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close.

"Listen, I think you're an amazing baker. Unrivaled. But the kid, he just really does not like lemon. He told me. I didn't want to tell you, because I thought you might think I was making it up to spare your feelings."

She covered her mouth in surprise. "Oh! So that's it?! I had no idea."

The couple pulled apart, and the man plopped back down and put his hands behind his head. "Yep. Hates it."

His beloved, however, was now more confused. "But-but I've seen him eat them before. A lot of them..."

"He was just trying to be nice. And he's really good at selling it."

"I see..."

"You can still make them for me though. I love them."

Her smile returned. "Very well. I shall. Only for you. I'll have to find something else to make him."

"Good idea. But, uh, let's not say anything to him, ok? The guilt's been eating him up. It's probably best if you act like I never told you."

They gave each other a quick peck on the lips and wished each other goodnight. The man closed his eyes, and just before drifting off, a wide smile spread across his face. He licked his lips, the last hints of sour tang dancing on his tongue one last time.

"Heh."

Unbeknownst to all but him, there had been no looming danger to the heist earlier. In fact, no heist had been necessary. But for a man no longer young enough to compete with his son getting out of school at 3:00, but never too old to not have an insatiable hunger for lemon bars, he had in fact plotted his own heist well in advance. Today had been too close; he'd nearly missed out on his favorite treat once again. Even the threat of his mother's wrath had nearly not been enough to stymie the boy, nor had convincing his best friend of the fake rule and the consequences of breaking it. But now, there would be nobody to compete with him for the delectable delicacy. A truly heinous, yet ingenious scheme.

Unbeknownst to the young boy, there was a third lesson to be learned today. Traitors can be those you least expect. Oh, and sometimes dads are dicks.

Author's note: Within every act of the story there will be these little side blips, mostly dumb short stories of the lives of a happy family, a way to inject some wholesomeness and maybe break up a barrage of what I'm planning to be some fairly dark situations. I'm inserting it early for this first part just because I liked the idea and didn't want to sit on it for too long.

These will also serve as a sort of teaser to another fic I'm planning, one that will be tied directly to this one. One I probably won't begin working on until I've hit a flow and gotten further with this. Can you guess who is who? It's probably not some great secret. But part of the fun will be me not spelling it out for you, at least not yet. And maybe if I sow a little doubt it'll keep you on your toes.