A/N: I think you know by now that my stupid one shots are inspired by reels.
It had started, as many things in their relationship did, with an annoyed disagreement over something trivial. In this case: lunch. Walter, ever the proponent of efficiency, had suggested a nutrient-balanced meal optimized for energy levels and productivity. Paige, on the other hand, simply wanted something that tasted good. Their disagreement had spiraled into a deadlock, neither willing to concede. And, neither willing to simply each have their own meal.
And so, with a gleam of mischief in her eye, Paige had proposed a game, a ridiculous, arbitrary method to decide the components of their sandwich.
Walter prided himself on many things, his intelligence, his problem-solving abilities, and his aptitude for efficiency. What he did not, however, pride himself on, was his prowess in hand-eye coordination. Or, as Paige so lovingly put it, his "utter lack of athleticism."
Which was precisely why he found himself staring at a taped-off blue square on their kitchen counter, arms folded, eyebrows furrowed, and patience thinning.
"Paige, at this rate, I could just order us something."
"You could…" Paige agreed, tapping a finger against her chin, feigning consideration. "But then we wouldn't have the opportunity to settle this like mature, rational adults." She grinned mischievously as she held up two slices of bread, one whole wheat, his selection, and one sourdough, hers. "Now, back up, genius. It's game time."
Walter exhaled sharply, his lips flattening as he took the requisite five steps away from the counter. Paige had already secured her stance, knees bent slightly, eyes narrowed in mock determination. He suspected she was taking this far less seriously than her theatrics implied, but when she launched her slice of sourdough toward the square, he had to admit, her technique was decent. The bread landed just near the edge of the taped-off space.
With a skeptical glance at the slice now lying triumphantly on the counter, Walter lifted his own whole wheat offering and attempted a calculated toss. It went… askew. The bread smacked against the counter at an unfortunate angle before skittering off the side onto the floor.
Paige clapped her hands together, delight sparkling in her eyes.
"And that's why we don't leave the important things to someone who spends all his time throwing around numbers instead of objects."
Walter retrieved his fallen bread with an air of quiet indignation.
"Statistically speaking, my superior mental faculties should allow me to adjust my calculations and improve my accuracy as we proceed."
Paige patted his arm consolingly.
"Statistically speaking, you haven't won a single game of trash can basketball in the garage, so let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Walter opened his mouth to counter, but Paige was already setting up the next round.
"Alright, meat round! Will our sandwich feature turkey or roast beef? Only fate, and our throwing abilities, will decide."
Walter glared at the turkey slice in his hand, as if sheer force of will could bend physics in his favor. This time, he adjusted his stance, recalling some vague advice Toby had once given about trajectory and follow-through. He exhaled, aimed, and tossed.
The turkey sailed cleanly through the air, before flopping halfheartedly onto the counter, still noticeably shy of the square. Paige, still grinning, took her turn with the roast beef. Her aim was far from perfect, but it was decidedly superior to Walter's. The roast beef landed neatly within the target zone.
"Oh, this is embarrassing." Paige mused, shaking her head. "I mean, you lead a team of geniuses and you're losing to someone whose biggest math triumph was figuring out restaurant tips."
Walter pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I built a multimillion-dollar company." He reminded his wife.
"And yet…" She gestured toward the losing turkey. "...the sandwich gods have spoken."
The game continued, each round met with increasing levels of Walter's exasperation and Paige's delight. Swiss cheese narrowly bested cheddar, lettuce made an unexpected comeback after both of their tomato slices tragically skidded off the counter, and mayonnaise won by default when neither of them managed to successfully toss mustard anywhere remotely close to the square. Walter did win with avocado and onion, though. By the end of it, Walter had begun muttering statistical improbabilities under his breath while Paige basked in the absurdity of the entire ordeal.
But both were laughing.
And yet, when their sandwich was finally assembled, a ridiculous yet undeniably well-balanced amalgamation of their combined preferences, Walter had to admit something he never thought he would.
It was perfect.
"Subway's got nothing on us." Paige took an exaggerated bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding her approval. "You see?" She said, nudging him with her elbow. "I knew you'd end up having fun."
"Fun is a strong word." Walter huffed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the tiniest of smiles.
She reached for another bite, her eyes glimmering with amusement.
"You're smiling, darling."
Walter rolled his eyes, but he didn't deny it. Nor did he stop her when she playfully leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing contentedly. Rather placing a light kiss to her head.
"Next time…" He began. "We should employ a probability matrix to determine our sandwich components. It would be far more efficient."
Paige merely grinned.
"Nah. Efficiency is overrated. Somehow, I suspect you'll never say no to one of my crazy plans."
Walter glanced at the tape still on the counter, then at the woman beside him… laughing, radiant, wonderfully ridiculous.
"No…" He admitted softly. "I don't think I ever will."