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fandomweekly2021-01-27 06:30 pm
topaz_eyes) wrote in fandomweekly2021-01-27 06:30 pm
Entry tags:
[#044] To See Me Through Another Day (Strike Back)
Theme Prompt: Day Off
Title: To See Me Through Another Day
Fandom: Strike Back
Rating/Warnings: R (mature content)
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: “Yeah, they’re just tomatoes.”
Wyatt stirred awake as the applewood-scented aroma of frying pork sausage wafted into the bedroom.
Immediately he perked up, reminded that he was fucking starving. He rolled over, finding Mac’s side of the bed empty; good man, must’ve gotten takeout for breakfast, he thought.
But the scent was a lot stronger. Curious, he rose, treading over discarded clothes to grab a robe from the back of the door. He padded to the kitchen of their shared suite--
Wyatt stopped at the kitchen threshold, jaw dropped in amazement.
Mac couldn’t hear him over the sizzling of back bacon and sausage in the frying pan on the stove. That was probably a blessing, as Wyatt failed to contain a spluttered laugh.
Wyatt leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, taking a moment to admire the view. Mac was—well, fully naked, for one. Except for the full bib apron he wore; the tied ribbons at his waist and neck only served to accentuate his well-defined back and firm, tight ass.
“Do you always wear an apron when you cook in the buff, McAllister?” Wyatt finally said by way of greeting.
Mac startled at Wyatt’s comment, then snorted and half-turned, still keeping an eye on the pan. “You ever tried cooking bacon or sausage while starkers?” he said, lifting a piece over with a fork.
Wyatt winced at the thought of hot oil spattering on certain delicate parts of his anatomy. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” he conceded.
Mac turned back to the pan. “Safety first,” he said, and continued flipping the half-cooked slices.
“So what are we having?” Wyatt asked hopefully, his stomach rumbling.
“Full English breakfast,” Mac replied, grabbing a spoon to stir a small pot on the back burner. “Should last you til tonight.” Wyatt raised a questioning eyebrow, until he spied an empty can of beans in tomato sauce on the counter.
“You wanna help, you can toast that stack of bread there,” Mac added. Wyatt turned to the kitchen table, where a two-slice toaster waited beside a half-loaf of fresh-baked sourdough and a ripe tomato.
“Sure, I can do that.”
“How do you want your eggs?” Mac asked while Wyatt busied himself with making toast. “Scrambled, fried, or poached?”
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. “Poached? Hell, I’ll take three. Did you pick up mayo?”
“By the brown sauce in the fridge.”
Wyatt never expected anything on mornings after, besides a cup of coffee to get going. He certainly never expected a home-cooked breakfast, least of all from Mac. Especially since they had no food in their hotel suite. To pull this together, Mac would’ve had to crawl out of bed without disturbing him, get dressed, find a nearby market open this early on a Sunday, and return without waking him until it was almost ready. It was much easier to make a run to a diner than cook from scratch.
Then he would have had to strip completely again when he got back. That meant – Wyatt’s heart sped up at the thought of what Mac had planned for later, and he shook his head in pure fondness at Mac’s blatant ploy. For a battle-hardened soldier, he could be surprisingly sentimental.
“As long as I live I’ll never figure you out, McAllister,” Wyatt said to himself.
“What was that?” Mac called from the stove, where he was frying up potatoes in the same pan.
“Nothing,” Wyatt said, just as the toaster popped.
He’d finished buttering the toast and slicing the tomato when Mac set two full plates down, heaped with perfectly browned bacon and sausage, poached eggs, golden hashbrowns, and a generous helping of beans.
“Shite, knew I forgot something,” Mac muttered, frowning at the tomatoes. “Let me grill those quick--”
Wyatt stilled his hand. “Sit down and eat, Mac,” he said gently, stroking his inner wrist. “It’s perfect as it is.”
They looked at each other, until Mac relented and sank down in his chair. “Yeah, they’re just tomatoes.”
“Exactly.” Wyatt picked up his fork. “Oh Christ, this is fantastic,” Wyatt said after the first bite, rolling his eyes in sheer delight. He shovelled in the rest of his bacon and one egg. “Where’d you learn to cook?” he mumbled through his mouthful of food.
Mac rolled his eyes in sheer disbelief. “Slow down or you’ll choke,” he muttered. “Not spending my day off in A&E with you.” Though he looked shyly pleased by the compliment, and grinned down at his plate.
They ate in contented silence. This was the life, Wyatt thought: a lazy Sunday all to themselves; amazing food cooked by the man who meant more to him now than anyone, and an imminent repeat of last night’s athletics. Days off were rarer than hens’ teeth; after their last assignment (they would have died if Mac hadn’t spotted the ambush at the last minute), he would not take them for granted anymore.
“You look like the cat who caught the canary,” Mac commented as they polished off the last slices of buttered toast.
“Maybe because I have, Mac.” Wyatt tipped his orange juice glass towards him and downed it in one swallow. “I’m a lucky man.”
Mac snorted at that. “Yeah, well, I cooked so guess which lucky man washes up.”
“I don’t even mind that today,” Wyatt said, standing up to clear the dishes. He set them in the sink to soak in hot soapy water; when he was done, he turned back to the table, unfastened his robe and spread his arms open, beckoning.
Mac rose and stepped into his embrace; Wyatt reached around to untie the neck and waist ties. The apron dropped to the floor and they pressed together skin to skin, kissing long and slow and sweet. Yeah, Wyatt decided, he would enjoy every second, every day, as long as they were together.
“Shall we, then?” Mac said when they drew back, foreheads touching.
“After you, Big Mac,” Wyatt murmured. Nodding, Mac took his hand and they returned to the bedroom.
Title: To See Me Through Another Day
Fandom: Strike Back
Rating/Warnings: R (mature content)
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: “Yeah, they’re just tomatoes.”
Wyatt stirred awake as the applewood-scented aroma of frying pork sausage wafted into the bedroom.
Immediately he perked up, reminded that he was fucking starving. He rolled over, finding Mac’s side of the bed empty; good man, must’ve gotten takeout for breakfast, he thought.
But the scent was a lot stronger. Curious, he rose, treading over discarded clothes to grab a robe from the back of the door. He padded to the kitchen of their shared suite--
Wyatt stopped at the kitchen threshold, jaw dropped in amazement.
Mac couldn’t hear him over the sizzling of back bacon and sausage in the frying pan on the stove. That was probably a blessing, as Wyatt failed to contain a spluttered laugh.
Wyatt leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, taking a moment to admire the view. Mac was—well, fully naked, for one. Except for the full bib apron he wore; the tied ribbons at his waist and neck only served to accentuate his well-defined back and firm, tight ass.
“Do you always wear an apron when you cook in the buff, McAllister?” Wyatt finally said by way of greeting.
Mac startled at Wyatt’s comment, then snorted and half-turned, still keeping an eye on the pan. “You ever tried cooking bacon or sausage while starkers?” he said, lifting a piece over with a fork.
Wyatt winced at the thought of hot oil spattering on certain delicate parts of his anatomy. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” he conceded.
Mac turned back to the pan. “Safety first,” he said, and continued flipping the half-cooked slices.
“So what are we having?” Wyatt asked hopefully, his stomach rumbling.
“Full English breakfast,” Mac replied, grabbing a spoon to stir a small pot on the back burner. “Should last you til tonight.” Wyatt raised a questioning eyebrow, until he spied an empty can of beans in tomato sauce on the counter.
“You wanna help, you can toast that stack of bread there,” Mac added. Wyatt turned to the kitchen table, where a two-slice toaster waited beside a half-loaf of fresh-baked sourdough and a ripe tomato.
“Sure, I can do that.”
“How do you want your eggs?” Mac asked while Wyatt busied himself with making toast. “Scrambled, fried, or poached?”
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. “Poached? Hell, I’ll take three. Did you pick up mayo?”
“By the brown sauce in the fridge.”
Wyatt never expected anything on mornings after, besides a cup of coffee to get going. He certainly never expected a home-cooked breakfast, least of all from Mac. Especially since they had no food in their hotel suite. To pull this together, Mac would’ve had to crawl out of bed without disturbing him, get dressed, find a nearby market open this early on a Sunday, and return without waking him until it was almost ready. It was much easier to make a run to a diner than cook from scratch.
Then he would have had to strip completely again when he got back. That meant – Wyatt’s heart sped up at the thought of what Mac had planned for later, and he shook his head in pure fondness at Mac’s blatant ploy. For a battle-hardened soldier, he could be surprisingly sentimental.
“As long as I live I’ll never figure you out, McAllister,” Wyatt said to himself.
“What was that?” Mac called from the stove, where he was frying up potatoes in the same pan.
“Nothing,” Wyatt said, just as the toaster popped.
He’d finished buttering the toast and slicing the tomato when Mac set two full plates down, heaped with perfectly browned bacon and sausage, poached eggs, golden hashbrowns, and a generous helping of beans.
“Shite, knew I forgot something,” Mac muttered, frowning at the tomatoes. “Let me grill those quick--”
Wyatt stilled his hand. “Sit down and eat, Mac,” he said gently, stroking his inner wrist. “It’s perfect as it is.”
They looked at each other, until Mac relented and sank down in his chair. “Yeah, they’re just tomatoes.”
“Exactly.” Wyatt picked up his fork. “Oh Christ, this is fantastic,” Wyatt said after the first bite, rolling his eyes in sheer delight. He shovelled in the rest of his bacon and one egg. “Where’d you learn to cook?” he mumbled through his mouthful of food.
Mac rolled his eyes in sheer disbelief. “Slow down or you’ll choke,” he muttered. “Not spending my day off in A&E with you.” Though he looked shyly pleased by the compliment, and grinned down at his plate.
They ate in contented silence. This was the life, Wyatt thought: a lazy Sunday all to themselves; amazing food cooked by the man who meant more to him now than anyone, and an imminent repeat of last night’s athletics. Days off were rarer than hens’ teeth; after their last assignment (they would have died if Mac hadn’t spotted the ambush at the last minute), he would not take them for granted anymore.
“You look like the cat who caught the canary,” Mac commented as they polished off the last slices of buttered toast.
“Maybe because I have, Mac.” Wyatt tipped his orange juice glass towards him and downed it in one swallow. “I’m a lucky man.”
Mac snorted at that. “Yeah, well, I cooked so guess which lucky man washes up.”
“I don’t even mind that today,” Wyatt said, standing up to clear the dishes. He set them in the sink to soak in hot soapy water; when he was done, he turned back to the table, unfastened his robe and spread his arms open, beckoning.
Mac rose and stepped into his embrace; Wyatt reached around to untie the neck and waist ties. The apron dropped to the floor and they pressed together skin to skin, kissing long and slow and sweet. Yeah, Wyatt decided, he would enjoy every second, every day, as long as they were together.
“Shall we, then?” Mac said when they drew back, foreheads touching.
“After you, Big Mac,” Wyatt murmured. Nodding, Mac took his hand and they returned to the bedroom.