five minute tuesday

BIn41 Sneak Peek, by request...

I had a CuriousCat request to post a BIn sneak peek, so here ya go:


Robin texts her on Friday around noon, when he finally wakes up: Hope you got some sleep last night. Dreamt of you all morning.

She answers a few minutes later, telling him, I did. Thanks.

Robin frowns. That was a bit… short, particularly for someone who’d had him balls deep inside her last night. Then he remembers just why, and that she’d said she needed a few days to work off her anger, so he texts: Still pissed?

Mmhmm. It’ll pass.

He sighs, and tells her, I’ll leave you to your work then. Call if you need anything.

He considers it a small consolation that she replies at all, even more so that she tells him, Thanks, I will. And thanks for last night.

So not all bad, then, he deduces with a little smile, unable to resist the urge to text back: Your knickers were thanks enough luv, with a devilish little emoji as punctuation.

Speaking of… He rolls over, fishing her thong from the pocket of the jeans he’d left crumpled on the floor when he’d fallen into bed early this morning, then flops back onto his mattress with a sigh just as his phone buzzes again.

It’s another text from her, three words that make him laugh out loud: With. Your. Life.

On my honor, I swear to protect them, he shoots back and then he tosses the phone aside, and lifts the little scrap of fabric. He hooks a fingertip in either side of the waistband and holds them up, finally getting a good look  – he hadn’t really had much of a chance last night, now, had he?

It’s just a small triangle of pale grey, not cotton, something softer than that, with lavender lace along the waistband. Her bra had been lavender, too, come to think of it – quite possibly this exact lavender, and lacy, just like this. It occurs to him then it was probably a set, and no wonder she hadn’t been keen on parting with them.

Alas, too late now, he thinks with a smirk and very little remorse.

She has such a bloody tiny waist, he muses, giving the lace a little stretch and turning her knickers around to appreciate the back side – or lack thereof. God, she must have looked bloody incredible in this; he almost regrets not taking her skirt off altogether so he could enjoy the view.

Almost.


Not quite.


The view had been pretty spectacular as it was. Really, incredibly fantastic.

He’s just settling in to enjoy the memory of it, of her on top of him, all wild and fierce (and yes, angry, but it appears it’s an anger that will blow over, so he’s willing to overlook that for now), just starting to mull over the lovely details, and feeling his cock start to stir when he hears the pounding scamper of feet up the stairs, and a voice calling his name – “Robin?”

His heart lurches when he realizes it’s Henry, and he has just enough time to shove the boy’s mother’s knickers (Christ, she’d absolutely murder him) under his pillows before his door swings open, and Tuck comes bounding in, Henry behind him.

Nothing has ever killed a boner faster. Thank God he’d still had his shorts on.

Henry skids to a stop and scowls at the sight of Robin still in bed, asking, “Why aren’t you up yet? It’s lunchtime.”

“For you, maybe,” Robin tells him, sitting up and hoping he doesn’t look nearly as panic-stricken as he feels. “Some of us work late and sleep late.”

“Oh,” Henry remembers, with a look of regret. “Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was awake,” Robin assures him, swinging his legs off to the side and pulling on those same jeans, because, well, they’re there, and they’re clean enough. He spies the open condom wrapper that he’d pocketed on the floor where it must have slipped free at some point, and sends up another prayer of thanks, this time for the fact that Henry is on the other side of the bed.

“What did you want?” he asks, as he toes it surreptitiously under the bed and fully out of sight.

“I was bored,” Henry shrugs. “I thought maybe you could show me some new stuff on the guitar. Or we could go to the park or something.”

One of those sounds like it takes a bit too much brainpower for his newly awakened self, the other a bit too much energy. So Robin suggests instead, “How about we start with some lunch?”

.::.

The flaw in this whole lunch plan becomes apparent as soon as they get to the kitchen. He and John are, to put it plainly, shit at keeping a full fridge. With John away so often for work, and Robin eating half his weekly dinners at the bar, they don’t need to keep a whole lot of food in the house – not proper food anyway.

And he’d meant to do some shopping today on his day off – refresh their stores of white bread and cold cuts and cheese. Pick up some proper fruit and veg for the weekend with Roland, and restock his supply of mac and cheese, maybe get some hot dogs to throw in, or one of those ready-made rotisserie chickens.

But as he’s just rolled out of bed, he hasn’t exactly had a chance to do that yet, so they’re left to fend for themselves with what they’ve got: a tomato that’s starting to wrinkle a bit, some eggs, a carton of milk he pulls out and takes a whiff of – and then regrets with a wince, setting it back on the shelf with a stern reminder to himself to dump the little that’s left down the drain later. Some three-day-old take-out pork lo mein, and a lime.

Well, then.

Robin zeroes in on the eggs, suggesting, “How about some fried egg sandwiches?”

He has enough bread, and there’s a half-spent jar of ketchup in the fridge door. It’ll do for lunch.

And Henry is game, tells him, “Sure,” with an agreeable shrug, so Robin reaches in and pops open the carton to find one lonely egg resting inside.

Right.

He looks at Henry and asks, “I don’t suppose your mum has eggs?”

She does – of course she does – so they head next door, dog in tow, and take advantage of Regina’s decidedly fuller fridge.

She’s down to the last egg in the carton as well – but there’s another full dozen resting underneath it. The ketchup he pulls from the door is organic, the bread they find in the breadbox is a hearty seven-grain – not ideal if you ask him (there’s something nice about the bland, pillowy softness of WonderBread when it comes to an egg sandwich) but it’ll do.

She’s also got a crisper full of apples, a half-full carton of raspberries, two cartons of milk (a quart of skim that he imagines is hers, and a half gallon of 2% for Henry), a small pyramid of yogurts, some fresh-from-the-deli shaved turkey, and a packet of pork chops. There’s one of the plastic cartons of ready-made mixed greens for salads, a carton of cherry tomatoes, and a cucumber.

It’s a well-stocked pinnacle of health that puts his paltry bachelor pad selection to shame, and he’s half-tempted to beg her guidance for his own shopping. But then, half of it would probably just go bad on the shelf, and that’d be a waste, wouldn’t it?

And it’s neither here nor there at the moment, so he puts the thought aside, and gets to making their eggs.

Henry watches, and helps, pulling out four slices of bread at Robin’s urging, and cutting up a couple of apples for them with this corer-slicer thing that is handy enough Robin makes a mental note to look into getting one himself for Roland’s snacktime.

Before too long they’re settled at the table, munching away at their sandwiches and apple pieces, Robin occasionally tossing Tuck bits of that turkey from the fridge (he and Henry have sworn a pact of secrecy about feeding table scraps to the dog).

Two bites in, Henry declares, “This is really good,” and Robin discovers the boy has never had a fried egg sandwich before in his life.

“You’re joking,” he tells him, and then he decides, “No, you’re probably not, are you? Now I regret making it with fancy bread – you should have had a proper one.”

“Mom says that white bread is a waste of calories, unless it’s homemade or from France,” Henry tells him, and Robin snorts a little laugh.

“That sounds like something your mum would say,” he chuckles, adding, “I bet she’d have a stroke if she saw my fridge.”

“Probably,” Henry shrugs munching away. “Why don’t you buy better food? Or more food.”

Robin smirks and tells him, “To be honest, I’m rather a lazy git, or at least – when it comes to food only I’m going to eat, I don’t care as much. I was going to go shopping today – for Roland. But during the week, I don’t really cook all that much, so I don’t need a lot of food.”

“If you don’t need very much, then you should buy better stuff than just eggs and beer,” Henry tells him, and Robin snorts.

Touché.

“Maybe I’ll ask your mum for some pointers,” Robin tells him, taking a bite of his sandwich after he adds, “She seems to have things pretty put together.”

Henry answers, “Yeah,” but then he’s frowning into his plate a bit, something clearly on his mind.

The boy’s never had trouble speaking his mind, though, so Robin waits him out, lets him gather his thoughts. After a few seconds, Henry says, “I’m worried about her.”

“Your mum?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “She hasn’t been, y’know… Mom the last few days? We had a bad weekend, and then she had that headache, and she looks kinda sick. And last night, she went to bed before I even did.”

“She’s having a hard week,” Robin tells him, adding, “She’ll be alright, though; she’s tough,” before taking another bite of his sandwich.

Henry just frowns at him, and then asks, “How would you know? You were here for like five minutes on Tuesday.”

Robin freezes mid-chew.

Right.

All their other visits were a bit more… nocturnal. Henry has no idea – nor should he – that he’s seen Regina nearly every day this week.

He half-finishes chewing, then swallows heavily, and tells the boy, “We text sometimes.”

“You do?”

“Mmhmm,” Robin confirms. “About you, most of the time – if she needs me to take you for a bit, or has a question about your lessons, or whatever. But sometimes just about… life. How our days are going, what’s on our mind. Stuff like that.”

Henry lets out a surprised little Huh, and takes a bite of his own sandwich.

He seems to leave it at that, so Robin counts his blessings, and takes another bite of his own – and then nearly chokes a bit when Henry asks, “Are you my mom’s best friend?”

  • Monday: I plan to make dinner. About ten minutes before I would normally start, husband comes home. He is working a double shift, and wanted to let me know before disappearing five minutes later.
  • Tuesday: I make dinner a bit earlier than usual, just in case. Husband is an hour late home from work.
  • Wednesday: I don't make dinner. Husband comes home on time, and is grumpy because he didn't get lunch.
  • Thursday: I make dinner at just the right time. It's done just as the husband walks in the door. Someone ordered a takeaway at work, and he's already eaten.
  • Friday: I have a nervous breakdown, trying to figure out whether or not I should make dinner. He's late home. I light the kitchen on fire and dance in my underwear.
Wacky Headcanon Wednesday: Alliance Public Radio

(I couldn’t decide on a single entry for the wacky Headcanon Wednesday round, so I’m probably going to have three, of which this is the first.)

(My apologies to those who aren’t familiar with American public radio, for whom this will probably be baffling and rather dull. The next ones should be a bit more generally accessible… I just couldn’t resist. :D )

Alliance Public Radio

Bringing you the best in news, culture, and entertainment from Earth to the edges of settled space—this is Alliance Public Radio!

Hovercar Talk

So what if 90% of hovercars are driven purely by automatic pilot, and basically 100% are so complex in their design and programming that they can only be repaired by proprietary diagnostic drones? Little details like that have never stopped anyone, and so millions still tune in to hear what to do if your engine starts to go cli-CLUNK cli-CLUNK WHRRRR cli-CLUNK. (”What you do is you explode,” Joker says, helpfully. EDI does not point out that he still tunes in every week.)

This Alliance Life

“Each week we choose a theme and give you a variety of stories on that theme. Today’s theme: We’re All Going To Die, Aren’t We? Tales from the edges of the Reaper War. Act One: True Blue, the story of a human woman desperately trying to send her asari daughter to safety on Thessia—and the asari immigration officer who bent all the rules to help her. Act Two: Good Cop, Good Kid, in which a turian C-Sec officer adopts a human orphan, and what the two learn about each other. Act Three: I For One Welcome Our Cuttlefish Overlords, an irreverent look at the disaster from comedian Mara Djan. Stay with us!”

The Splendid Dextro Table

It has long been the purview of public radio food shows to give elaborately mouthwatering descriptions of foods that you—to be perfectly blunt—will never actually be able to eat: because it costs $500 a pound, because the food stall is halfway up a mountain somewhere, because the restaurant is open for about five minutes on alternate Tuesdays. The Splendid Dextro Table takes this to its logical conclusion with its sumptuous stories on foods that 98% of listeners will never be able to eat, literally, because it would kill them. Hosted by the smooth-voiced turian gourmand Apiciam Teralanak, it features a human co-host who speaks eloquently on how good everything looks, and has a regular segment by Rhan’Vel vas Nedas reviewing new flavors of purified protein paste. (Tali listens to this and makes long lists of foods she wants to try if she can figure out how to sterilize them. Garrus tells her not to waste her time—”That Teralanak is just making up what he thinks the humans want to hear. You want really good turian food? I can show you where to find really good turian food.”)

Pledge Week

You didn’t think this would go away, did you? Pledge at least fifty credits, and we’ll send you this beautiful Views of Eden Prime mug. Pledge two hundred credits, and you’ll receive the complete audio broadcast of the smash hit APR exclusive, Elcor Romeo and Juliet. We depend on your support, so please, call now!

The Colony Home Companion

The highlight of this popular comedy and music variety show begins, “Well, it’s been a quiet week on Wobegon Colony, my home out there on the edge of the Terminus Systems,” a colony where “the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and all the children have biotic potential.” (Ashley rolls her eyes whenever this show is brought up, but if you play it when she’s around, you’ll notice her getting a lot of jokes that fly over the heads of spacers and those born on the homeworld.)

Fresh Air

Thanks to the highly sophisticated Terry Gross VI, Fresh Air has remained remarkably consistent over the past century and a half.