So there was this prompt a while back from a list of “AUs for when your OTP are both assholes”: “Shouting match over the last Thanksgiving turkey at the grocery store AU.” Which would, in the natural course of things, lead to…
“Blame Typey,” I believe a common expression goes. More-appropriate words were never spoken, as it’s Typey’s fault that these two ideas were put together, and thus it is also her fault that I give you:
“Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” Myka muttered. Some kind of supermarket theory probably dictated why you always had to hike all the way to the back of the store to get to the meat department. Some kind of annoying supermarket theory that didn’t take into account the fact that it might be Thanksgiving and you might have, oh, eight people showing up at your place in not very many hours, and you would have been ready for that if you hadn’t been held up for almost thirty hours in the Phoenix airport and just got home this morning. Anyone with any sense would’ve just rented a car and driven home to Colorado Springs (only a twelve hour drive!), or bought a new ticket and flown to Denver and then driven (an hour and a half!). But oh no, she’d been stubborn. In an airport on the day before Thanksgiving, she’d decided to be stubborn.
Fine, then: now she was going to keep on being stubborn, keep on and make Thanksgiving dinner at my house like I said I would. She added a “damn right I am” at the end of that, as mulish punctuation.
And there at last was the big freezer, shining like… like the extremely shiny thing it was. No time for flowery language; she was on a mission. She looked down into the case, and just for her, wedged all alone in the back corner, forlorn and most likely freezer-burned, was Myka’s turkey. “Thanks for waiting,” Myka told it. Finally, finally, finally, she was going to be able to get this holiday back on track. She reached down for her prize, this turkey that had so steadfastly held its position, watching its friends bought by happy holiday shoppers over the past week, knowing perfectly well all the while that Myka was on her way. And so now, home to defrost, then cook, then serve (slightly late, but excusably so, given the airport situation) this sine qua non of the holiday meal. She would show everybody, particularly her mother and father, that she was perfectly capable—
“I beg your pardon,” she heard, right next to her ear: a woman’s voice, low and extremely appealing, and was that a British accent? Myka could have sworn she could even feel breath on her neck. A voice, and warm breath, and she dropped the turkey, which landed with a crunch back into the veritable snowbank of ice crystals in the bottom of the freezer.