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| Just Add Milk | |
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| Participants | Alison, Scott |
| Synopsis | The two cope with the morning-after the only way they know how. |
| Location | Blaire Condo, Upper East Side, New York City |
| Time | January, 2016 |
| Posted By | Scott |
Okay, time to do that morning after dance. The ache, the pain, the fuzziness — it's all there. Disoriented, Scott Summers doesn't even bother trying to put it all together. That can wait. First, whose pillow is this? Whose sheets, whose bed, whose.. Come to think of it, it's all rather comfortable and luxurious. Which doesn't make any sense. Lying there on his stomach, again, Scott tries to get his bearings through squinty eyes. Too bright in here. But it's that warm kind of bright, not harsh daylight, which suggests curtains or blinds. Yeah, this definitely isn't Hell's Kitchen. Steadily, Scott's fingers twitch. Then, on impulse, Scott gives the wrist itself a jerk. Ah, good. No handcuffs.
Alison, of course, is much more at home here than she was in his grungy flat. She's snoozing comfortably, even though she somehow seems to have wound up on a bit of a diagonal, with her foot dangling over the edge of the bed, despite the bed's general largeness. Still, at least she's the right way round, which is saying something, considering the drunkenness and the activity last night. Lucky they actually made it upstairs and into her oh-so-comfortable bed. As Scott jerks, it's enough to pull her more towards consciousness, and her foot does a little circle in the air, seeking something more solid to rest upon. Of course, it doesn't find anything, and she's not quite awake enough to fully move her leg.
The sleep-addled, migraine-dulled investigation is bearing no fruits, with the way Scott's head is turned away from the center of the bed. The far side of this unknown boudoir is evidently not providing any clues as to its owner. Just a bunch of girly junk. So the brilliant Scott then thinks to roll over. For a precious second, it's a gamble. He might turn to the other side only to be caught up in one of those Coyote Ugly scenarios — some extreme that'll bring with it a wave of instant regret and self-loathing. Like a cougar, all wrinkly and stuff with saggy breasts. Or the flip side, a sixteen year old. But that tentative worry is dashed when Scott manages to blink away the sleepiness and finds none other than Alison to be the only other occupant. He releases a heavy sigh, partly thankful. And partly mystified. How the hell did this happen.. again?
Don't ask Alison. Not least of all because she's still enjoying this dozing that she's doing. But as Scott rolls over, it pulls her further from sleep. Somewhere, in the darkest corners of consciousness, she's becoming aware that she's not alone here. Not that unusual an occurrence, granted, but still, enough to start her stirring. Her foot has grown cold, sticking out as it is, and so her first real order of business is to yank it rather sharply back under the covers. For a moment, it looks like that's all he'll be getting out of her this morning, for she snuggles back in to sleep. But then, without further movement, those eyes blink blearily open to peer over through the morning haze. "Hi," she greets simply, in a half-whisper. Never one to make a big deal of things, that Alison Blaire. And then he gets a sleepy smile, before she goes about trying to get those eyes to open properly.
Scott can't help but stare uncertainly at her. The second time in a week they've woken up together. Wouldn't be a big deal, 'cept Scott doesn't really do repeat offenses. Double-dipping is against the whole casual, one-time modus operatus. Not that Scott is quick to make this mole hill into a mountain, either. Especially not after she squirms, wriggles, and then shows signs of consciousness. Yeah, the whole sneaking out unnoticed plan quickly goes out the door when she murmurs a hello. And that soft smile of hers.. Damn, she should really stop being so cute. How to play this? Scott can't decide. He wishes he had some idea what happened in the hours before. How'd they meet? What'd they say? Was the sex good? Nothing. No helpful flashes of memory. But if he was blackout, there's a small chance she was too, right? So maybe she won't remember anything embarrassing. With a grunt, Scott puts on a shadow of a grin. It's not goofy, but it's there. "Too early," comes the complaint.
Alison has it easy, since she just chooses not to sweat any of it. Casual is just sort of a side effect of the whole free-spirit thing, so it's not troubling her that this is a case of double jeopardy, inasmuch as it occurs to her to think about it at all. Not thinking is really just the only way to go here. She makes a little face as he speaks up, bringing a hand to her temple, massaging her throbbing head with the heel of her hand as she nods in agreement. "What'd you go and wake up for anyway," she complains without any real complain. She lets out a slow breath and then drops her arm limply back down onto the bed. And now comes the slight puzzlement as she tries to remember how she wound up here, like this. Did she run into him at that party? That doesn't seem right.
"Bed too comfy," Scott answers, the logic painfully caveman-like. But that's all he can manage right now, simple fragments. Not even a very good argument for waking up so early. But when you're used to a ratty mattress on cinderblocks, this cloud-like thing with its high thread-count is sure to disturb the natural order of things. He's still disbelieving this entire thing. While she chooses to avoid too much thinking, Scott is far too prone to it. This just doesn't seem characteristic of him, to get caught up in another go with this chick from the Upper East Side. Unless the sex was way good. But Scott can't remember that either, so that convenient excuse is moot. Damn. After a beat, Scott shakes the whole lazying-in-bed thing up completely, pushing up onto an elbow with a pained groan. He shoots her a squinty-eyed look again. Then, with a toss, Scott rolls for his edge of the bed, getting out with a heavy thud. "Water," Scott explains.
Alison gives a little laugh at his logic, only to immediately regret it. "Ow," she whines, hand coming quickly up to the bridge of her nose. At least it's a short-lived pain amongst the steadier thrumming. But now that he's pointed out the comfortableness of the bed, she nestles down into it a little more, making a contented sound. She likes her comfy bed. It's so … comfy. And bed-like. But then Scott is getting up, and that forces her to open her eyes again, squinting at him curiously as he explains. With a sigh, she begins to work on getting herself sitting up, figuring she can at least do that much, if he's actually getting up. Still, it gives her some difficulty.
Scott doesn't give a look back, even as she suffers the 'ow'-worthy moment and then burrows deeper into the comfy bed-ness. By the time she's sitting up, he's managed to navigate the pretty straight-forward layout of her fancy-schmancy digs. Lumbering into the adjacent bathroom. A moment later, the faucet is given a twist, followed by the sound of running water. A soft splash, then another. A curious pop, the sound of a cabinet door shutting. A clink of glasses. Because, yes, she must keep cups nearby, right? For just this reason, hangovers. And too soon, Scott emerges again. He's dripping — must've splashed his face a few times, maybe even run the water back through his messy hair since it's now damp. But Scott comes bearing gifts. Or rather, a gift. Looks like a glass of water. Clumsily, Scott sits down on Alison's side of the bed — holding the cup out for her. "Here." And then, another gift. He opens the other palm, revealing a pair of Ibuprofen.
Alison is too busy getting herself sorted out with this oh-so-confusing and disorienting sitting up stuff that she doesn't really notice the noises from the bathroom. Then again, he can't be the first guy she brought home to pilfer drugs from the medicine cabinet. Which is why she keeps the good stuff in the sock drawer. She can't miss his triumphant return however. The water gets a smile, but it's the sight of those little pills that really catches her attention. "Oh my God, thank you," she gushes, very, very gratefully. She might not have thought of that so quickly on her own. "My hero," she notes a little more wryly, as she budges her legs over to make room, while reaching for the glass of water and pills. Mm, pills. She tosses 'em right down, like any old pro, and then chugs a few sips of that water to get rid of the cottony feeling in her mouth.
To Scott's credit, the delivery is dry and wholly disinterested — as if the favor was a burden, something that required too much from a sleepy, out-of-sorts man so early in the morning. It's anything but sweet, except in theory. But the bedraggled Scott is without the energy to quiet her enthused and grateful response. She does earn a flash'd scowl when she teases so — but she's sure to miss it, what with that preoccupation with the pills and the water. In any event, it takes too much effort to frown. And frowning hurts, when you're still waiting for the painkillers to kick in. So the frown melts away, replaced by that mask of exhaustion and lingering confusion. None of this makes any sense, still. He offers Alison a blankly bored look. Least she's pretty. "Of all the gin joints, huhn?"
Yeah, he can try to be a jerk about it, but Alison is simply too grateful to have relief in her near future to pick up on those dick warning signs. She's running on fumes this morning too, but there's still the force of nature behind her tired smile. There's a pause as he makes that comment, and then, "Hey, you got it." But that was a meeting or two before this, wasn't it? She tries to remember when it was he was supposed to get that Casablanca reference done. Ugh, thinking gives you wrinkles, so she just shrugs it off with a little smirk, taking another sip of water. Then, somewhat unsteadily, she leans over to set it down on the nightstand, only to have some trouble getting straightened back up. It's a little clumsy, but mostly just bad positioning that has her unable to get her arm out from under herself to push back up.
Sure was a while ago. But seeing as that's the only encounter that's coming to mind with some deep thought, Scott found it appropriate. Undoubtedly, whatever the two of them were up to on New Year's, there was booze involved then, too. So maybe they bumped into each other at some other bar? He vaguely remembers Seven & Grand, then McKinnion's. Then another. Yeah, would make sense — probably bumped into Alison along the way, remote as those odds are. Crazy. But Scott's disconnected thoughts are shelved, when Alison experiences such trouble with the whole water cup thing. Instinct kicks in, and Scott reflexively leans over, bracing Alison's side with an open palm and guiding her upright. So leaned, Scott finds himself rather close. Close enough to give Scott pause — and promptly cave into another instinct. Stealing a kiss. This one's not so whiskey-breath, though, given the chance to rinse his mouth out already. And when Scott does pull away, there's another awkward beat wherein he remains close. ".. I owe you eggs." And he stands.
And all Alison can do is laugh at herself, which hurts her head, which only makes her laugh a little more. Thank God Scott is there to save her from herself and get her upright. Of course, she's yet to fully catch on to the fact that he's supposed to be a jerk, so he just gets a grin of gratitude as their conjoined efforts fix her predicament. Her hand comes up to rest on his chest as he's leaned in so close, and there's no fighting off that kiss. She just closes her eyes and goes with it. Her eyes flutter back open and she's just giving him a thoughtful look when he remembers the eggs and stands up, leaving her a little bemused, with her hand still up in the air. "Oh yeah. Right," she replies, a little belatedly. "Don't want them racking up interest."
The eggs are another excuse, something to break the moment back there. With her being all casually affectionate and sweet, easy-going. It bothers Scott for some reason. Probably because it makes it damn near impossible to stay dour. And she's distracting, when you stop to think about it. There are mutants out there being persecuted, human bigots throwing bricks through windows and spraying "FREAK" on front doors. He should be back out there, breaking up hate cells. But with her, Scott just wants to stay. "Yeah," Scott only answers, troubled by these thoughts. So much that, when turned away, there's another frown — no matter the migraine pain that accompanies it. He's still naked, mind you, as he disappears out of the bedroom without so much as a witty remark. Maybe cooking'll clear his head.
Alison has a bit more trouble keeping up with these swings in his mood this morning. "It was a joke. But hey, if you want to rack up interest…" But she simply trails off, enough of a performer to sense when she's losing the room. Utterly determined not to let it bother her, she swings her legs round to stand up herself, at least bothering to grab a robe as she passes by. Though it's a rather short and sheer thing, so it's more fashion than modesty here. There's no hurrying on her part as she meanders her way downstairs, leaving him to find his way around - but the open concept likely helps with that.
He makes due. Leaving her in momentary jumbles was unintended — but she seems to forgive and forget the inadvertant cold shoulder routine. By the clank of pots and pans, as well as the muted swears that follow, it's obvious Scott figured out the not-so-labyrinthine design of the place. In the kitchen, everything seems to be in order. A pan, a ring of measuring spoons, a pint of milk, a stick of butter, and a cartoon of eggs. All there. And if she does peek in, she's sure to find Scott's found a robe of his own. Well, it's more specifically an apron. And at that, a rather feminine one. Floral-print, lacy hem, wide pink bow wrapped 'round the middle. But it will have to do. After all, Scott can't run the risk of flying grease from the open pan. Could damage those unmentionables. All in all, it's not bothering Scott so much. And the preparations seem to be working their magic, relaxing Scott's prickliness. Such a calming influence.
Alison just follows the racket, rather than her nose. One small blessing in all this is that noises don't bother her, so the rattling and swearing aren't setting off that delicate headache. She makes her way down the winding stair, observing through the turns what she can see of the kitchen. "I didn't know I even owned an apron. Or… let me guess. You brought it from home?" It's just light teasing - she thinks the frilly look works for him, really. But she's trying a little harder now to get that light-heated spirit back. No sense being too serious about anything.
Lucky for her. Scott, of course, suffers every clank — but then again, they're his own doing. So there's no one to blame but himself. But by the time she does wander in, Scott's over that cranky, clanky start. He's managed to settle into the groove. Which is further fortunate for Alison, since her teasing goes over much better this time. It's met with a grin, one of those rare sights sober. He's whipping the eggs and milk together in a bowl. Quite expertly, too. Novices often whip the whisk in a clockwise fashion. Scott knows better, whipping down into the eggs at an angle. "I get the sense you don't cook much," Scott returns, giving the color of the eggs a criticial eye. He waves the sleepy Alison over, beckoning her to witness the process close-up. "Looking for an even, uniform color. Frothy texture. Makes the softest scrambled eggs."
"Yeah, it's more 'burning' than 'cooking', so … take out," Alison replies with a shrug, flipping on the sound system as she passes. It's impressive, even for rich digs like this, with speakers wired throughout the whole apartment, so that the space is filled with sound without it being at all loud. Lady Ella, if he knows his jazz. She trails along into the kitchen, sidling up to the counter as she's beckoned over. It's hard to say how much she's actually absorbing of this lesson, but she does give a sage nod as he explains. "Well, soft is good. I approve of this." She watches the whisking for a moment, before turning to hop up onto the counter beside the workspace. It makes things a little crowded there maybe, but hey, let him complain. "I take it you do cook, uh, much."
Fitzgerald isn't something Scott immediately recognizes, no. Music's not his thing. Which might be a point of contention, if Scott ever got around to finding out just who Alison is, and what she does. But who knows if that'll ever happen, right? Though the digs are raising a few eyebrows. Way swanky. And there's an unavoidable music-theme to the decor. But if Scott is curious, it doesn't come to the surface now. He doesn't really suspect Alison will take much of the egg talk to heart — but it was a good, subtle way of bringing her back into proximity. It's even cute when she takes the counter, though it does earn her one of those 'looks' from Scott. "Not much," Scott argues, with a shrug. Something akin to modesty or just downright evasiveness. He abandons the whisk, passing Alison to dig through the fridge again. Cheese. All good eggs need cheese. He doesn't look up from the hunt, all the better to make the question more casual: "How's the headache?"
And Alison isn't really rushing to fill him in on her identity either, though that could just be that it hasn't occurred to her yet. Obviously bringing him back here, if there was any thought behind it at all (doubtful), would suggest she doesn't really care if he puts two and two together. At his look, she simply grins, slightly apologetic for being in the way, but only slightly. Not enough to get her to move away, anyway. "Okay, but let's grade on a curve here," she suggests, weighing her 'never' to his 'not much'. She sits back a bit more as he moves on to the fridge. "Still there, but … clearing up a bit, I think." Nothing she's not used to either. "Yours?"
"Manageable," Scott concedes. He too is all too close friends with hangovers. So it's nothing to complain about. And the throbbing temples pale in comparison to some of Scott's past migraines, often provoked by the volatile nature of his hush-hush powers. Morning after headache? Yeah, totally manageable. He finds a chunk of cheddar, somewhat bemused by just how well-stocked her kitchen is, for being so infrequently used. The frivolous luxuries of wealth, Scott supposes. Someone's probably on the payroll to keep fresh food available. Y'know, should she ever not be lazy. He returns to the eggs, depositing the cheese before picking up a measuring cup and the milk carton — and shoving them towards Alison. "Make yourself useful, babe. Six tablespoons."
"Good," Alison replies with a nod, as he deems his headache manageable. Better than the alternative, though she also doesn't know he's grading his headache on a curve as well. The kitchen? Well, it's no good looking like some poor bachelor lives here, with just a jar of mustard and some beer in the fridge. Maybe she'll find the incentive to cook. Or bring home someone who can. Apparently these things happen. She takes the carton and measuring device as they're thrust towards her, eyeing them with bemusement and wariness. "You realize getting me involved is just a recipe for disaster, right?" she laughs lightly, still flinching a bit as it echoes inside her head. Still, she sets herself to getting the right amount of milk, giving it a ridiculous amount of care. There's lip-biting and everything, as she tries to figure out which little notch is which.
Scott moves on. He doesn't babysit or coddle Alison's crack at the measuring. What good would that do, after all? But over by the stove, she does merit another glance. She seems to be figuring it out, just fine. Smart girl. "Yeah, well. You could stand a lesson in domestication," Scott says, the humour dry. So says the dude standing bare-ass naked in a frilly apron. The irony doesn't escape him. But it doesn't slow him down, either. Heating up a pan on the open stovetop, reaching past Alison for the butter. Need to melt a slab or two as the pan warms up so the eggs don't stick. He gestures to the beaten eggs, distracted. "Pour the milk in." Another small sign of faith, not doublechecking to make sure she did, indeed, figure out which notch was witch. Because then Scott's back, picking up the whisk. C'mon, dump the milk in.
And the idea of learning domestication gets a snort from Alison, followed by another quiet, "Ow," as that hurts her head. "Good luck with that," she informs him wryly, once the sharp shot of pain subsides. Okay, milk is more or less ready. She overshot the mark a bit, but quickly figures out how to solve that one - by taking a sip of the allotted milk until it's back down to the line. Still a little skeptical about her own skills, she leans over and lets the cup hang there a moment before upending it all in one go. No sense pussyfooting around, is there. If she's wrong, she might as well be really wrong.
She's certainly got flair, doesn't she? That's one way to get down to the right amount of milk, drinking straight from the cup. Just one more endearing quality that Scott forces himself to overlook or ignore. Just make the eggs, maybe get a quick blowjob, and get out. That's Scott's genius plan for the morning. Can't be squatting in the Upper East Side all damn day. Got things to do. When she does tip the milk into the bowl, Scott's there to begin folding the milk in — again looking for that even colour distribution. Whisk whisk whisk. He shoots Alison a wry grin. "See. I'll have you baking pies and washing dishes in no time," Scott teases.
Alison, of course, remains oblivious to all these thoughts of Scott's, which is probably just as well. Since he doesn't jump into save the eggs from her milking, she assumes she's managed to do that okay, and looks actually a little bit pleased with herself. Hey, you have to start small. And probably also finish small, if the look Scott earns for his teasing is any indication. "You want to place a bet on that?" she replies with a smirk, leaning back until she rests up against the top-mounted cupboards. "I bet I could have you making me breakfast every day for a month." An innocuous comment, it's intended, just that he would owe her so much once that bet fell through.
Yeah, Alison makes a strong point. All jokes aside, Scott really couldn't imagine her playing the role of Beaver Cleaver's mom. Just not the kind of blonde you can tame, or something. But that doesn't make the kidding any less of a casual amusement. "Those are some high stakes," Scott acknowledges, meaning a month's worth of breakfast-making should she win this hypothetical wager. The whisking is making great progress, which prompts Scott to duck over to the stove again. The eggs are poured in, the whisk swapped for a soft spatula. Now things'll speed right up, with the prep work finished. "But I think you're just trying to tell me how much you want me here, every day now. Crushing hard already, huhn?"
"The game's only fun if it's got high stakes," Alison replies with a grin and a shrug. What's the point of playing otherwise? She crosses her legs at the knee once he moves off to the stove, leaving her alone and lonely over here on the counter. "Yeah, either I can't imagine my life without you, or I just really hate having to go out for breakfast," she deadpans, lolling her head sideways to look at him without lifting it away from the cupboards. "Though you do fill that apron out a little more nicely than Suzette."
"I like to believe it's the first one." And she'll just have to wallow in that loneliness, way over there. Scott's busy. He allows the eggs to set for a moment, before testing their edges. When they begin to thicken, that spatula is put to good use — pushing the eggs always towards the center, 'till they start to fold and crumble into fluffy chunks. It happens rather quickly. And as they're getting close, Scott mixes in the cheese. Which was grated or crumbled somewhere along the line, minutes ago. Shh. "And you think? I'm beginning to regret the decision. My ass is freezing." Look, eggs! And they're fluffy and mildly cheesy, too. Satisfied, Scott's already dishing them out onto a waiting plate. It's more than enough for even a hungry Alison. But no sense in doing too many dishes. They can share. He reaches for the salt and pepper, adding the finishing touches.
"And I like to believe in unicorns and fairies," Alison replies lightly. Because the chances of those being real are probably about the same, is the insinuation, of course. She sits back up then, head tilted to one side as she rather deliberately leans forward to check out his ass in all its naked glory. "Looks fine to me," she notes, straightening back up with a grin. She watches him dish out the eggs, seeming at least mildly impressed with how quickly and easy he tackled that one. Not that scrambled eggs are a particularly mean feat, but then, not that she's all that hard to impress in this respect.
No no, quite easy really. But it's the thought, right? And they were owed. So just whipping 'em up is saying something about kept promises. Besides, after a bender of NYE's strength, there's nothing better early in the morning than some simple comfort food. Nothing crazy about these eggs, really. No secret ingredients, just eggs. The stove off, Scott comes around with the breakfast, stopping square in front of the counter-perched Alison. The plate is delivered into her care, though Scott's not in a hurry to get out of the way if she had any designs on eating elsewhere. There's a grin again, that predictable male ego given its due with the ass comment. "Oh c'mon, babe. What if I'd hidden a ring in your eggs?" Now that would be crazy. But then, that's the joke. "I want a small wedding. What about you?"
Alison doesn't really seem to mind being trapped on the counter. Because, look, there's eggs. She does have to move her leg slightly so that she can edge open the drawer behind her knee. "Forks are in there," she informs him, since he's being all in her way. Leaning forward might just lead to bonked heads, and that isn't going to help anyone's headache here. An eyebrow arches as he starts this wedding talk, but if he thinks he's going to scare her that easy. "Elopement. Quick, easy. No muss, no fuss. Hop a flight to Vegas and we could be back by dinner. Which I guess you'll also be cooking?" Oh yeah, in this tale, he's the housewife.
Well, she does bring in the dough, doesn't she? So in the traditional sense, Scott sure does cut a more wifely portrait. Not that Scott would readily accept such a reality. But it's not exactly on the table, more implied — so Scott can happily pretend it isn't so. His eyes dance to the drawer in question, brow perked. She wants him to get the forks, after doing all the hard work? Well, he is closer. Digging into the drawer, Scott emerges with the requisite cutlery. "It's a four flight to Vegas. Half hour to an hour for the ceremony. Four hours back — yeah, we'd be back by seven-ish. I'd need another hour to put something together, but.." He adds a shrug, burrying both forks into the mound of warm, melty eggs. "Yeah. Could be done."
At least she's gracious enough to murmur a, "Thank you," as he does as he's told and fetches those forks. Alison makes a thoughtful look as she takes one of the forks, spearing it into the eggs as she considers that. "Yeah, we could eat late. Very European." Which isn't all that exotic to her, after all. She's still pretending to muse on this as she takes the first mouthful, but is distracted at the yumminess. She's not quite sure when was the last time she ate, come to think. "These are really good," she notes, unable to keep the utter surprise from her tone. Scruffy greasemonkeys shouldn't be so good at cooking.
And scruffy greasemonkeys are often just as hungry as snobby celebutantes. Okay, well she's not much of a snob. But Scott is hungry. He, too, digs a fork in — forcing Alison to bear the applied force to the plate. She's responsible for keeping that plate with its precious yumminess balanced, of course. Only fair. "Did you expect anything else from your hubby-to-be?" Evidently, she did, if that surprise is any indication. But Scott thinks nothing of it, not really. He chomps into the eggs, personally gauging their worth. Hm, not bad. "Could've used a bit less milk," Scott muses, the intention playful even if the delivery is pretty straight-faced.
Alison has to readjust her grip on the plate, supporting it with a flat palm underneath instead of gripping it by the edge. It's a little hot, but not too bad, and this way she seems relatively secure in not dropping the yumminess as he tucks in. She just cants her head to the side, almost like shrugging without actually raising her shoulder. Who knows what she expected from hubby-to-be. Then as he insults her milk-adding abilities, he gets nudge in the leg by a cold foot. "Not my fault you didn't put in enough eggs and everything else." Yes, the milk was perfect. It's everything else that was mis-measured. Of course, she can't quite match the straight-face delivery, so she just buries her grin into another mouthful of eggs.
He greets the nudge with resistance, not so easily toppled by cold toes. It's another healthy helping of eggs Scott, too, secures before bothering to answer. Munch, munch. "Oh right, it's totally my fault. Just enough milk, not enough eggs. I'll get it right next time I'm sweating over the stove," Scott drawls, all mock-earnest. Her grin is quite inexplicably matched, something Scott doesn't seem to notice. And tricky ol' impulse drives Scott to one of those accidental, sweet gestures — reaching up again to brush past her cheek, pushing blonde curls away. Dammit, despite their sick humour, sometimes they really do dance too close to newlywed behavior. Which Scott seems to notice. So in a predictable turn of events, Scott muddies the warm moment. "Okay. Hurry up and eat. Gotta be at work in an hour — and you're giving me morning wood."
"See that you do," Alison replies with what's meant to be an imperious nod. But for all her princess upbringing, she still isn't very good at being queenly. But at least she doesn't freak out at every sign of fondness or familiarity, which is why the little gesture is just met with a smile, another tilt of her head. She seems about to say something when he ruins the mood so effectively and efficiently. "Why do I have to hurry up? I don't have work in an hour," she points out, trying to keep things light, keep them from going down that more dour path he seems to prefer. Still, she takes another bite of the eggs, helping to work on polishing them off.
Scott shouldn't have opened that can of worms. Should've just made for the speedy exit off stage right. But then, maybe beneath the brutish premise, there's a buried desire to prolong this stay. And if that means trying to weasel in a quickie, well. So Scott does push the boundaries, testing Alison's hospitality and patience. He aborts the breakfast, a somewhat selfish gesture after all that work, tugging the plate away from Alison to slide it along the counter with a ringing sound. He scoots closer, finding Alison's hips through that fashionable robe of hers. "C'mon, babe. I'll try not to take long," Scott presses. It's really a ridiculous thing, coming onto a girl when you're wearing only an apron. But.
"Hey," Alison protests without real ire, as she finds the plate being tugged away. Her fork still remains in hand, the eggs she'd been chasing now dangling from the end. Well, no sense letting those go to waste, so she quickly finishes them off before tossing her fork rather carelessly off after the plate. Looking back to him, she considers for half a second, which is really quite a lot for her. "Well…" She rolls her eyes - at him, but mostly at herself. "Not too quick. I'm not the one who's in a hurry here."
It both is and isn't a longshot, making a go at Alison before running off to 'work'. But with her obvious penchant for self-destruction, it's sure to win out over the usual instinct to just say 'fuck you', right? Deep down, Scott's relieved. Taking things down this route is far safer, far more familiar than the path they were tripping so lightly over, moments ago. Yeah, ground things in sex. Then get out this time, instead of lingering. That's the plan. But first, the sex. And with Alison's acquiescence, there comes another grin. Hah. "Thought you might agree.." Putting that damn body to work for once, Scott pulls Alison off the counter — intent on being the Neanderthal, and carrying the blonde right back to bed. Or maybe, the nearest sofa. Apron and all.
