Original -- The One Where Maion Makes Pie
Title: The One Where Maion Makes Pie
Rating: G
Word Count: 359
Warnings: some slightly dumb discussion of gender roles
Prompt: apple at pulped_fictions
Summary: See title.
Author's Note: Holy crap, dude, today I have mastered the art of the title. Also, if this smells a bit slashy, you are obviously experiencing olfactory hallucinations and should see a medical professional immediately. Also-also, \o/ to the maiden voyage of the "[year] 2012" tag!
THE ONE WHERE MAION MAKES PIE
The door of Vincent’s study bangs unceremoniously open.
“I baked you a pie!” Maion says.
Vincent is drowning in numbers that will not make sense no matter how many different ways he plans Michaelson’s death in his head, so the distraction is somewhat welcome. “Why on Earth would you do something like that?”
“Because there were apples in the kitchen,” Maion says, as if it was the fruit’s idea. “And because Edward said that you were up all day yesterday, cursing people or kicking things or sometimes both at once.”
“I am staunchly unapologetic about my talent for multitasking,” Vincent says. He looks Maion up and down, considering the red-and-white-checked apron and the smudge of flour on the angel’s cheek. “You look like a housewife from the fifties.”
“Which fifties?” Maion says.
“The ones I spent avoiding you,” Vincent says. “Did Edward also care to mention that this is unequivocal proof that you’re the proverbial girl in our relationship?”
Maion’s exquisite turquoise eyes fly open wide at that. “I beg your pardon? I’m not a girl, proverbial or otherwise. I mean, technically, I’m not really anything, or at least not anything classifiable, but I generally-and currently-prefer to take human form as a male. And I know that look, and I’m not having the celestial gender identity debate with you again. Ever.”
“I thought the pie was for me,” Vincent says, since the affronted angel is still standing in the doorway.
“I changed my mind,” Maion says, “and you can’t have any.” He holds out for a long moment of frowning, and then he gives in. “…except for one slice.”
Vincent blinks, and there’s a still-warm slice of pie on a plate beside his laptop. Maion is crouched down on the other side of his desk, peeking over to assess his reaction; just the inquisitive eyes, the too-golden hair, and the fidgeting hands show over the desktop.
Vincent cuts himself a bite and chews contemplatively.
“How is it?” Maion gasp-asks.
Vincent swallows and raises an eyebrow. “How do you think?” he says. “It’s heavenly.”
Maion looks so tickled that it’s worth it.
Rating: G
Word Count: 359
Warnings: some slightly dumb discussion of gender roles
Prompt: apple at pulped_fictions
Summary: See title.
Author's Note: Holy crap, dude, today I have mastered the art of the title. Also, if this smells a bit slashy, you are obviously experiencing olfactory hallucinations and should see a medical professional immediately. Also-also, \o/ to the maiden voyage of the "[year] 2012" tag!
THE ONE WHERE MAION MAKES PIE
The door of Vincent’s study bangs unceremoniously open.
“I baked you a pie!” Maion says.
Vincent is drowning in numbers that will not make sense no matter how many different ways he plans Michaelson’s death in his head, so the distraction is somewhat welcome. “Why on Earth would you do something like that?”
“Because there were apples in the kitchen,” Maion says, as if it was the fruit’s idea. “And because Edward said that you were up all day yesterday, cursing people or kicking things or sometimes both at once.”
“I am staunchly unapologetic about my talent for multitasking,” Vincent says. He looks Maion up and down, considering the red-and-white-checked apron and the smudge of flour on the angel’s cheek. “You look like a housewife from the fifties.”
“Which fifties?” Maion says.
“The ones I spent avoiding you,” Vincent says. “Did Edward also care to mention that this is unequivocal proof that you’re the proverbial girl in our relationship?”
Maion’s exquisite turquoise eyes fly open wide at that. “I beg your pardon? I’m not a girl, proverbial or otherwise. I mean, technically, I’m not really anything, or at least not anything classifiable, but I generally-and currently-prefer to take human form as a male. And I know that look, and I’m not having the celestial gender identity debate with you again. Ever.”
“I thought the pie was for me,” Vincent says, since the affronted angel is still standing in the doorway.
“I changed my mind,” Maion says, “and you can’t have any.” He holds out for a long moment of frowning, and then he gives in. “…except for one slice.”
Vincent blinks, and there’s a still-warm slice of pie on a plate beside his laptop. Maion is crouched down on the other side of his desk, peeking over to assess his reaction; just the inquisitive eyes, the too-golden hair, and the fidgeting hands show over the desktop.
Vincent cuts himself a bite and chews contemplatively.
“How is it?” Maion gasp-asks.
Vincent swallows and raises an eyebrow. “How do you think?” he says. “It’s heavenly.”
Maion looks so tickled that it’s worth it.