katiefoolery

My first ficlet in a very long time! And my first ficlet for the new comm, too. The good Gill (

crazedturkey) kindly volunteered to post the first word so I could write a ficlet. And she even more kindly emailed the word to me, as I can’t get to LJ while at work. Thank-you muchly!

Extra bonus points (or an icon, whichever you prefer) for anyone who can guess the word here. I honestly believe it’s impossible to guess. I know I’ve said that twice before and been proven wrong... but I mean it this time. In fact, I can’t even work out how this story came from the prompt word in question.

Title: Strange
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG (language)
Word count: 424 words
Prompt word: garble

Strange, how my mind stops working properly when he touches me like this. How the world seems to vanish and everything contracts to here and now and him. How can a simple touch be responsible for losing the ability to think clearly?

Or to remember that there’s still a pot on the stove?

“Oh, shit!” I yell, leaping up from the couch and my comfortable seat on his lap.

Strange, how I can go from shyly wondering if I should kiss him to just desperately wanting to switch the smoke alarm off.

Wasn’t there a broom in this cupboard? I’m sure there was a broom in this cupboard. It was just the right length for jabbing at the stupid smoke alarm and I know I always kept it here. All I can find now are towels. Who the hell switched the broom cupboard for a towel cupboard without telling me?

I can hear him laughing, still on the couch. It’s that low laugh I love; the one that usually fills me with warmth and sometimes makes my skin shiver with delight.

Strange, how I can go from thinking of something so pleasant to simply wondering why the hell he isn’t helping.

“The kitchen’s that way,” I snap. You want to turn the stove off before the house burns down? Or is that too much to ask?

I hear him moving towards the kitchen, stifled laughter following him as he goes. It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. Dinner’s ruined; I’m going insane from having to listen to this stupid smoke alarm; and now my perfect-length broom has vanished from the face of the earth.

“Relax.” He’s right behind me, his breath on the back on my neck, followed quickly by a kiss.

“I'll relax when this is sorted out.”

Strange, how I tried to sound really stern and serious there but my words came out as breathy and distracted instead.

“Found a broom in the kitchen,” he says, holding it in front of me like it’s some sort of trophy. He jabs it upwards and finally silences the smoke alarm.

I mutter my thanks, feeling foolish. Why do I turn into a jerk over the smallest things?

“Is... is dinner OK?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

He places his right hand on his left shoulder with a solemn look to his face. “Rest in peace, little dinner,” he says. “We will honour your sacrifice by ordering pizza.”

Strange, how I can go from the depths of despair to smiling helplessly.

Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D