rodrikstark's headcanons (part 5)

a. pugliese + breakfast

pug texts that he's on his way before your shower has even made its way past freezing cold to regular cold. you tell him you're getting ready, and that someone will buzz him in.

you're standing in front of your dresser when his heavy footsteps finally creak onto your floorboards, his low voice warming the thin walls of your apartment. you smile.

your relationship is new enough that he stays in the living room, making polite conversation with your roommates while you sift through your outfit choices. of course, if you were alone, he knows he could just round the corner, second door on the right, and find you: half-naked, still shivery from your shower, and embarrassingly happy to see him.

after about fifteen minutes, though, you emerge from your bedroom in a light jacket, about to ask pug whether it's appropriate for the weather, but you're met with a soft, steady snoring.

it takes some effort to straddle his lap without jostling him—he's curled up slightly, too tall for your secondhand couch. but, once you're in position, you drop onto his stomach.

"what time did your shift end last night?" you ask pointedly, over the sound of his surprised groan.

he folds an arm over his eyes. "didn't get home 'til 5:30."

that's less than five hours, you figure, to eat and shower and sleep. so you soften a little. "and you still agreed to get brunch with me?"

pug chuckles when you lean forward, nosing at his jaw. "yeah, 'cause..." he yawns.

because it's that new breakfast place. walking distance from campus, the restaurant's only open for a few hours, a few days a week. line out the door every saturday morning. you've been hyping it up, asking him to go.

but you're half-convinced he fell asleep again. "because?"

he sighs. "wanted to see you before you left for spring break."

you smile down at him. maybe there are sweeter things in life than a hearty american breakfast.

so you'll let pug sleep a few more hours, he's earned it. and he'll wake up to the smell of food, something conjured from whatever's left in your pantry.

still—he did promise to take you someday. so you hold your ground, just a second longer. "but your eyes aren't even open."

"sorry." he blinks at you now. "hi."

"hi."

"you smell good."

as you fumble to your feet, ready to drag him to bedroom, you poke at him. "your ass is mine, pugliese." a warning he should take seriously, but the way he draws you back onto his lap says otherwise. "you owe me, big time."

he laughs, so you smack a kiss to his lips. "i'm talking pancakes." a second kiss, just as adamant. "fresh strawberries."

and with his thumb finding the soft skin behind your ear, you're a bit gentler this time. "powdered sugar."

he tucks into your neck, blocking out the morning light, and he nods.