Working With Red

Pancakes and 'Huh?'

Updated: 2021.08.19 

One of the cringiest chapters I've written. I remember when I was so elated after 1K reads. I love you guys. 

(I'M AT 1K READS!!! LOVE ALL OF YOU READERS WHO MADE THIS POSSIBLE)

It was about eight-thirty in the morning when you made your way downstairs, pulling your hair up into a ponytail as you headed for the kitchen. After last night's encounter with your old acquaintance, Roy hadn't spoken to you. Even when you ran into him on your way to the bathroom this morning, he simply shot you a glare and continued on to his room. You tried not to put too much thought into it, but you had to admit it kind of bothered you. Had Robin's visit really left such a negative impression on him?

"What do I want for breakfast?" You muttered to yourself, digging through the cabinets. You scoffed as you discovered nothing but junk food; the cupboards were practically spilling over with chips, Fruit Roll-Ups, cookies, and--oddly enough--multiple jars of peanut butter. You looked around a little more and finally decided to make pancakes after finding some flour, salt, baking powder and sugar; you also found some eggs and milk in the fridge among the numerous bottles of soda and alcohol. You reached into the island and grabbed an electric griddle, setting it down on the counter and turning it on before looking for a plate to put the pancakes on, along with a mixing bowl.

After making sure you had all of the necessary ingredients, you dug around a bit more for syrup, but was shut down when you couldn't find any.

"All this sugar in the cabinets, but of course, they don't have any syrup," you breathed, sighing as you placed your hands on your hips. You turned to the fridge again, letting out a little victorious whoop when you found canned whipped cream sitting beside a half-empty bottle of maple syrup, and you immediately grabbed them and brought them over to the island before turning back to the ingredients. You then pulled your phone out of the pocket of your pajama shorts to search for a recipe.

"Three cups of flour, three teaspoons of baking powder, one teaspoon of salt, two tablespoons of sugar, two eggs, three cups of milk," you murmured aloud. You dumped the ingredients into the mixing bowl and darted around the kitchen, digging through the drawers for a mixing spoon.

"Why are you being so loud?"

You jumped and accidentally dropped the spoon, which hit the ground with a large clatter. You then huffed and looked up to glare at Roy, but not before your face began burning up at the mere sight of him. Incidentally, he came striding into the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers, his bright red hair all over the place as he scratched the back of his head.

"S-Sorry," you stuttered, bending down to snatch up the spoon as you turned back to the bowl. You picked it up off the floor and rinsed it off before mixing the ingredients, doing your best to focus on your task instead of staring at Roy's admittedly-great body. It became harder to do so, however, when he came right up behind you and leaned over your shoulder to look into the bowl.

Finally decided to acknowledge me, huh? You rolled your eyes.

"What are you making?" He asked, yawning. You scooted a little over to the left, turning your back to him again.

"Pancakes," you replied, mixing the ingredients until they had become a smooth batter. You then walked over to the griddle and reached into another drawer for a tablespoon.

"Do you have any cooking spray?" You asked over your shoulder. Roy just grunted, to which you rolled your eyes. "How about butter?" You heard him shuffle around behind you, accompanied by the sound of the fridge door opening, but neither prepared you for when he slammed the box of butter onto the counter beside you, causing you to involuntarily shriek. You sucked in a deep breath and scowled, ignoring Roy as you smeared the butter onto the griddle and used the tablespoon to pour the batter. It made a small sizzling noise as the batter expanded into lopsided circles, and you set the bowl down on the counter, wiping your hands off on your shorts.