little t&a

some little girl will pass on by

"Wake up, Gene. I made breakfast."

Rubbing his eyes, Gene still had to do a double take when he saw Paul. Back in a bathrobe, of course, although this time he at least had last night's shirt underneath it. The bathrobe was different, too—this one was white and only hung down to his knees instead of his ankles.

"Breakfast in bed? And here I thought the romantic schtick was you putting on."

"It is. Up."

Gene raised an eyebrow.

"Up?"

"It's in the kitchen. I'm not bringing it to you."

Gene laughed but followed Paul out of his bedroom.

He hadn't made a fancy spread out of it. Several pieces of toast, some with cheese, and some crusted with butter and cinnamon-sugar, scrambled eggs, and a carton of milk were all that greeted him, but it was still a lot more than Gene had expected out of Paul, who tended to only eat cereal, if anything, early in the morning.

"What's the occasion?" Gene managed before digging in. Paul shrugged.

"You're putting up with a lot right now."

"I didn't know you knew how to cook."

"Toast and eggs isn't really cooking, Gene." Another shrug. Paul frowned, and then untied the bathrobe and draped it across a chair, to Gene's surprise. And disappointment. Underneath, he was still wearing both the shirt and boxers from last night. "Me and Julia had to fix our own food growing up." He started to laugh, dryly. "Lots of T.V. dinners and frozen shit. It's probably why I was so fat as a kid."

"Didn't your mom—"

"My mom's a nurse. She was always working." Paul picked one of the pieces of cheese toast off the plate, tearing off the crust as he spoke. He hadn't sat down yet. "And my dad had his shop... he's still got his shop, you know."

"Still?"

"He said he didn't want me taking his living away from him. He thinks we'll go bust any day." Paul's mouth twisted, and he walked over to the trash can. "He was probably right."

"I'll eat the crusts," Gene said abruptly, when he realized Paul was about to toss them in. The wince that flashed across Paul's face was just enough for him to backtrack, though Paul did hand over the crusts. "We'll see the psychic today. We'll get this taken care of."

"Is that your way of telling me to get dressed?"

The dress Paul had said was in the washing machine was significantly shorter than the polka-dot number from yesterday.

"Absolutely."

–

"What'd you tell the psychic, anyway?" Paul asked, as he pushed his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose. He was driving again. They'd gotten an appointment for only an hour after breakfast. Just enough time for Paul to shower and for Gene to pull on his clothes from yesterday. Paul had halfheartedly offered his own clothes to Gene, but Gene, aware they wouldn't fit, had turned him down. If he kept having to spend nights at Paul's, he'd have to grab some of his own clothes from home and bring them back. He didn't think Paul could tolerate him in the same outfit for days on end.

"Oh, that I was Gene Simmons and my girlfriend thought I was cheating on her."

"Gene!"