Good Morning!

[Tabby Whitman-Foster]

Timeframe: Morning
Date: March 7th, Week One
Place: Foster's Apartment in Trenton, NJ
Status: Closed to Foster

Sunlight nudged its way through the newly hung curtains in Foster’s room and advanced to the bed. The sheets were rumpled but surprisingly untangled. Articles of clothing either fell quite close to the bed or were clinging to the side of the mattress, and upon that bed lay Tabby Whitman and Xavier Foster. The sunlight prodded Tabby in the eyes, gently, and she winced, turning her head from the invasive light. Her red hair was a rumpled mess, and the mascara she had put on before leaving the Bureau had become smoky and smeared in sleep. From the simple prod of the sun’s rays, Tabby gained enough consciousness to realize, This is not my bed…

Her eyes opened and focused upon the sleeping face of Foster beside her, and suddenly she remembered exactly why she was not in her bed. The memories of going to the tavern with Foster the night before and then their return to his newly moved-in apartment came rushing back to Tabby as she looked upon his sleeping form. She almost giggled, but she clapped a hand to her mouth and simply smiled. Oh good Lord, she never did this, but there was something about Xavier Clyde Foster (why did she know his middle name? She couldn’t remember the reason) that obviously made him an exception. She removed her fingers, a smile still upon her lips. Did he have work? The alarm didn’t go off… Well, if he could hang out a little longer…

Tabby slipped from bed as subtly as possible (she almost woke him up when her foot hooked on the sheet and she almost tripped, which would have ended in a nice face-plant) and she plucked through the articles of clothing. Ok, she did not feel like wearing her sweater and jeans first thing in the morning – aha! His shirt. She pulled it over her head, snatched her phone from her jeans, and continued into the living room. The red-headed tech chick was greeted with a mewl from one of his cats, and she scratched the kitty’s head before weaving around boxes and continuing into the kitchen. What could she make for breakfast that was delicious and hard to burn? Hmm… There were German Pancakes, but she didn’t have the recipe. What time was it? Her mom should be up.

“Good morning Mommy!” Tabby sang quietly into her cell phone once her mother answered. “Can you tell me what I need to make German pancakes?” She had found a pen and a paper towel and she was ready to write down what was needed.

“I thought they fed you at your job.” Mrs. Whitman replied, her voice curious.

Tabby didn’t necessarily feel like telling her mother where she was (oh, the crap she would receive not only from her mom, but her dad and older brothers if they found out…), and she simply said, “Yeah, but they’re not awesome like you and know how to make German pancakes.”

“Well…” Tabby could tell her mother was flattered. “This is just for a serving of three, but I’m sure they can adapt it…” Tabby’s pen worked quickly as her mother listed the ingredients, the temperature the oven needed to be at, and how long to bake the German pancakes. “And, of course, you need to put powdered sugar on after the syrup, Tabitha. I usually use a pizza cutter to cut them into slices.”

“Pizza cutter… What if I can’t find a thirteen-by-nine pan?” Tabby queried, looking at the boxes in the kitchen.

“You can just cook it in any – Wait. Tabitha, where are you?” Mrs. Whitman queried.

Tabby twisted her lips and her eyes widened in alarm. “Uh-oh, Mom, my battery is going dead!”

“No it isn’t, you didn’t cut out.” Mrs. Whitman replied. “Why would you be cooking this if you’re at work?”

“I mean… I have call waiting!”

“Tabitha Whitman, where are you?” Mrs. Whitman demanded.

“Love you, Mom, bye!” Tabby trilled before snapping her phone shut and immediately turning it off. That was the promise of one awkward conversation in the future… She turned to her paper towel. “Three eggs…” She opened the fridge and found that one of the few things in there was indeed eggs. “Sweet. Milk, butter, flour, vanilla…”

Half an hour later, Tabby pulled a glass pan from the oven with a dish towel and set it on the stovetop. The German pancake had curled up over the side of the pan and the fragrant aroma of something baked with vanilla filled the kitchen. “Awesome, awesome.” Tabby said to herself. She pulled two plates from the dish rack by the sink and a knife from it as well. She cut the German pancake long-ways so that it made two long strips. The butter was waiting, and she put one of the pieces on the plate, buttering it up as she piled it tall on itself. The techie did the same with the other strip of pancake, and then she took the bottle of syrup and drizzled a good amount of the sweet liquid on both pancakes and then dusted them with some powdered sugar she found in a canister (this was after tasting the flour and immediately spitting it out. Foster should really label his spices and… stuff).

Tabby put the plates on a cookie sheet and placed a fork and knife on each plate. She finished by filling two glasses with water and then she wove her way back to Foster’s bedroom, narrowly missing tripping over one of his cats and dying. When she nudged through the door, she smiled at the man’s prone form before singing, “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey Foster!” With that, she flounced (carefully) onto the end of the man’s bed. “And by ‘eggs and bakey’ I mean I baked something with eggs in it.” She flipped her right hand palm up and showcased her work to the man with a wide smile.

[Dr. Xavier Foster]

Xavier sighed in his sleep, curling his head further in the crook his arm that he had tucked around him. He snuggled deeper into the coolness of his pillow and the normal frown that seemed to be permanently etched across his brow was relatively less. The one foot that peeked freely of the covers arched carefully, toes curling before sliding out of view as he drew it up. The movement of the other occupant of his bed was unfelt and unheard as he twisted in his sleep, moving to lay on his stomach sprawled out in a beached whale pose. The dull headache that pulsed along his temples did little to jar him from his deep sleep, there was really only one thing that would wake him up. Work! He sat up with a snort, sending Zelda skittering off the bed and disappearing through the open doorway. His vision blurred, Foster blinked once before closing his eyes and rubbed them. Oh wait, he thought. I have night shift. With that simple thought, the man smiled sleepily to himself and bonelessly flopped back onto his bed, the bed sheets tangled around his waist.

The filtered light through the curtains tugged at his eyelids, even when he turned his head stubbornly from it. It only reflected off the mirror on the far wall and beamed directly in his face. Xavier groaned, a pensive noise that was intent on laying down a philosophical debate on whether he could just get up and close the curtains better or stay put and burrow himself under his comforter. A hand unconsciously went searching, drifting along the sheet to find the thicker quilt and he was only met with more of his mattress and the hand finally gave up on the search and lazily scratched his head. He was wholly unaware of his bedraggled state, the carefully combed short hair stood on end as if yanked in different directions and morning stubble had dotted his skin in faint dark shades. Never mind the smear of mascara across his forehead.

He was perfectly content to lay there, even when Macbeth nudged his arm with a cold nose about being feed. But the feline was just as quick to leave, the door opening with a slight squeak. At the unfamiliar greeting of an unknown voice, Foster instinctively reached over to his alarm to hit it off and a mere heartbeat later realized, he hadn’t set it. The dip of the mattress at his feet and the distinct smell of something delicious forced the rest of his senses to awaken and his eyes snapped open. Xavier grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled it up to his chest, rumpling it in a tight grip as he bolted up, turning to face a striking redhead. There was a slight hesitance in his stance, the twinge of confusion mixed with spikes of heat in his stomach did bode well with a sleep induced brain.

“… Who are you?!” But even as he said it, the memories came flooding back and his eyes widened. “Oh, oh! We… oh! You, I… we?” The hand that was holding the sheet let go of the thin barrier and gestured inadequately, pointing back and forth between the two of them. “We didn’t… we did. How did, I mean, how old, no… what?” This was so unlike him, the night had felt like a wonderful blur. That tavern, the drinks, him laughing like a fool when he showed the younger woman a coin trick. And then the music, pulsing, pounding, pushing the two of them closer until he was certain he could see his reflection in her heavenly blue eyes.

Xavier scooted back from the woman, intent on putting a little space between them and when his hand hit open air, he could only go with the flow and tumbled backwards off the bed. Luckily, he hadn’t put the frame of his bed together and so the box spring and mattress sat on the floor and he fell all of the twelve inches onto the previously lost comforter, cushioning his fall. He landed with a soft plop, his legs skewed on the bed and only visible part of him.

There was a long pause and Foster drew an arm across his eyes, shielding them. Had he really just done – yes, yes he had. The man cleared his throat and asked in a genuinely amused tone, “Eggs you say?”

[Tabby Whitman-Foster]

Tabby had expected maybe a sleepy smile or a protestation of not wanting to get up. Lord knew that without the sun prodding her in the eyes she would have stayed asleep for who knew how long. However, the look of shock and perplexity she received was not only a surprise, but super hilarious in a weird way.

“… Who are you?!”

That was followed by several short rapid questions and maybe confirmations that left Tabby in some dismay. She didn't think they had drank that much and she certainly wasn't going to forget the events of the previous night soon -- even though it seemed he may or may not have...

"...I mean, how old, no… what?”

Tabby burst out laughing at this query, partly from the question and partly from noticing the smear of mascara on his forehead. How did that happen? "Dude, dude, dude... Dude calm down!" She laughed while at the same time balancing the cookie sheet on her knee so that the water wouldn't slosh over and get onto their German Pancakes or his sheets because of his erratic movement. It was good she had taken preparation, for he soon flopped off the bed, causing the entire piece of furniture to move. Tabby burst out laughing once more and set the tray on the nearby dresser, peering over the edge of the bed down at Foster.

“Eggs you say?”

"Yeah." She reached down, offering a hand, and if he took it she would hoist him back into the bed with a slight groan. "German Pancakes, to be precise. My dad calls 'em Baked Eggs, but they're totes German Pancakes, seriously." She grinned at him, wondering if it would be too familiar to kiss him on the cheek. Too familiar? God, Tabby, you're wearing his shirt and you baked in his kitchen! Instead, Tabby twisted around and grabbed a plate and glass, offering it to him. "Here."

As Tabby handed him the plate she thought, Ahh, screw it and she kissed him on the cheek before pulling away. Her eyes strayed back to the mascara marked and she raised a hand to rub at it with her thumb. "You've got a smudge there... Don't know how that happened." She said with a grin.