Clean Slate » a.i. au

Three

        Turning from the stove to the sink on the kitchen island, I almost jump out of my skin as I see Ashton sitting in the couch; I swear he was still snoring half a minute ago. His hair is all over the place, his eyes half lidded, and his brows furrowed as he looks across the room at the open concept kitchen. The fact that I know he's looking at me is making me a little nervous.

        I decide to acknowledge his presence, since I'm pretty sure he isn't in the business of doing that for me. "Hi," I stammer slightly, leaning over the island to get a better look at him. He's still frowning like a child, and wiping the corner of his mouth. "Good morning, Ashton."

        My second attempt to talk to him seems to work, as he blinks and sits up straighter in the beige cotton sofa. "Morning, Lucia."

        I purse my lips at the sound of my full name coming from his mouth, my forced smile fading; I don't think he's ever called me Lucia in a serious manner, even when he was angry or upset with me, I've always been just Lucy. This should be a good thing though, the first few days after I've woken up he didn't say my name in any shape or form.

        "Are you cooking?" He asks hoarsely, putting an end to my slightly depressing thoughts.

        "Hm? Oh, yeah," I lean off of the island, looking down awkwardly. "You know, since... since I learned how to use a laptop in the hospital, I wanted to use it for something useful, so... I looked up how to make pancakes."

        I glance at my computer on the other side of the counter, which I've actually turned on and searched for recipes and help with kitchen appliances on, just in case Ashton decides to go all detective on me and see if that's really what I've been doing. This is not something I'm going to like reminiscing about.

        "Pancakes?" He repeats, stumbling a little as he stands up from the couch, his feet getting tangled in the quilt. The weird grimace remains on his face as he walks to a stool at the counter, his hand behind his back and, well, I'm pretty sure he's scratching his ass over his gym shorts.

        "I don't think you've made pancakes all year this year," He mumbles, pulling at his grey tanktop as he sits on the stool opposite of me. Well, isn't this a great time to bring that up.

        "Yeah, well... I told you I'd cook for you when my leg gets better," I offer him a smile; my leg actually hasn't gotten better, I've just become more accustomed to using the crutches around the apartment. "And... that's what I'm doing."

        Ashton sniffles and then nods, probably not hearing half of what I've said as he rubbed his eyes. "Uh, do you want to have breakfast? I also made coffee," I try again, but he just yawns and runs a hand through his hair – that's never been longer in the time that I've known him.

        "How long have you even been awake?"

        "Um..." I stammer at his unexpected question, "Since eight?" I shake my head and look at the time on my laptop; 8:39. A person whose leg is in a cast can make a decent breakfast in forty minutes, right? "So how about those pancakes?" I try again – usually I'd worry about being annoying, but I just really want him to try my pancakes now.

        "Sure," Ashton sighs, shrugging. I contain my wide smile as I turn around, taking a minute or two to serve him because of my leg. I wouldn't have accepted his help even if he'd offered it, these kinds of things are something that I want to do completely on my own.

        "Here you go," I smile lightly as I slide the plate across the counter toward him, handing him a fork. For a few moments he just stares at the food before him; I can't blame him, this is the first time in months that he's going to be eating food that's made in his own kitchen.