For the prompt thingy: insult to injury with either snowy/tater, swoops/kent, or zimbits
I…did not even know Snowy/Tater was a ship? That’s rad! I choose Swoops/Kent, though.
The thing about Kent is, he rarely lets his hair down. Literally. After he came back from Massachusetts, that time two years ago that he still won’t talk about, he started growing out his hair. It’s long enough to braid into a short, stubby tail now. Jeff has heard the girls (and some guys) asking Kent for hair care tips. Don’t wash it every day, Kent tells them. But use conditioner, when you do.
Kent can talk for twenty minutes about haircare. He’ll talk cheerfully and without reservation about anything, actually, unless it’s personal.
Which is why Jeff is standing outside his apartment at half past five, balancing a stack of takeout containers and wondering if Kent will let him in.
Jeff turns around and pounds on the door with his foot again. “Parser, you motherfucker, let me in,” he says through the door.
“Yeah,” Kent calls. There’s the shuffle-drag of footsteps. Is he wearing the fucking onesie again?
Kent opens the door. His left arm is still in a sling from shoulder surgery a week ago and he looks dopey and drugged. He’s wearing the onesie and he’s got is air conditioner turned down to about fifteen degrees. Jeff is cold just standing in the doorway.
“Whoa,” Kent says, smelling the ribs. “You brought me food?”
Jeff rolls his eyes. “You texted me two hours ago saying you were hungry. When I asked when you last ate, you said Tuesday.”
“Oh,” Kent says. He moves aside so Jeff can actually walk into his apartment. Jeff closes the door gently behind him.
He walks the food over to Kent’s kitchen table and sets it down. Kit comes out of hiding and twines around his ankles, purring. Jeff bends to pet her.
Kent walks to the table. Jeff takes the containers out of the bags. “Why haven’t you eaten since Tuesday?”
Kent sits down gingerly, not moving his upper body. “Turns out I’m allergic to one of my painkillers?” He laughs. “I spend Monday puking. I think.”
Jeff has to sit. “You’re okay now?” he asks. Then, before he can stop himself, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kent shrugs. “I dealt with it,” he says, easily. He grabs a rib and gnaws on it. “These are so good,” he says with his mouth full. “Thank you.” He swallows. “There’s more than enough, you should have some too.”
Jeff thinks about it. He could lie, and say he’s already eaten, but he’s too hungry. And Kent should learn not to offer things he doesn’t mean.
“So how’s puking with a shoulder injury?” he asks.
“Fucking horrible,” Kent says. His entire right hand is covered with barbecue sauce. He licks it clean. “Zero out of ten, do not recommend.” He laughs and attacks the green beens and bacon with his fork. “Oh, fuck me, you got mac and cheese too. I’m going to marry you. That’s legal here, right?”
“Legal in the whole country, since 2016,” Jeff says, tearing off a lid and scooping half the mac and cheese onto it.
Kent eats another rib. He has barbecue sauce smeared across his face. He tries to lick himself clean but his tongue won’t reach.
“You’re an embarrassment to nature,” Jeff tells him.
“And yet, you swoop in and save me anyway,” Kent retorts. His grin belies the sharpness of his words. “Thanks,” he says again, quietly. Jeff doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just nods.
