Buttermilk
(It's been a while since I've posted anything fic related, so I hope y'all enjoy this one! And thanks to @jacksonstarkiller for helping me piece this together <3🧡💛❤️💚💙)
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It was another Saturday morning.
Jefferson woke up early & snuck down to the kitchen. He flicked on the lights & fired up the griddle. Oh the sweet scents that would dance in the air, the sizzle of the griddle, the patter of the boys' feet rushing down the stairs, & the bright, brilliant beams across their little faces as they were served the delicious delicacy.
The laughter of the boys & Lucy still rang in his mind.
It was... perfect.
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Jefferson had been back home for a few weeks now, but it felt like a few minutes.
One moment, they were little children; - then the next, they weren't children anymore.
Alan had an accident recently. He had been put into a medical coma. The doctors said he would be laid up for a while - a few months at best.
Jefferson was in a morning rush & was running a bit behind. He was expecting a group of Tracys, already on bedside duty. But when he arrived at Alan's room, no one else was there. Perhaps he left earlier than he thought. Seems like he was always losing tracks of time.
The family had been leaving gifts of recovery for the baby of their pack. Jefferson observed the various trinkets.
A mini rocket model from Scott, astronomy books from John, hand-crafted cards by Virgil, starfish stuffies from Gordon, fresh roses from Penelope, a chaperone cap from Parker, a holographic star projector built by Mike & Brains, his favorite socks & blanket from Grandma, even some balloons blown by MAX.
Jefferson sighed as he rubbed his boy's hand. He had to catch himself from flinching whenever his thumb rolled over the IV needle.
What could he give?
Once he arrived home, he entered the kitchen. His shoes squeaked from the glossy flooring - he remembered how the floor once creaked with wood. But surely, baking pancakes wouldn't be so bad.
Right?
"Uh boys," echoed through the kitchen as he was searching through the cabinets. "Where's the griddle?"
"We, um..." Scott replied with a clear wince of regret. "We got rid of it when you left..."
A comforting hand lay on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze.
"Son, it's okay." They shared a soft embrace.
"You at least wrote down your recipe somewhere, right?"
You could just hear a glass shattering as Jefferson's eyes shot open.
Turns out that being lost in space for 8 years had made his cooking skills a bit... rusty.
The pan's too hot, too cold; not enough oil - too much oil; the batter's too thin, too thick; use the first pancake, too many of them at once!
Every single attempt to recreate the fluffy buttery goodness only resulted in sticky, crumbly, & sometimes scorched messes. Week after week was met with failure.
On one particular morning, things seemed to finally piece together.
"Hey, dad. How's it going?" Virgil's hologram hovered over his father's shoulder.
"So far, so good!" He listed with admittedly an amusing beam of pride. "I pre-heated the pan, I didn't over-mix the batter, I didn't use a spoon or an electric mixer, I used the right amount of ingredients & the right ingredients, & I set the stove on medium - high."
"That's great, dad. But..."
Virgil noticed one, little, little problem.
"You did grease the pan, right?"
"..."
"SHIET!"
"Wait wait wait dad, don't do -"
He frantically scrapped at the pan - rolling lumps & scraps of pancakes. Smoke bellowed & nearly triggered the alarm. Brittle & burnt bundles of burnt batter & bread went flying into the trash. The pan clattered in the sink as steam sizzles from the rushing water.
"That."
Tears rolled down his face.
"Dad?"
The only answer was a shaky sigh. He tossed down his apron, sulked away to his room, and shut the door.
There was a soft knock.
"Jefferson?" Sally entered.
He was curled up into a ball of regret. His knees were tucked in tight, & his hands covered his soaked face.
"Honey, it's just a couple of mistakes."
"It feels like that's the only thing I've been making."
"Jefferson -"
"Who was the one that left them for 8 years? Who was the one that couldn't keep them safe from the Hood? Who was the person who flew in that blizzard? Who was the person who couldn't save her? I am. It was all my fault."
There was a stilted silence.
"I just want this to be perfect."
"Son, remember when Scotty made his first cake for Father's Day? He dropped it on the ground & made a huge mess. He cried his little eyes out & thought he ruined Father's Day. But do you remember what you told him?"
"Son, it's okay. Sometimes this stuff happens and nothing is ever perfect in life. But you didn't ruin anything for me, because I know that you're doing the best you can."
"There was a reason why Lucy married you. She didn't see you as someone who needed to be fixed. But as someone who loved her & would be the best person for not just her, not just for the boys, but for himself."
Sally gripped his shoulder with a strong but gentle & firm hold.
"Alan doesn't care if it's perfect. He'll love it because it's from you."
"Maybe... maybe you're right."
"Kiddo, I'm always right." They shared laughter & a warm embrace.
"Thanks, mom."
"No problem. Get some rest, dear."
Night had fallen. Everyone had gone to bed, except Jefferson. The island was in a set of melancholy calm, but his mind was still whirling. He tried to fight against his workaholic-engined brain; he tossed & turned in bed, but his efforts of rest weren't working. He stared at his ceiling in fatigued defeat.
Another memory wandered into his mind.
He remembered that Lucy had a knack for photography. She was always behind the camera, capturing every precious little moment to treasure forever.
Maybe she could help.
He dug under his bed through various boxes & other little nick-nacks. Soon, he found his treasure. Within a large crate laid a trove of photo albums & frames; what lay in the center was an old camera.
He dawned his apron & began to cook again.
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The next morning, Jefferson returned to the hospital. He delicately carried a gift box in his hands. He asked the front desk if he could see Alan. The receptionist thoroughly checked the contents. Jefferson got a few passing eyebrows, but was allowed to visit nonetheless.
He strolled down the hall, his heart was racing in his chest. The next door was his son's room. There was a hint of hesitation, but the words of his mother ringed in his mind.
He took a deep breath, & entered inside.
"Alan?" His voice was an audible whisper.
The said blonde stirred from his slumber, as his little eyes fluttered open.
"Hey, dad."
"How are you feeling, Sprout?"
"Still feeling sucky, but a little less sucky today." His gaze gradually rolled to the box in his father's hands. "Is that for me?"
"Just for you, Sprout."
Jefferson carefully perched the gift in his son's arms. Alan opened the lid & peered inside.
Pancakes; slightly crude in shape - definitely were supposed to be stars. Burnt browns & blacks rigidly lined the crust.
Alan took a meek little nibble.
Immediately his taste-buds were overwhelmed with flavors of crude variety & the ashy texture of the scorched crust didn't quite help either.
"Tastes... great..." He sheepishly squeaked with a thumbs-up.
"They can't taste that bad."
The clear gag makes him regret that statement.
"It tastes like burnt cardboard!"
"More like burnt rubber that was run over by the Mole."
The hospital had never heard more humble laughter than now.