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Fic: Breakfast (1/1) OC(Mike), Marie [G] X1

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  • pphillips914
    Title: Breakfast Author: Pat Phillips Summary: Like most boys his age, Mike is a bottomless eating machine. He ll do anything for a decent meal. And he can t
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 20, 2003
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      Title: Breakfast

      Author: Pat Phillips

      Summary: Like most boys his age, Mike
      is a bottomless eating machine. He'll
      do anything for a decent meal. And he
      can't cook worth a darn.

      Rating/warning & pairing/characters:
      Rated G,
      Marie, OC(Mike)

      With the exception of Mike McWhirter,
      I do not own these characters. Instead,
      they are the property of Marvel Comics.

      As a firm believer in property rights,
      it's only reasonable that I specify that
      my use of these characters should in no
      way be interpreted as a threat to Marvel's
      ownership of them.

      All of my fan fiction, including this story,
      is a not-for-profit venture. After all, when
      you get down to it, who would pay for this
      stuff?

      Readers of my other fiction may notice that
      Mike is a minor character in "A Sacrifice
      of Flowers". Note that this story assumes
      that there was significant period of time
      between the defeat of Magneto and the
      Brotherhood at the Statue of Liberty and
      Logan's leaving to investigate the Alkali Lake
      facility. During that time Jean, Scott, Ororo,
      and Logan conducted missions for the Professor.
      That may not be exactly canon, but it allows
      for some interesting stories.

      BREAKFAST


      There were footsteps coming down the stairs. I leaned backwards in
      my chair so I could catch a glimpse of who was coming. Eventually,
      I saw Marie get to the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing her
      usual morning outfit: a long robe, gloves, socks, and a scarf.
      Only the skin on her face and some of her neck was visible. She
      doesn't like touching or being touched. She has good reasons for
      that.

      I quickly ran over to the refrigerator and grabbed the bowl. It
      held two scoops of vanilla ice cream and a spoon. Sitting back in
      my chair at the kitchen table, I got rid of the news page and made
      sure that the Sunday comics section was spread out in front of me.
      Then I dug some ice cream into the spoon and held it up -- just off
      to the side -- as if I were about to stick it into my mouth.

      In the hallway, the soft footsteps were getting louder. I could
      hear her robe rustling against her body.

      Three.

      Two.

      One.

      Liftoff.

      "Michael McWhirter!"

      I looked at her. Trying to look like I was surprised.

      "Hi, Marie. What's wrong?"

      She stormed over to me. The spoon was grabbed out of my hand and
      thrown into the bowl of ice cream. Then the bowl was whisked away
      and dropped in the sink with a crash.

      "How often do you have ice cream for breakfast?" she asked in a
      really angry voice.

      "Well, not often. Maybe two or three times a week... Ow!"

      She had rapped me in the center of my forhead with her gloved
      knuckles. It wasn't really that hard. If you know anything about
      Marie, then you know that she's tough as nails, but that there isn't
      a mean bone in her body. She was just letting me know that she
      didn't approve of what I was doing-- and that she was in charge now.

      While I rubbed my forehead and grumbled, she got busy. A glass of
      milk slammed onto the table in front of me.

      "Look, Marie, you can't... Ow!"

      That spot on my forehead was getting a little tender.

      "Your choices are drink or die," she said firmly as she started
      pulling stuff out of the refrigerator.

      "Dang it, Marie, if you keep hitting me in that same spot, I'll get
      a tumor or something," I groused as I started drinking. I was too
      young for the other option.

      She pulled off her gloves and her scarf. Otherwise, they would be
      in the way. As Marie read the label on a package, she absent-
      mindedly stood first on one foot, then on the other, pulling her
      socks off with her toes and then kicking them into a corner.

      That made me a little homesick. My little sister Mary does the
      exact same thing. And she always gets in trouble with Mom for
      leaving her socks in odd places. I miss her a lot.

      Water was heating as Marie began mixed something in a bowl.

      I'm probably a long way from being the first guy to notice this.
      But Marie's really pretty. Even first thing in the morning, with
      her hair messy, wearing a beat-up robe, and stomping around the
      kitchen shooting me angry looks and ready to put another dent in my
      forehead for any reason at all. Heck, maybe that's when she's the
      prettiest.

      Marie got to cutting, measuring, and stirring. Her accent was
      suddenly a bit thicker as she growled words at me. She absent-
      mindedly called me "Sugar", which was something I hadn't heard her
      do before. I think that meant that a part of her was back home. A
      part of me was home, too. On Sunday morning, Mom would cook
      breakfast for Dad, Andy and me, while Mary usually snuggled in for a
      little more sleep.

      It took a while, but breakfast finally hit the table. Biscuits and
      gravy, grits with butter, and eggs scrambled with peppers. It was
      straight from Mississippi.

      Marie made a few blood-thirsty threats about eating it all. She
      also said I had to stay away from sweets for the rest of the day.

      I ate while she sat across the table, sipping coffee, looking off
      somewhere far away. I've never asked Marie about home. But she
      sometimes calls herself "Rogue". I don't think that's a good sign.

      When I got done, her head was still back home, and she automatically
      reached for my plate so she could wash it. But I snatched it away.
      Hey, fair is fair. As I cleaned up, Marie finished her coffee and
      read the paper.

      I was putting away the last dish, when she suddenly looked up at
      me. Marie is a really smart girl. Not book-smart like Kitty, but
      figure-it-out smart instead.

      "Mike, did you just trick me?" she asked in a dangerous tone.

      I refilled her coffee cup. Dad says that when a girl you like is
      mad at you, you should kiss her butt a little -- and sometimes a
      lot. It's a sure-fire way to calm women down.

      "Suppose I say 'yes'," I said a little nervously, "Will you do
      something to me that hurts a lot?"

      But Marie was smiling now. Laughing instead of angry.

      "Why, you little..." she said, shaking her head.

      "Tell you what," I suggested. "Kitty usually gets up about this
      time every day. Hide in the next room and listen. I'll bet I can
      get pancakes out of her. But I sure hope she doesn't hit as much as
      you do."
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