A Miscalculation In Space

Chapter 12 (Packet of Sunshine)

(He totally wasn't the one to sic Tofu on the stools.

Totally.

Yeah, his dad wasn't very convinced. )

He blinks sleepily at his dad who's rushing around the kitchen, bringing one of his arms forward briefly to cover his yawn.

“W're you m'ing?”

Swap hums, settling in front of the stove for now. He tilts his skull but doesn't glance back, instead opting to move the pan in front of him, spatula in his other hand. His voice is cheerful when he answers him, though there is still a hint of what Killer would call a pout in it.

Diva.

(Well, not really, but if his dad gets to misuse slang and certain words, Killer gets the same privilege.)

“I'LL ASSUME THAT GIBBERISH YOU JUST SAID WAS A QUESTION ABOUT BREAKFAST! I'M MAKING PANCAKES AND BACON!”

Killer perks up at that, letting the chair lean back a bit more before he shifts his weight forward, hands moving to the islands surface in front of him as he curiously leans to the side, trying to take a look. The plate besides the oven only has two pancakes on it and the bacon is still unopened, so he concludes his dad had been making the batter when he was moving earlier. He opens his mouth.

“YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY UNTIL YOU BRUSH YOUR TEETH!”

Killer shuts his mouth and groans dramatically, letting his skull drop onto the table as his hands stretch out in a grabby motion. He props his chin up and waits till Swap turns around at his suspicious silence, doing his best puppy eyes look.

His dad only beams at him and tells him to get moving. Killer pouts but obediently slides off the chair, grudgingly trudging towards the downstairs bathroom.

It's not like it takes all that long, but it's tedious.

(He still does it even when his dad isn't there to remind him, just takes a hell of a lot longer to do so.)

“CAN YOU GO GRAB THE MAIL? POST SHOULD BE HERE SOON!”

Killer is definitely not grouchy about the way the chore was shoved onto him the moment he was about to go into the kitchen, foot raised to step in. Still half asleep, albeit way more awake with all this movement and the cold water he half-heartedly washed his face with, he tries to come up with excuses to just lay down.

(It's definitely not just because he's lazy. Definitely.)

“The mailman doesn't even like me!”

Swap tuts at him, casually moving the pan, causing a pancake to rise into the air and gracefully flip onto its other side.

Killer can still remember when they used to get stuck on the ceiling. After all, his father doesn't like sweet stuff and only really learned how to make them for Killer. He may try to dismiss the topic whenever it comes up, but Killer isn't dumb.

“THEN YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO GRAB THE MAIL QUICKLY! GO ON! I'LL LET YOU TASTE TEST ONE OF THE PANCAKES BEFORE THEY'RE ALL DONE IF YOU'RE QUICK ENOUGH!”

That gets him moving. He salutes Swap with an ‘aye, aye, captain!’ before skipping away towards the door. What time even is it? Post usually delivers around seven and a half.

(He mourns the fact he couldn't grab his phone before being carried downstairs for a split second.)

He glanced at the clock mounted on the living room wall. For a guy who lives with a cat, his dad has an awful lot of dog themed decorations. To be fair, said cat doesn't even act like a cat. He's pretty sure Tofu thinks she's a dog. The clock has a dog’s head right above it, made to look like it's a giant tennis ball right in front of the corgi.