Topping and Tailing
Part Five
By Clotho & Cathy
clothomoerae@hotmail.com and huntersglenn@yahoo.com

Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John Carter/Dave Malucci
Date: May 18, 2001
Archive: Not without permission. The story and its prequel, "Bottoms Up", can be found at Clotho's fanfic site http://home.talkcity.com/antennaav/fatespinner/) and at the Carterfics site (http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Boutique/7087/).
Disclaimer: "ER" and all its characters belong to Warner Bros. No infringement of their copyright is intended. This story was written for the enjoyment of "ER" fans everywhere, and may be downloaded for your own pleasure. We owe a huge "Thank you" to Alice and Melissa, our wonderful editors. We couldn't have done it without the two of you!



Previously:

"When the cook isn't here, Gamma cooks. When Gamma
isn't here, I eat out a lot. Magoos mostly. There's
food here. I just don't know how to cook it. I can
heat up frozen stuff though, but I don't think you want
a frozen dinner for breakfast, do you? I could handle
that since I've already had my breakfast this morning."

Dave did a double take as he realised what Carter was
referring to. "There has to be something. Where's the
kitchen?" He wanted to eat. And he liked the idea of
feeding Carter breakfast, just as he'd fed him come.

"Grab my hand and I'll take you there. It isn't far."

Dave stood up and grabbed Carter's hand. It felt large
and warm and slightly oily. And he felt like he was
back in 6th grade for even noticing.

John retrieved the bottle of oil. "This way." John
laced his fingers through Dave's, then led the way to
the large kitchen, taking Dave to the stainless steel
refrigerator. "This is the fridge. The walk in
freezer is over there, but I'm not going in there stark
naked. Let me know if you see anything you like.
There's stuff in the pantry, too." John sat on one of
the stools and waited for Dave to find something for
them to eat.

Dave looked in the fridge. There were eggs; eggs were
a good start. And bacon with some foreign language on
the packet - well bacon was bacon. He pulled them
out, "Fry-pan?" Then went to the pantry. No fresh
tomatoes, but a can of them. "Bread?"

While Dave was in the pantry, John got out several
pans. He had no idea which of them was a 'fry-pan' --
his Gamma and Corrine used saute pans and skillets and
omelet pans, but he'd never heard either one of them
mention a fry pan. So, John figured that if he set out
almost all the pans, then he'd be bound to have a 'fry
pan' in the bunch. "Bread. Got it." John went over
to the breadbox and pulled out a loaf. "How many
slices do you want me to cut?" he asked as he reached
for a large knife to slice with.

"Um," Dave quickly assessed his appetite and doubled.
"Four." He reached for the largest pan, and lit the
stove. He returned to the fridge for butter, and put
some in the pan, watching it slowly melt in the heat.

"Four. Thick or thin?" John made note of which pan
Dave grabbed. So that was what a fry pan looked like.
He'd remember that from now on.

"Um, 1/2 an inch." The butter was hot. The bacon went
in first, four slices of it. They smelled good, so
another four followed them. Then there were only two
in the packet, and it seemed scarcely worth keeping, so
they went in too.

John carefully cut the bread, then put the remainder of
the loaf back. He put the bread on a plate and carried
it over to Dave. "Toast?" He looked at the frying
bacon and the smell of it made his stomach growl. "Do
you think that's going to be enough?" John seriously
asked.

Dave shook his head. "Fried bread." He shrugged.
"Cut more if you like." Just then the bacon and butter
began to spit. Dave leaped backwards, and began
looking around for a towel. There were some things
that just should NOT be done naked.

John had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as he
watched Dave search for a towel. Hell, he couldn't
cook and he knew better than to fry things while
naked. Then he looked from the bread to the bacon,
then back to the bread. "Fried bread? I'd rather have
more meat. I like meat."

Dave frowned, and dived back into the fridge. Sure
enough there were some sausages there. Whoever had
stocked the fridge before leaving had done their best
to leave lots of easy-cook food. "Coming through." He
put down a circle of links around the outside of the
pan.

"I'll wait over here." John headed for the counter to
sit on one of the stools, then he noticed that he had
yet to put the oil back. He grabbed the bottle and
tried to remember which cabinet he had found it in.
Shouldn't be too difficult a task, since he had left
them all open. John walked from cabinet to cabinet,
finally finding the one with all the cooking oils. He
put the bottle on the shelf, then noticed that he had
grabbed olive oil earlier -- Extra Virgin, no less. He
grinned at that and debated about whether or not to
mention it to Dave. He didn't want to make him angry
or upset again. Aside from needing him to make
breakfast, John didn't like conflict and he didn't like
it when Dave got like that. John closed the cabinets,
then sat down. "Do you need me to get the plates yet?"
he asked.

With a few spare minutes before anything else needed to
go on, Dave began to think about upgrading from fried
bread to French toast. "No. Milk." He broke four
eggs into one of the pots that Carter had dragged out
earlier, and began searching through drawers for a
fork.

"Milk. Got it." John opened the fridge and looked
inside. There was cream. There was half and half. He
was sure Dave didn't want those. Gamma or Corrine
always asked for them by name. Whole milk reduced fat
-- 2% and 1%. Skim. "Which kind? Whole or skim?"
John hoped that Dave didn't need anything else.

"Whatever. Whole." Dave held his hand out for it.

John grabbed the carton of whole milk and took it over
to the stove, steering clear of the greasy food pan.
"What's it for?" he asked as he handed it to Dave.

"French toast." Dave said, by way of explanation. He
had a sudden idea, he'd teach Carter to cook. He
poured some of the milk into the pot with eggs, and
told Carter to beat them well together, then handed him
the bread, and told him to soak it in the mixture.

John looked at the fork, then at the mixture of milk
and eggs. "French toast? You mean that French toast
is made with milk and eggs?" he asked, his brow
furrowed. "I never would have guessed that." John
started to beat the milk and eggs together, sniffing it
from time to time. "Corrine's French toast smells
different. Or does it change when you cook it?" John
asked as he dropped a slice of bread into the pot.

"It changes." Dave frowned. "Add some cinnamon if you
like."

"Cinnamon." John liked cinnamon but wasn't sure where
Corrine kept it. "That's a spice, right?" he hazarded
a guess.

Dave grinned. "Good thing that wasn't in the MCATs.
Yes, it's a spice, genius."

John rolled his eyes at Dave and went to the spice
cabinet, feeling pretty good that he knew where that
was. He found the cinnamon, then returned to the pot.
He opened the small jar. "How much?"

"Um, a couple of shakes." Dave was busy concentrating
on turning the bacon and sausages. "Hurry up. It'll
need to go in soon."

"Okay." John shook it a couple of times, but he
thought it looked pretty dark. Maybe he should have
let Dave do the shaking. He set the cinnamon aside.
"Now what? This is a lot for just one piece of bread,
isn't it? Does each piece take this many eggs and
stuff?"

"Ah, a bit of sugar." The bacon to Dave's eyes looked
just about perfect. "Nah, we've got 4 bits of bread.
More if you like. Just cut."

"A bit of sugar." John grabbed the sugar bowl,
wondering just how much was a bit. He grabbed a
handful of it and tossed it on top of the soaking bread
slice. "Sugar is added. What now? Do you need me to
cut more bread?"

Dave was concentrating on getting no kinks in the
sausages as he turned them over. This was going to be
a perfect breakfast. "How much do you want?"

"Enough. I'll cut more bread. You'll have to cook the
French toast though. Um, how long is that bread
supposed to soak?" John asked as he hurried across the
kitchen to the breadbox. Cutting bread was something
he felt secure with.

Dave shrugged. "A while." The first slice should be
about ready now, in fact. He reached for the little
pot. "Whoa! Did you use cocoa?" The liquid in the
pot seemed to be dark brown.

"I used cinnamon and sugar, just like you told me
to. Why?" John looked up from the bread. "Is there
something wrong with it?"

Dave bent down and sniffed at the pot. It smelt liike
cinnamon. "There's way too much of it. Give me a
spoon."

"I put in how much you said. A couple of shakes.
That's what you said." John muttered as he got a spoon
from the silverware drawer and passed it to Dave.
"It's not ruined, is it?"

Dave shrugged, "I didn't say to put in that much.
Hope it'll be okay." He started skimming some of the
floating cinnamon off the surface.

"You didn't tell me to measure it," John replied,
feeling bad that he had ruined breakfast for Dave.
"It's all ruined now, isn't it?" he asked, slumping
into one of the chairs, a frown on his face.

"What? No? The rest'll be fine. You take over this.
It should look, just um, light brown kinda
speckled." Dave pushed the pot and spoon toward
Carter, and returned his attention to the frypan. Time
to put the tomato and eggs in. He moved things around
a bit to make sure they weren't sticking, then looked
around the room for a can-opener.

John slowly got up and looked into the pot. It didn't
look as dark as it had before. "What do I do with it
now?" He didn't think he liked cooking. Didn't like
it at all. He wasn't good at it and he didn't like
having to do things that he wasn't good at.

"Just keep skimming the dark stuff off." Dave spotted
his can opener, there was a great big electrical wall
mounted one. He grinned - nothing so lower-class as a
hand one here. He lightly slapped Carter's butt on his
way over. "Just keep skimming."

John jumped. He knew that Dave meant it in play, but
with his back already sore, all the smack did was send
little shock waves up into the lumbar region. Please
don't start to spasm, John prayed. Please. He didn't
want to put up with the pain or aggravation of having
to deal with his back acting up. Concentrate on the
skimming.

Dave looked at the can-opener. He was sure he could
figure out how to use it. Put the can here or there or
somewhere else? And press which button. "D'ya know
how to use this?"

John put the spoon on the counter and slowly walked
over to Dave. He took the can from him and quickly
removed the lid, then handed the can back. "The
recycle bin is under the sink," he told him. Then John
slowly walked back to the French toast pot, trying his
best to not limp in front of Dave.

"Thanks." Dave hurried back to the pan, and shook it.
It looked like nothing had caught. The tomatoes went
in. Dave wasn't too sure if the French toast would be
retrievable or not - probably, . . . but there was
enough food in this kitchen to feed lots of people and
Carter had said he was hungry, so he'd make it 6 eggs
instead of 2 or 4, just to be safe.

"Okay, there's no more dark stuff. Well, maybe a
little, but not as much. What now?" John asked.

Dave pulled another pan out and set it to heat with
more butter. There was no point mixing the sweet stuff
with the savory. "'kay bring it over here, and the
bread."

John grabbed the rest of the bread, then picked up the
pot and took them all over to Dave, handing them over.
He hoped that Dave was going to be the one actually
cooking the stuff. John could manage making a grilled
cheese sandwich, but he didn't think he would be able
to manage French toast.

Dave pointed at the newly buttery pan. "Get yourself
one of these." He waved his slice in the air, "And
soak the bread and put it in there."

"What about the bread that's already in the pot?" John
asked as he picked up a fresh slice. "There's no room
in here to soak this one."

Dave had forgotten about that. "Take it out, and put
it in the pan." He returned his attention to his own
pan. The tomatoes were beginning to bubble, and a
wonderful smell was filling the room. This would be
good. He took half a moment to put his arm about
Carter's waist, before returning to ensuring that
nothing was sticking.

John put down the fresh slice of bread and then stuck
his fingers into the milky stuff to pick up the other
piece. The crust disintegrated under his touch. Not
just once, but twice. So John put his entire hand
under it, lifting the slice and a whole lot of the milk
and egg mixture with it, then plopped it into the pan.
It felt good to have Dave's arm around him, really
good. John put another slice into the pot, thinking
that this time he wouldn't let it stay in there for as
long. But it didn't look as if there would be enough
liquid for all of the bread they had. Then John's nose
twitched as he began to smell something burning.
"Dave?"

Dave turned his attention to Carter's pan. "Get that
extra gunk outta there." His own panload was nearly
ready. "Where're the plates?"

Plates? He had forgotten to get the plates out
earlier. And how was he supposed to get the extra gunk
out of the pan? Okay, he could handle this. After
all, he ran traumas all the time, right? This wasn't
as hectic as a trauma. "Plates are in that cupboard
over there -- left of the fridge," John pointed it
out. Then he tried to use the spoon to get the gunk
off. It only half worked. Gunk was still there. And
John thought that maybe he should turn the bread.
Hell, if he knew for sure. "Dave? When do I turn
this?" And how, he silently added. He put the spoon
down and tried to get the gunk away from the bread
using just his fingers, doing his best to ignore the
heat coming up from the bottom of the pan. Finally it
was all gone and he scooped it up with the spoon and
dumped it in the trash.

Dave headed for the cupboard, and quickly found a stack
of china. Fancy china. He pulled out two of them, and
looked at them. They seemed to be the kind of thing
people would have dinner parties on, not fry-up
breakfasts. He absent-mindedly answered Carter's
question. "When it's golden brown." He carried the
plates back to the stove. "These ones?"

"Yeah, those are fine," John replied, not even
looking. Okay, Corrine and his Gamma used spatulas for
pancakes. But where did they keep them? He started to
open drawers until he found one, then he cautiously
approached the pan and the lone piece of French toast
that didn't look golden brown at all to him. It still
looked like milk and eggs on the top. Okay, he could
wait.

Dave looked in his pan, the eggs were done - the whites
somewhat solid, and the yolks golden. They looked
great. And everything else was done too. He pulled
the pan off the heat and shared the food out between
the plates. Five rashers of bacon, 4 sausages, 3 eggs
and 2 tomatoes each. A pity about the fried bread, but
never mind. He grinned, "Carter, come'n get it. Where
do we eat?" He looked over and saw the solitary piece
of French toast in Carter's pan. It was sweet - for
dessert - anyway. And this looked good now. The
plates were getting warm from the food's heat. "Leave
that for later. This now."

The food did smell good. Very good. John's stomach
rumbled. He looked from the pan to the plates and back
again. "Won't it burn if I leave it?"

"Not if you turn the stove off, or take the pan off
it. Where's the cutlery? Let's eat."

"Okay." John turned the knob, then walked over to
Dave, grabbing silverware from the drawer on the way.
"We can eat at the counter or at the table. Your
choice."

Dave shrugged, either suited him, but now that he
looked at it he could see chairs round the table.
"Table." He put the plates down, grabbed himself a
chair to sit on, and slid into it, then looked up -
expectantly - at Carter waiting for the delivery of
knife and fork.

John was almost to the table when a spasm shot through
his lower back and down his left leg. The leg
immediately gave out on him and he found himself
falling -- right into Dave's lap. Luckily for John,
Dave saw him falling and he caught him, so the end
result was that John was seated nearly properly.
"Sorry," John muttered, feeling his cheeks grow red
from his embarrassment at having his body betray him.

Dave reached out for Carter, and pulled him back,
nearly onto his knee. "What happened? You trip?"
There were certain advantages to having Carter's back
in this position - but one main disadvantage - he
couldn't see his breakfast.

"Yeah, I've always been a little clumsy that way." It
was nice there on Dave's leg. Very nice. John was
tempted to stay. But, he wasn't going to ask about
it. Every time he asked Dave if something was okay or
if he wanted John to do or not do something, they would
get into a fight. So John decided he wouldn't move
unless Dave told him to. "Breakfast smells good,"
John said.

"It does. But I can't see it. Shove over." Dave used
his hands to try and twist Carter around a quarter
turn.

John turned sideways, bringing his other leg up on
Dave's lap as well. With both of Dave's thighs -- and
what nice thighs they were, John thought admiringly --
under him, John felt a little more secure in his
seat. "Is that better?" John asked as he picked up
his fork and scooped up some eggs. He noticed then
that the tips of his fingers hurt a bit, probably from
getting the gunk out of the French toast pan. So, he
transferred the fork to his left hand. And the eggs
fell off halfway between the plate and his mouth,
dropping down onto his thigh. And they were hot.
"Damn," John jumped, not able to move too far since he
was on Dave's lap. He quickly grabbed the eggs with
his right hand and tossed them back to his plate.

"Ow!" Dave watched the by-play with sympathy. "Want
to put water on that?" Not that he wanted Carter off
his knee, but that had to hurt.

"No. It's okay," John replied. He wanted to eat. He
gave up on the fork for now and picked up a piece of
bacon with his left hand. That he could handle with
the wrong hand. The bacon was good and the eggs looked
even better. John was about to try the fork again when
he picked up an odd smell. "What's that smell?" he
asked, turning to look at Dave. "It smells like
something burning, doesn't it?"

Dave frowned. It did. He turned around, and saw black
smoke billowing from the pan that Carter had left on
the stove. "Shit. Get up." Even as he gave the
command, Dave was pushing his chair backwards trying to
get upright.

John got to his feet as fast as he could, which wasn't
too fast, all things considered. He saw the smoke,
too. "I cut the burner off like you told me to." John
told Dave. "I know I did."

Dave grabbed the pan, as he did so flames began to leap
from it. He nearly threw it into the nearest sink. He
turned the cold water on hard, and watched as with a
hiss and a bellow a great cloud of steam arose.

Since Dave's back was to him, John limped over to the
sink. "I guess that's too brown, huh?"

"What the. . . How did that happen?" Dave looked over
at the stove, and saw that the burner was still going,
and going with a hot flame. "You turned it UP?"

"No, I didn't. I cut the burner..." John's voice
trailed off as he saw the flame on the stove. He had
turned it up. So stupid! He looked down into the sink
at the ruined French toast, it was still steaming. He
had ruined Dave's breakfast and his Gamma's pan.
Dejected, John limped back to the table and sat down,
pushing his plate aside so he could rest his head on
the cool surface. He wasn't hungry any longer.

"No you didn't . . . " Dave, too let his voice trail
off. With the flames out there was only a little bit
of adrenaline pumping through him - no need to be
angry. He shrugged. "Never mind, we've still got 1/2
of breakfast." He sat down and grabbed a rasher of
bacon before looking about for a knife and fork. The
bacon was good - crisp in a way that the supermarket
stuff he sometimes bought never was.

"You can have mine." John didn't even bother to lift
his head as he pushed the plate in Dave's direction.
"I'm not hungry anymore." His back was really hurting,
his hip and leg were hurting. His pride was hurting.
And Dave was acting as if nothing was wrong -- just
being nice, most likely. What John wanted was
something to dull the pain or even take it away
completely. But he couldn't have anything. He could
however, get some relief from the whirlpool. John got
to his feet. "I'll be back in the pool room. You can
find me when you're done." He tried his best to walk
as if his leg wasn't bothering him, but it was
difficult.

"You don't want breakfast?"

"Not hungry. You have it." John headed for the
doorway, then remembered how easily Dave got lost in
the house. "Can you find your way back to me?"

Now there was a no win question if Dave had ever heard
it. He could say 'no' and sound like an idiot. Or
'yes' and have Carter leave again. He settled for a
shrug, and "Dunno" - which also had the minor merit of
being truthful.

"Well, if you shout for me, I'll hear you and come back
to get you, okay?"

This wasn't part of the plans. They'd talked about
maybe going back to bed. That had sounded good.
"Thought we were going upstairs." That would work,
they could always take the food with them.

Upstairs? Well, John could always stand under a hot
shower spray until Dave finished eating. That
sometimes helped. "Okay, I'll head on upstairs. I'll
be in the shower."

That damned shower again. Dave hated that shower
though he'd never seen it. "Whatever. Go take a
shower." Carter obviously wasn't interested in this
breakfast that he'd cooked. Or anything else.

John felt an anger start to grow as soon as he heard
Dave say 'Whatever'. He was really beginning to hate
that word. John felt as if he had said everything he
could, either Dave didn't want to listen to him or was
just too dense to understand. Either way, John was
tired of talking. Tired of having to explain
everything he did. Everything that made Dave say
'whatever'. John just happened to be by the sink by
then and the pan was the nearest thing. He grabbed the
handle and hurled the pan across the room, taking some
satisfaction in hearing the crash of metal as it slid
across the cooking island and hitting the other pans
there, sending a lot of them into the floor. Tossing
the pan helped to alleviate John's frustration over his
bodily aches and pains. "Whatever," John firmly said,
then he turned around and walked out of the kitchen,
not caring if Dave showed up in the bedroom.



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