![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
1:51 PM
Alice & FP & Jughead
Domestic Bliss * Friday Morning * No Warnings * Incomplete
The smell of frying bacon pulled Jughead out of the haze of sleep. He sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes. If he was dreaming, he didn't want to wake up, but he was pretty sure he wasn't dreaming. The bacon was real, and accented by the wafting aroma of coffee brewing.
He dragged himself out from under the covers, stumbled into the bathroom to do what he needed to do there as best he could with one arm in a plaster cast. Dressed in a T-shirt and sleep pants, he padded out to the main area of the apartment. Alice was at the stove, flipping the bacon over. She grinned at him. "You're just in time for breakfast," she told him, and he had the weird feeling he'd just walked into a 1960s family television show where everything was perfect and anything that went wrong could be set to rights within a half hour program.
He glanced toward the couch where his dad sat, and in Jughead's mind he was completely out of place. He was used to seeing his dad sitting on the dingy sofa in the dimly lit trailer they called home. Not on a plush sofa in a professionally decorated living room. He was used to seeing a beer in his hands, not a glass of orange juice.
The toaster popped, and Jughead practically jumped out of his skin. Maybe he was actually dreaming this whole thing, after all.
CODE BYHe dragged himself out from under the covers, stumbled into the bathroom to do what he needed to do there as best he could with one arm in a plaster cast. Dressed in a T-shirt and sleep pants, he padded out to the main area of the apartment. Alice was at the stove, flipping the bacon over. She grinned at him. "You're just in time for breakfast," she told him, and he had the weird feeling he'd just walked into a 1960s family television show where everything was perfect and anything that went wrong could be set to rights within a half hour program.
He glanced toward the couch where his dad sat, and in Jughead's mind he was completely out of place. He was used to seeing his dad sitting on the dingy sofa in the dimly lit trailer they called home. Not on a plush sofa in a professionally decorated living room. He was used to seeing a beer in his hands, not a glass of orange juice.
The toaster popped, and Jughead practically jumped out of his skin. Maybe he was actually dreaming this whole thing, after all.