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fandom_muses... What would you have for your last meal?
{{OOC: And with my first prompt response in ages... I am officially back!}}
For a while after Suzie died (the second time), Gwen Cooper considered every meal to be her last.
It wasn’t so much a sudden morbid fascination with death, although at times she argued with herself that it could be as such. More than that, though, it was a timid admission to the frailty of her existence, and how easily such a thing could be snatched away.
In the morning, she snatched a piece of toast and spread butter on it, and she took a moment to listen to the gentle scrape of the knife against the bread. They had run out of jam, again. There was a jar of marmalade shoved towards the back of the second shelf in the refrigerator, and when she picked it up, her fingers stuck to the sticky corner of the jar and she gazed into it, wrinkling her nose and eventually tossing it into the bin. If this was going to be her last piece of toast, after all, she wasn’t going to spoil it with dodgy marmalade.
Even in the morning rush, Gwen found now that she chewed more slowly, enjoying the feel of the scratchy toast against the walls of her throat, the warm, melted butter against her tongue. It wasn’t much for a last meal, but the tactile sensation of crumbs between her teeth and the slick butter against her fingertips was worth something.
Then morning tea would come about, the cup searing the palms of her hands as she held it cupped upon her desk, the warm mix of Lady Grey and cream and a spot of sugar wafting into her lungs, cut with the murky wet smell of the Hub around her. To die with the taste of Ianto’s cuppa on the tip of her tongue wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Mid-afternoon takeaway was never the same, rushed between paperwork and alien artefacts, she now always noticed when the pizza crust was a bit to stale or the chips a bit too soggy. She pushed for Indian takeaway for lunch almost everyday, suspecting that curry was the best way to venture into the darkness if her time came. She often stared at it on her fork, a bit of chicken glazed with the fantastical, almost alien colours of spices. Her taste buds swelled and rejoiced with every bite, recoiling with the heat and yet enveloping the alien hues that turned to splendid taste in her mouth.
But it was supper she would die after, if given a choice. Not supper itself, always. Spaghetti bolognese, sat simmering on the stove the way that Rhys’ Nan taught him to cook it. Come time to eat it, she would laugh as she watched him fish out bags of herbs and spices before slopping it about on the plate over the spaghetti, which rarely cooked all the way. A box of wine, smoky and warm, cut into the vibrant flavour of the soft meat that fell apart on her fork, surrounded with the sharp smell of tomato sauce and herbs.
In the dark, wineglasses abandoned at the table, washing up to be dealt with come morning, Rhys kissed her. Soft, warm, wet, a distant taste of tomato and wine and pudding from Tesco, the smells and tastes and sensations that make Rhys. If she were lucky enough for toast in the morning, she would be thankful. But to choose her last meal, she could think of nothing else better to linger on her lips as she journeyed her last steps, than that of the taste of the man she loved.
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Cut for Length
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Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: What would you have for your last meal?
Verse: Open/Canon
Word Count: 599
For a while after Suzie died (the second time), Gwen Cooper considered every meal to be her last.
It wasn’t so much a sudden morbid fascination with death, although at times she argued with herself that it could be as such. More than that, though, it was a timid admission to the frailty of her existence, and how easily such a thing could be snatched away.
In the morning, she snatched a piece of toast and spread butter on it, and she took a moment to listen to the gentle scrape of the knife against the bread. They had run out of jam, again. There was a jar of marmalade shoved towards the back of the second shelf in the refrigerator, and when she picked it up, her fingers stuck to the sticky corner of the jar and she gazed into it, wrinkling her nose and eventually tossing it into the bin. If this was going to be her last piece of toast, after all, she wasn’t going to spoil it with dodgy marmalade.
Even in the morning rush, Gwen found now that she chewed more slowly, enjoying the feel of the scratchy toast against the walls of her throat, the warm, melted butter against her tongue. It wasn’t much for a last meal, but the tactile sensation of crumbs between her teeth and the slick butter against her fingertips was worth something.
Then morning tea would come about, the cup searing the palms of her hands as she held it cupped upon her desk, the warm mix of Lady Grey and cream and a spot of sugar wafting into her lungs, cut with the murky wet smell of the Hub around her. To die with the taste of Ianto’s cuppa on the tip of her tongue wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Mid-afternoon takeaway was never the same, rushed between paperwork and alien artefacts, she now always noticed when the pizza crust was a bit to stale or the chips a bit too soggy. She pushed for Indian takeaway for lunch almost everyday, suspecting that curry was the best way to venture into the darkness if her time came. She often stared at it on her fork, a bit of chicken glazed with the fantastical, almost alien colours of spices. Her taste buds swelled and rejoiced with every bite, recoiling with the heat and yet enveloping the alien hues that turned to splendid taste in her mouth.
But it was supper she would die after, if given a choice. Not supper itself, always. Spaghetti bolognese, sat simmering on the stove the way that Rhys’ Nan taught him to cook it. Come time to eat it, she would laugh as she watched him fish out bags of herbs and spices before slopping it about on the plate over the spaghetti, which rarely cooked all the way. A box of wine, smoky and warm, cut into the vibrant flavour of the soft meat that fell apart on her fork, surrounded with the sharp smell of tomato sauce and herbs.
In the dark, wineglasses abandoned at the table, washing up to be dealt with come morning, Rhys kissed her. Soft, warm, wet, a distant taste of tomato and wine and pudding from Tesco, the smells and tastes and sensations that make Rhys. If she were lucky enough for toast in the morning, she would be thankful. But to choose her last meal, she could think of nothing else better to linger on her lips as she journeyed her last steps, than that of the taste of the man she loved.
------------
Cut for Length
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: What would you have for your last meal?
Verse: Open/Canon
Word Count: 599