Taste Test
by lamardeuse and luvhandlz
Rated: PG-13
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Warnings (highlight to view): nothing to warn for
due South Flashfiction challenge: dead Bob
~ inspired by Kass ~
“Don’t take it personally, Bob. You know the way young folks are nowadays.” Maurice shrugged as he turned back to his contemplation of the sunset. The Group of Six had picked a perfect spot for their latest project, the dying rays of the sun caressing the Bering Strait’s choppy waters. Lucky none of them had to fret about retinal burn any longer.
“Yes, my daughter never listens to me either,” George chimed in. “I told her that real estate agent looked shifty to me, but did she take my advice?” He applied crimson daubs of oil paint to his canvas with vicious strokes.
“I don’t think real estate agents can be blamed for freak tornadoes,” Maurice offered.
George sniffed. “Well, he could have warned her about the pig farm down the road. When they started hitting the roof…” He shuddered expressively.
Maurice brushed a wispy line of cloud onto his own canvas, then turned to Bob. “I think you’ll just have to be more careful about when you drop in, now that Benton is…” He trailed off with a wave of his paintbrush.
Bob cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed, “but I was only trying to be helpful.”
“I know,” Maurice said. “But even you have to admit, a discussion of the relative merits of various kinds of maple syrup, when they were—”
“It was relevant to the situation,” Bob protested. “And all I said was that a Québec syrup might have been a better choice for that particular—ah, activity.”
George’s face acquired a dreamy expression. “Yes, the maples of the Beauce produce an exquisite clair. Nectar of the gods.”
Maurice and Bob stared at him. George blinked, then flushed. “On pancakes. And waffles. I’ve never—that is—”
“Calm down, calm down,” Maurice sighed. “No one’s accusing you of being interesting.”
“Well, I’d never have considered my son particularly interesting either,” Bob huffed, “until I saw—Lord.” He squinted at the ocean, then picked up a mixture of olive and phthalo blue on his brush. “But I’ve always prided myself on my tolerance, and so I thought, well, what better way to show him my support than to offer a little advice? I didn’t expect it to devolve so quickly into a shouting match.”
“Bob, you interrupted your son in flagrante delicto,” Maurice explained calmly, “and you insulted his partner.”
“I did not!” Bob exploded. “I merely suggested that the Yank’s scrotum wouldn’t stick to the sheets like that if they used a lighter grade of syrup!”
Several gulls launched themselves into noisy, squawking flight at the outburst, and when their cries died away, silence reigned.
“Beautiful sunset,” Maurice observed, some minutes later.
Bob grunted and dabbed another wave onto his canvas.
End
March 2004
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