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Buttered Toast

By skwirelygurli


Buttered Toast

Buttered Toast, an Austin and Ally one-shot

I do not own Austin and Ally. Special thanks to polkadotty and naada. Keep the requests and reviews coming! Also, the song from He Wrote it on a Napkin is now posted on skwirelygurli .tumblr

He feels like a cat with buttered toast strapped to its back. Falling faster, and harder, not knowing if he'll land on his feet. The rain is pounding down on him. So if anything, he's a wet cat with soggy toast strapped to his back. Fantastic.

It's the stormiest night they've had in a while. It's also the night he's forgotten his key, and the spare is not under the flower pot.

His phone is in his pocket. He could call someone, or go next door, where his neighbor, Miss Jones will bring him warm chocolate chip cookies and wrap him in an afghan. His stomach is rumbling, but he doesn't think he can manage to eat anything. His stomach is in knots.

The knots that you get when you completely ruin everything and then almost kiss your best friend.

Surely a boy scout must have woven them, because he can't get them apart. They won't budge, and the more he tries, the more he thinks about her. That only tightens the knot.

The neighbor's cat stares at him through the window. Maybe he should go over there after all. Then he'll strap buttered toast to her back, drop her and see if she falls on her feet. If she does, he knows that he'll be okay. If she doesn't, then he knows that he's screwed.

If she doesn't, he'll be back out in the pouring rain.

No, that's not some metaphor about how he'll cry his eyes out because everything is not okay. It's him knowing that he'll get kicked out for putting her cat in harms way. People don't take very kindly to buttered cats falling on their faces.

She turns the record player on. He can hear it through the window. Half deaf, she tends to blast her music, oldies from the forties.

It's like those movies, where the guy goes outside the girl's window, blasting their favorite song from his boombox. It's just them and their music, the rest of the world ignored.

He pictured this scene with less Ella Fitzgerald and lipstick stained smiles. Something more along the lines of Bruno Mars, singing about how when he sees her face, he thinks she's amazing. How he thinks Ally is amazing.

Not Miss Jones. That'd be creepy.

Speaking of his neighbor, she picks up her cat, waving at him. She motions for him to come over. He doesn't want to, as he'd rather be left here to drown in his thoughts, or the rain if it keeps it up, but he goes anyway. It'll do no good if he catches cold.

The door opens before he gets a chance to knock. He enters, wiping his shoes on the mat. She motions for him to take his shoes off. He sets them next to her orthopedic shoes.

Guiding him into the living room, she pulls the afghan off the back of the couch. He knew this would happen.

Why can't it be this easy to predict Ally's behavior? Then he would know that it is okay to kiss her. Or not okay. Or maybe okay, we'll see where this goes.

See, it's too difficult. Here he knows that she's going to bring out the tray of cookies, sit back in her rocking chair and knit booties for her newborn granddaughter. He knows that they'll be chocolate chip (they were her husband's favorite), and that she'll tilt back too far to the point where he thinks she is going to fall. He knows that he worries for nothing. She never falls.

The yarn is itchy against his skin. It's not soft like when Ally's hair tickles up against his cheek as they hug.

The cookies get set on the table. His stomach growls, smelling the chocolate.

Perhaps a cookie could unwind these knots? Because he needs to relax and tell himself that this is the real world. People kiss each other all the time. Seeing as how he didn't even kiss her, he shouldn't be worried.

He's totally worried.

Biting into a cookie, the chocolate melts on his tongue. He should be enjoying this cookie. Instead, he's thinking about how this whole situation is entirely too cliché. He fell for his best friend. He's still falling, hard and fast, like that stupid buttered cat.

He looks over at the cat. Now how is he going to strap a piece of toast to her back without making a scene?

He stuffs the rest of the cookie in his mouth. That way, he can focus on how amazing this cookie tastes, and not how amazing his best friend is in every and all ways. Her hugs, her laugh, that smile.

Nope, he's not thinking about it.

Well, maybe just a little bit. (If a little bit means it, and only it, that is.)

So what if he's thinking about how his friendship feelings have gone on vacation, leaving his love-ship feelings in charge? Wait, love-ship isn't a word. But truly, there are no words to describe how he feels about Ally. It's not like he's going to take the time to find one either. He's spending too much time trying to ignore the feelings to put a name to them.

For trying to ignore them, he's doing a pretty lousy job.

The cat jumps onto his lap. Miss Jones smiles over her knitting needles. They click together, weaving the red yarn into a bootie.

Red. Of all colors, she had to pick red. The color of Ally's dress, which she had been wearing when he almost kissed her. He opens his eyes to find the cat looking back at him. It's not Ally, with her surprised expression and wide eyes.

The cat digs her claws into his stomach.

Huh. Somehow the pain evades him. Maybe it's because he's too busy thinking about a special someone to care that a cat is using him as her personal scratching post.

There's no reason they can't be together. He's taken Elliott out of the picture, so there is no one to steal her away. And if anyone tries, then he'll have to one up them again. Which will ultimately make him look like a fool.

A fool who can rewrite the ending and kiss the girl this time. This is his story, and he can do what he pleases.

Except it's her story too, and if their tales don't align, then it won't matter if he can write his own ending. Not every story gets a happily ever after. This could be one of those stories.

Another cookie to quiet his thoughts.

No amount of sugar is going to quiet these thoughts. It's not going to untie the knot in his stomach either.

He holds the remainder of his cookie in his hand, rubbing the cat's head with the other. She takes her claws out of his stomach. He doesn't notice.

What he does notice is the picture of Romeo and Juliet on her wall. He's sitting on her balcony ledge, ready to kiss her. Here are two people, madly in love, enough to go behind their parents' backs to see each other.

His parents love Ally, and he still can't find the nerve to ask her out. There is something gravely wrong with the universe.

Though with her, he feels out of this world, so as far as the universe is concerned, he's afraid it can't take the blame. It's his fault that he isn't risking it. It's his fault that he's fallen, hard and fast, for his best friend.

His hand ceases its circles on the cat's head. If only he had some buttered toast on hand.

No, he is going to quit comparing himself to buttered toast on a cat. He may be falling, not knowing if he's going to land on his feet, but no amount of animal cruelty is going to solve this problem. The only way to fix this is to get out of this blanket and go find Ally. Sticking the rest of the cookie in his mouth, he picks up the cat. She gets set on the floor.

Flinging the blanket off of him, he runs for the door. He knows that she wont let him out until his parents come home. He needs to escape before her little legs can catch up.

He races down the sidewalk. The downpour hasn't slowed, and puddles line the way. If he were Superman, he could rush to her side, without injury. But he's not, so he slips in the water, and falls to the ground.

That settles if he's going to land on his feet or not. Answer, no.

Too bad. He doesn't care anymore. He's going to keep going, picking himself back up, running to her house. It's now or not now (because he doubts that he would never reach this moment) and he's choosing now.

He knocks on her door, panting. He's soaked. Rain drips from the ends of his hair, to the beat of his speeding heart.

When the door opens, her eyes widen. There on her stoop is her best friend, with soaked socks on his feet and an unreadable look on his face. A row of candles flicker on the table. They smell of vanilla. They're not there to set the mood. Rather, the power has gone out since he fled from his neighbor's house, and they're the only thing illuminating her face.

The scent of vanilla is meant to calm people down. Yet his heart is still racing, and it's not from running all the way here. It's not from those tumbles he took either. (He slipped three times in the puddles, and will most likely have skinned knees in the morning, but he's far too preoccupied to care about that now.)

He tugs her outside, pulling her to his body. Her pajamas get soaked.

One blink. Two blinks.

The third time, their eyes stay shut.

His skinned knees begin to wobble when she kisses him back. For backing away earlier, she sure isn't now.

The knot in his stomach unravels.

Some people don't get their happy endings.

This is not one of those stories.

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