Chapter Text
“Now, the buttermilk is the real secret here,” Ted declared, making himself surprisingly at home in her airy, spotless kitchen. “I usually just use regular old buttermilk, but this stuff… this stuff is gonna blow your socks off.” He glanced down at her bare feet. “Well, so to speak,” he added. Both barefoot, they stood just about the same height.
“Can your tomatoes possibly live up to these promises, Ted?” Her voice was full of mirth as she mixed a pitcher of mimosas for them to share while he cooked. “I have secrets of my own,” she continued, as she pulled vodka from the freezer to add to the orange juice and champagne.
“I like the way you think,” he said with a grin. “Where do you keep the bowls?”
She indicated the correct cupboard with her eyes, and he reached for two large ones, filling the first with buttermilk and the second with corn meal.
“There are many variations of this recipe, as you might imagine. I do it mostly the way my nana did, as you also might imagine. She didn’t like eggs in her fried green tomatoes, so I don’t use them. And, well, I did make one modification at my doctor’s insistence: I use olive oil instead of bacon grease these days.”
Rebecca gave an exaggeratedly relieved sigh. “Thank goodness for that,” she said with a laugh.
“Do you have any aprons? This is gonna get messy fast, boss.” While she went to get an apron for him, he quickly cut three tomatoes, one of each variety, into very thin slices. “This is a great knife,” he mentioned, as he rinsed it and his hands. “Some people like these sliced thicker, but I prefer thin slices. They get nice and crispy that way.”
Rebecca handed him the apron, and he took it, shaking his head. He asked, “Where’s yours?” He slipped his around his neck and tied it in the back.
“Oh, am I meant to help?” She responded. “I was quite enjoying watching.” And she was, reveling in the domesticity of Ted in her kitchen, admiring her knives, standing over her cooker, preparing what he considered a delicacy for them. It didn’t hurt that he had shed his jumper and wore only his jeans and white tee-shirt, and now a frilly apron.
“It’s a two-man job,” he said, so she went back for another apron. As she slid it over her head, facing away from Ted, he took the two strings from her, wrapped them around her waist twice and tied them in the back. She closed her eyes at the sudden contact. He brushed both hands against her hips and she swallowed and reached for her mimosa, downing half the drink.
Ted did the same with his, saying “Whew, you weren’t kidding about the secret ingredient. Good stuff.” He took another sip, then stepped away from her and back to the tomatoes. As Ted set his glass down on the counter, Rebecca was certain she detected a tremble in his hands. Not as unruffled as he was pretending to be, was Mr. Lasso.
Unbidden and unwelcome, Rebecca remembered a long ago round of morning mimosas, with a companion who suggested that she had no business drinking her breakfast.
Ted caught the expression on her face, and concerned, asked, “What’s wrong?”
Rebecca bit her lip. “Oh, nothing, just a ghost of a mimosa past.”
Ted raised his eyebrows, prompting her to continue.
Customary Rupert-related bitterness and hurt crept into her voice. “Once I made mimosas for Rupert and myself, and he accused me of being a lush and suggested the alcohol and sugar would go to my hips. It’s a wonder I still enjoy them at all.”
Ted pretended miscomprehension, glancing deliberately in the direction of her hips. “Pretty sure I’d enjoy them just fine,” he said, his usual anger at Rupert for the harm he had done this woman lacing his tone.
Rebecca’s eyes widened, and she felt her face getting warm. “Ted!” Was all she said, her surprise evident. Yes, they’d gone from enemies to friends to whatever the hell had been happening lately, but neither of them had said anything quite that bold to the other.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca, that was inappropriate. But,” he ground out, “that that son-of-a-bitch made you think that your hips or any other part of you is less than one hundred percent breathtaking…” Ted flexed his fingers slowly. “He didn’t deserve you,” he finished, his teeth clenched and his hands curled into fists.
She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and banished memories of Rupert as she exhaled. She spoke quietly, not quite looking Ted in the eye. “I wouldn’t say it was… inappropriate.” She put her hand on his arm, and he relaxed into her touch.
Ted swallowed audibly and had to change the subject. If his gusto for tomatoes at this moment was just the slightest bit forced, Rebecca couldn’t hold it against him. “You ready to get this show on the road? What we do is dunk the slices in the buttermilk, then swish them around real good in the corn meal, then into the skillet on the, ah, cooker. Now that’s one of y’all’s linguistic variations that I just love. ‘Cooker,’ very expressive. The skillet,” he added, rolling his wrist to let the warming olive oil spread out evenly, “looks just about ready. Then we’ll add salt as they cook and voilà,” he brought is fingers to his lips in an exaggerated chef’s kiss. “Best damn thing since sliced bread.”
The moment had passed, and he was fully genuine in his pleasure at preparing food with her. Ted’s fervor was contagious and by this point, Rebecca’s stomach was growling audibly. He chuckled in delight to hear it, and she said decisively, “Right then, I’ll do the dunking on this assembly line.”
A few minutes later, they had filled the skillet, Rebecca dropping the buttermilk-coated tomato slices into the corn meal, Ted being sure they were covered and carefully transferring them to the cooker. He sprinkled salt on top, and they both rinsed their dough-covered hands as the tomatoes began to sizzle on very low heat. Rebecca finished her drink and raised her glass questioningly towards Ted, who stood over the tomatoes with a spatula, watching but not turning them. “Hit me,” he nodded, reaching her his own empty glass.
Rebecca refilled both glasses to the brim, then carried them back to the counter near the cooker. She handed Ted his, and he let his fingers linger on hers for a beat longer than strictly necessary to collect his mimosa. She shivered at the contact.
“Did you get a chill?” He asked, his eyes on hers, setting his mimosa down after taking a swig.
“Not in the least.” She did not break eye contact this time. “You have a dash of batter on your—” She moved closer and gently scraped the buttermilk and corn meal off his cheek with her fingernail.
He swallowed, and his “thanks” was an octave lower than he usually spoke.
Which of them leaned in first would always be a matter of some debate between the two of them (and Keeley developed her own opinions after discussing the matter with Rebecca later that day). But suddenly they found themselves embracing, in the kitchen, with the crackling of green tomatoes the only sound.
The kiss began tentatively, but immediately became heated, as they wrapped their arms around each other, Rebecca’s around Ted’s shoulders and his around her back. He pulled her tight against him, their hips aligning. Rebecca felt his lips curve up against hers. “What did I say about your hips?” He rumbled, then kissed her again. A jolt of electricity ran down her spine.
Rebecca felt Ted’s tongue against her lips and opened her mouth readily to him. He slid his tongue inside, exploring her mouth, and she might have whimpered.
Breathless, they parted for air, and Ted gasped. “Our tomatoes!” Reluctantly, he released Rebecca and moved to the cooker, rapidly turning over each slice so the other side could have its turn to brown.
He grinned at Rebecca, who was clutching the counter, steadying herself. He said, “Would you look at that? They’re perfect.”
“I missed you,” she said, ignoring the perfection of the tomatoes, her voice just a little ragged.
Ted put the spatula down. “Oh honey, I missed you more than I can even tell you. Somehow over these past months this place has become home to me. You’ve—” He cut himself off before he could say out loud that wherever Rebecca was in the world might feel a lot like home, but he couldn’t say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, either.
Their eyes bright with emotion, they reached for one another again, this time for comfort more than for passion. He felt solid against her, and she didn’t let herself think too hard about consequences and potential problems and oh god, what the Sun would have to say about it.
The sizzling on the cooker got a little louder, and Ted pulled away again, this time to serve up the food. Rebecca moved to get plates, and Ted scooped tomatoes onto each one. They carried their mimosas (and the half-full pitcher) to the table along with their plates of golden brown fried green tomatoes.
Rebecca sat first, and when Ted joined her, he scooted his chair very close, his leg touching hers from ankle to hip, careful to sit to her left so his arm wouldn’t knock into hers as they ate.
“Okay, moment-of-truth time. What do you think?” He cleared his throat and added, “About the tomatoes.”
Rebecca looked at him, knowing that no matter how these things might taste, she couldn’t disappoint him with her reaction. Hesitantly, she blew on her first forkful and took a bite.
Luckily, the simple flavors exploded in her mouth, and her reaction was entirely sincere. “Oh fuck me, Ted, why did I ever doubt you?”
He shook his head, pleased as punch at her pronouncement. “Fried green tomatoes’ll do it every time.” And he dug in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They finished a second skillet full and all the mimosas, and then worked side by side to clean up the abominable mess of a kitchen, which for maybe the first time in Rebecca’s life she was glad she hadn’t paid someone else to do. The buzz from the vodka and champagne and searing kisses from Ted likely explained that, and while they talked about many things, they did not discuss why they were suddenly people who apparently snogged in her kitchen. But the intimacy of reaching around each other, brushing against each other’s bodies to gather the dishes, to wash and dry and put them away—was almost as sensual as the kisses themselves. And Rebecca couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed a mustachioed man, but she could honestly recommend the added friction to all takers.
After the kitchen was clean, one particularly scorching kiss ended with their aprons and Ted’s tee-shirt draped over the back of a kitchen chair and the straps of Rebecca’s dress hanging below her lacy black bra, her midriff bare.
Ted pulled back. “Do you think we should, ah, talk about this?” He asked, pointing back and forth between them.
Rebecca, still catching her breath, groaned. “No?”
“I should probably be heading out, then, because—” He reached for his shirt.
She reached out to stop him. “Wait, Ted, no. I didn’t mean—”
He put his palm over her hand on his forearm. “It’s just that I don’t know what you’re thinking here, Rebecca. I’ve tried one-night stands. Well,” he corrected himself, “one one-night stand. Didn’t take. I care too much about you to—”
“No, this isn’t—this isn’t that.” She knew very well about his one one-night stand and had no interest in hearing his confession about it. And she certainly had no desire to revisit how she had spent that same night in Liverpool. “Must we define it today, though?” She ran a hand through her hair, trying to bring some semblance of order to disorder, the motion making her dress slip further down until it caught on her hips.
“No ma’am, we do not have to do that. If there’s a fighting chance that we’re on the same page, I’m right here with you.” His eyes drifted down to her breasts, and he dropped a kiss on her nipple through the fabric.
“I think there is a, ah, fighting chance. Do that again,” she demanded, breathing embarrassingly hard.
“Happy to, boss,” he murmured, taking his time and trailing kisses across the exposed skin of both breasts. The sensation of his lips and his moustache on her skin was nearly more than she could take and remain standing.
At that moment, Rebecca’s phone buzzed. “Keeley,” she said, reaching for her phone and sending the call to voice mail. She’d probably pay for that later, but right now… right now she had more important things requiring her full attention.
Ted, though, took the interruption as a sign. “Maybe we should slow down a little, how about?”
“Or we could not.” Rebecca suggested, allowing one hand to drift to the front of his jeans, the other rubbing the warm skin of his shoulder.
He gently took both of her hands in his. “I want it to mean something when it happens,” he said quietly.
“You don’t think it would?” She asked, just as serious.
“I think it would,” he admitted. “I think it would’ve last winter. But we owe it to ourselves, and to everyone who counts on us, to be sure before we rush into something we can’t take back.”
Rebecca looked surprised. “Last winter?”
Ted’s ears were red again. He said, simply, “Yes.”
“I’m not taking anything back. But if you insist, I do have a proposal. You mentioned something about Idgie? I bought the movie if you want to watch it with me,” she offered.
Eyes full of affection for her, he said in wonder, “You bought us Fried Green Tomatoes?”
Ted slipped his tee-shirt back on and reverently pulled up the straps on her sundress. When she shivered as he trailed his fingers down her bare arms, he handed her his jumper and said, “I’ve been trying to give this to you all day, you know.”
She let him help her smooth it on over her dress, then took him by the hand and they walked together into the living room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the credits rolled, Rebecca wiped away a tear for the Whistle Stop Café and Ted sleepily shifted his head in her lap, tucking his arm firmly around her hips. He let his eyes drift closed, finally giving in to the effects of a belly full of delicious fried things and mimosas, and the utter relief and comfort of being here, like this, with Rebecca.
She dropped a hand to caress his unruly hair and decided not to put off checking her voicemail any longer, as her message indicator had been beckoning through the entire movie.
Beep. “Rebecca, why the fuck are there photos of you holding hands with Ted in King Street very early this morning and I only found out about it on Instagram?”
Beep. “Shit, are you with him now? Call me and tell me absolutely everything as soon as you get this message.” And a deeper voice, in the background, “Fucking hell, Keeley.”