Eliza was staring at her ceiling. It was faceless pale ceiling without any cracks or texture or anything to its name but the fact it was staring back at her. The fact that it knew that she existed and God that was a problem.

Existing was a problem. Having a body was a problem. The fact she could hear someone clunking pots and pans together in the kitchen was a problem. The only thing that wasn’t a problem for once was the fact she had finally chosen a senior project.

Eliza was torn between feeling triumphant and that other emotion. The pit in her stomach that gnawed at her insides. The sticky, cloying, screeching sensation without a name. It was your roommate! It said, you were spying on her!

Eliza shut her eyes, swung her legs out of bed, and told herself to be an adult. Adults faced people they almost masturbated to all the time. She assumed. In some world where that was a normal thing.

She put on her pants, her bra, an undershirt, an over shirt, another shirt, and a jacket that morning. It was the type of morning that demanded layers, and then she took a steadying breath that felt more like a shudder and went to the door.

“Dang it,” She heard Mickey in the kitchen probably making breakfast. Eliza had managed to come home last night without running into her, but hiding wasn’t exactly the most mature thing to do. Well, not the most mature thing, and not even really a possible thing to do. Eliza hadn't actually eaten dinner last night and her stomach felt almost concave.

She ducked her head down and slid toward the bathroom. She glanced at the kitchen where Mickey was staring at her phone and facing a huge glass mixing bowl. Eliza took her time brushing her teeth before coming out again.

Mickey was still there. Standing in another pair of sports shorts and a loose t-shirt. She had her hair pulled into a messy ponytail that was mostly falling out and wearing her glasses. She usually never wore her boxy dark-rimmed glasses and Eliza found herself staring.

You’re going to hell! A voice said and she found herself agreeing. Of course, as Sartre said, hell is other people.

Eliza shuffled slightly closer and wondered how quickly she could grab a trail mix bar without Mickey noticing. Mickey looked up slowly and then smiled, the smile was transformative in the way that getting rabies was transformative. Eliza was gonna have to put the feelings in her stomach down like Old Yeller before they got out of hand.

“Hey ya,” Mickey said easily, “sleep alright? You got home pretty late.”

Eliza gave a jerky nod and stared down at Mickey’s hands. Which was still not a better choice, “No worse than usual.” She said with the humanity of an AI plotting to discover feelings for the first time. “Uh, what’re you making?”

Act normal! Act normal! Eliza chanted in her head. She never has to know you made the jean fabric of your pants you’re bitch last night because of her!

Mickey turned a fat brown flour package around, “I’m trying a new thing I saw on my instagram feed,” she pointed at spiky pineapple on the counter, “okay, so stay with me.” She spread her hands out flat in front of her. “Pineapple... Pancakes.”

Eliza blinked a couple times and tilted her head to the side, “from scratch?”

“From scratch!” Mickey sang, “it’s gonna be killer. You want some? You can be my first guinea pig.”

Eliza shifted from side to side and imagined two angels on her shoulders: one thought she should decline and go wait in her room until work started or death descended. The other thought she should strip off her layers one at a time and pour syrup all over her body and challenge Mickey to lick it off.

The second angel came from her brief but intense demon AUs phase in freshman year of high school.

“...I found the recipe on this blog where she also talks about how she has like five kids, and grew up Mormon, but get this, she left her husband and the whole church when she found out he had a second secret bank account for God knows what reason.” She chuckled, “I mean, we live for the drama.”

Eliza’s consciousness was still weighed with stones and great heaps of unspoken things. “Can I help?”

Mickey peeked up, “huh?”

Eliza prickled as she realized that wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but it would be something. “Pineapple pancakes sound awesome,” she gave a weary smile. “But my mom always said to not let people cook for me unless I had something to offer back.”

Mickey made a face, “that’s a… strange rule.”

“She’s big on hospitality and never owing people things,” she rolled her eyes, “don’t even get me started on the lengths we go to on Christmas to get gifts that price match the ones relatives gave us last year.”

Mickey chuckled, “my mom got me the same earrings for Christmas three times.” She rolled her eyes, “would that count?”

Eliza couldn’t help but mirror her smile. “As long as they came with an elaborately handwritten card that says how grateful you are, but not too grateful.”

Mickey shook her head. “Alright. I’ll take your gratitude then. Do you know anything about chopping pineapple?” Mickey gestured for her to come into the kitchen with her.

Was this making up for it? Like a debt she could secretly pay back through stirring, mixing, and maybe with some extra tearful begging added in later-- if the pancakes didn’t turn out alright at least. She shuffled into the kitchen, “not a thing.” She said hesitantly.

Mickey did most of the work of cutting the pineapple open and then set her to cutting the meat into small chunks.

Her hands weren’t very steady and the chunks were small, but usually all different sizes. Mickey was stirring an egg and flour together now, “this is gonna be so goddamn fluffy, I can feel it.”

Eliza grinned as she worked, “are you on food instagram a lot then?”

“Eh,” Mickey shrugged, “I have a habit of getting on instagram, looking at all the food and clothes I can’t afford, and then deleting instagram. It’s like the water cycle.”

“I bet you make great posts though!” Eliza insisted, “like, with the right filters over your coffee.”

“You think I’m a basic enough bitch to take pictures of my morning coffee?” She shook her head, “I mean, I am, I am, but the fact you can read me already like that is terrifying.”

Eliza snickered, “I live to terrorize.”

Mickey moved over to the stove and turned the flame on to start heating up the pan, “almost done over there?”

“I think…?” Eliza looked over her uneven work. “I’m leaving the main product up to you.”

Mickey looked over and then reached out to take her hand. “You can go quicker if you hold the knife with two hands, one at the top.”

Eliza’s mind blanked out like it just got trapped in a snowstorm. It whited it. It fell off it’s snowboard into an avalanche. Mickey’s thin fingers pressed over hers: right over the knife to hold it down while she pivoted the handle.

It was just skin. It was just hands. It was just Eliza suddenly feeling like her mouth was dry enough to need terraforming like the surface of Mars.

“There,” Mickey drew back, before looking up at her. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Eliza squeaked and searched herself for a better explanation. She cleared her throat, “you know me… Honor roll student. Hates being bad at things.”

Mickey shot her a strange look before going back to stir her bowl one last time. “Well, if you’d like I can teach you how to flip a pancake in the pan. You’ll be the coolest damn honor roll student in the state then.”

Eliza stood up straight, “Yes, master. Teach me how to stop getting wedgies in the hallways by getting good cooking skills.”

Mickey barked a laugh, “well for one thing, don’t call the person giving you wedgies ‘master.’”

Eliza watched as Mickey poured some of the batter into the hot pan with a slow sizzle. It spread out like hungry puddle outward. Eliza's stomach rumbled softly. “Wait, you're the one giving me wedgies here?” She said with a frown.

Mickey looked her up and down which made Eliza freeze, “that depends. Did you ever correct someone’s grammar in middle school?”

Eliza hid her face. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be reading you! You don’t have to come for me like that.”

Mickey gave another heavy laugh. She always laughed like one of those barks you hear from throaty German Shepherds-- deep and a little frightening. Eliza grinned dumbly and didn’t realize she was speaking, “you have a nice laugh you know.”

"Oh." They turned to each other and for a moment they were staring at each other and something softened in Mickey’s gaze. And then they turned away again. “Thanks.” A long, but not uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Mickey watched her pan.

“By the way,” Mickey started adding pineapple to her batter. “I had my show last night and had them vote on which costume they want for my Halloween special.” She said casually, “but you’ll be disappointed lumberjack didn't win.”

Eliza felt like she was still in a haze, “Oh?” I must have missed that part. She noted to herself.

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh, “undead sexy cheerleader was the winner. And I barely got to add the undead part.” She grumbled and flipped the pancake over. It was golden brown on the other side and the smell of warmth filled the space.

Eliza nodded. “Well I’m sure you’ll make a very good zombie.”

“Maybe,” Mickey poked the pancake, “I’m not as great at makeup.” She turned, “Can you get the plates out?”

Eliza got out two plates and the silverware, “maybe just squeeze a bunch of ketchup packets on your clothes.”

“Sure, you’re a genius,” she said dryly as she picked up the pancake and put it on the plate. “But I’m not sure if McDonald's couture will cut it…” She paused, “so hey, you want to watch me make a fool of myself with makeup though?” She said tentatively, “you can laugh at my stupid Costco cheerleader outfit I bought a couple years ago.”

Eliza’s eyes went wide. Is she offering to do more things with me? It felt a little unnatural.

“I’d love to.” She said quickly as she held the plate of pancakes in her hands and stared dumbly ahead. “But unfortunately I have work later.”

“Right, of course.” Mickey looked away as she started on her next pancake.

Eliza leaned forward, “Sorry, I’ll have to miss the debut of your monster. Does she have a name?”

“Yes, of course, Ivanna Ete Yar Branes.” She said factually, “she's a foreign exchange accounting student who is in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Eliza nodded as if she understood, “Ivanna sounds perfect. I’m sure your audience will appreciate your ketchup strewn dead body.”

Mickey rolled her eyes, “go eat your pancake before I give you another wedgie!”

Eliza got out of the kitchen with a laugh, syrup and butter in hand. "Yes sir."

“Now,” Mickey clapped her hands as Eliza sat down, “tell me what you think.”

Eliza looked up as she settled into the seat. Mickey was still watching her. She cut the pancake very carefully, her movements a little stiff and jerky. She deliberately shoved it into her mouth and chewed slowly for Mickey's benefit. It was warm and light, thick with a little tart from the pineapple mixing with the bright sweetness. And of course, very fluffy. She swallowed before smiling like the sun was just invented, “it’s delicious. Really, really good, I'm serious. You should be proud.”

Mickey wasn’t smiling back though, she was just watching her eat it. “Yeah.” She said still enigmatically, “I appreciate your help, Eliza.”

Eliza almost choked on her next bite under Mickey’s intense gaze. I had to, she thought, I have to make it up to you somehow.

The pancakes ended up tasting like the best thing Eliza had eaten in weeks.