Title: A Nice, Average, Boring Morning

A/N: Seriously? It has been SEVEN years since I wrote in this fandom. SEVEN YEARS! And this is what I put out? Er, yeah. Slight Creek, but barely noticeable.

Craig Tucker awoke at 7:15, sharp, like he did every morning. As he had done every morning for the past six years.

He swung his legs out over the side of the bed, the right side since he always slept on the right side, and slid his feet into the pair of perfectly aligned duck-shaped furry slippers that rested there. They were bright yellow, fluffy, and as soft as a new pillow.

The door to the master bathroom was on the opposite side of the room. Before doing anything else, Craig always brushed his teeth. He just felt the need to immediately do so upon awakening. This ritual was not born only from the need to vanquish the horror of morning breath, but to help preserve the result of thousands of dollars and years of pain that had been the cost of the braces he had been fitted with in eighth grade. He scrubbed furiously at his already sparkling-white pearls for exactly two minutes before reaching for the floss.

Once the monotone male was sufficiently satisfied with his minty freshness, he turned and covered his nearly naked boxer-clad body with the canary yellow robe that hung carefully from the middle rung of the shelf that clung to the back of the door. Satisfied that any neighbor children that happened to peek through the tidy house's spotless windows would be safe from his nudity, he descended down the well-cushioned stairs into a perfectly-organized kitchen.

Like every morning, a pot of coffee awaited his arrival. Hazelnut. Medium grind. Fair trade, of course.

His usual mug, eggshell white with the Back to the Future time-travelling DeLorean plastered to one side, sat on the drying rack as he had left it after last night's habitual cup of chamomile. After nine hours of waiting for his return, the ceramic was bone dry.

The trickling sound of the coffee as it quickly filled the mug sent a soothing sense of peace through his body. He lifted the mug, inhaled deeply of the nutty scent, and set it in front of his well-worn kitchen chair that had long since molded to every curve and indent of his lower body.

He didn't, and doubted he ever would, possess the strong, leathery mouth so many men claimed were essential to masculinity. As a result, it would be at least fifteen minutes before the coffee cooled enough for him to find it tolerable on his sensitive tongue.

That left him eight minutes for sit-ups, five minutes for pushups, and two minutes for pull-ups. He would repeat this order in the evening, and the repetitive nature of this simple routine showed in his trim yet strong figure. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he skipped eight o'clock reruns of CSI to run on the treadmill.

His simple piece of workout equipment, an arched piece of metal that could give him incline on the floor or support his weight from a door frame, sat in its place between the bookshelf and the aquarium in the livingroom. He did the pull-ups last, as they always left him feeling strained and weak.

He sipped at the still a-bit-too-hot java as he fried up two eggs and waited for the toaster to brown two pieces of bread.

The fruit bowl in the middle held three bananas. He did his shopping on Saturdays. Today was Thursday.

The eggshell mug was drained, rinsed, refilled with cold, fresh orange juice from a pitcher in the fridge. The sweetly tart liquid could quench his thirst in a way a warm brew could not.

The morning newspaper already lay on the table, folded in half, resting on the right side of the fruit bowl. It called for his attention.

He'd read the world news first, then the local, the comics, and end with the advice columns. He never read the sports or classifieds.

After he'd finished, he'd go upstairs and shave, as he did every other day, and wash his face. He showered nightly. He'd splash on his favorite aftershave, which he had been using since he was sixteen, and spray on some deodorant. Next, he'd put on a suit; black, or blue, or brown, depending on the time of year and the day of the week, make sure his tie was done perfectly, and do a quick swipe of his gleaming black shoes to rid them of any unsightly scuffs. Then he would triple check to make sure he had all his paperwork for the day.

He'd open the door and decide whether an umbrella may be needed that day, and he'd check the car for keying or a flat time before he climbed in and buckled his seatbelt securely across his chest. The radio of the car would not need fidgeting with, as it would be set to 96.7, as it had been for the last twenty-two months, since the day he bought it for neither a steal or a rip off, but at a very reasonable, average price. He would sing along to the oldies if the day was cold enough to keep his window up. Which was often.

And he would work. At his boring, dead end job.

And that would be fine with him. Because Craig Tucker liked it nice and boring. In fact, he always had, ever since he was nothing but a nice, boring five-year-old arranging his blocks by color and demanding his peas never come in contact with his potatoes.

So still sitting there, chewing on the corner of a perfectly browned piece of toast while reading today's Garfield, he was perfectly content. What a pleasant, nice, average, boring morning.

And two minutes later, when a spazzing raspberry jam-covered blond holding an excited, chattering guinea pig raced behind him, in one door and out the other, wailing about sea slugs coming up from the sewers, well, that was perfectly fine as well. Thursday, after all, was the day Stripe received his weekly bath.

Craig popped the last bite of his toast into his mouth and stood to put away the dishes.

Just another nice, average, boring morning in the Tucker-Tweak household.