Work Text:
“It was 1951,” Nicky says confidently while chopping mushrooms and onions.
“Babe, it was 1953,” Joe corrects, eyes locked on the TV, watching the match.
“51,” asserts Nicky.
Nile watches fondly while Joe shakes his head and protests; Booker catches her eye and sighs bitterly.
“It was 1951!” Nicky is adamant. “The year I perfected my croissant!”
“Aw, Nic,” Booker says, fake-sweet, bottle poised halfway to his lips. “But you never perfected your croissant.”
The world goes slow-mo: Nicky steps towards the couch, knife aloft; Joe leaps in between husband, blade, and brother; and Nile falls off the couch, laughing.