Brian gets them a deep fryer for the wedding.

They know it's Brian, specifically, because a different present arrives from Leighanne, with a note saying that it's not her fault, and Kevin could have warned her his cousin was a freak.

Their first night back, after the honeymoon, Kevin hitches Brit in his arms and carries her over the threshold, even though she threatens to kick his ass if he drops her. He dumps her on the couch, crosses his arms, and says, "When're you making my dinner then, woman?"

Britney raises an eyebrow -- a trick she learned from him -- and he barely makes it to the door to get their bags inside.

When he comes back, she's in the kitchen, contemplating the fryer. He lounges in the doorway, watching her, and a smile plays about his lips.

"Do you know how to use it?" he asks.

Britney snorts. "I'm a Southern Lady," she says. "I know how to fry up some chicken."

"Mmhm."

"I suppose you're an expert, then."

"Well, sure," Kevin says, moving into the room. "I am a Southern Gentleman. You just put the oil, um." He picks the fryer up, rotating it. "Here?" he says.

Britney cocks her head. "Yeah," she says after a minute. "That looks right."

"Where's the oil?"

"Where's it always been?" She pulls open a cupboard, then closes it and opens another one. "Vegetable, olive, or Crisco?"

"Crisco, of course."

"Well, pardon me." She tosses him the bottle.

"Always," Kevin says, and Britney smiles as she opens the fridge.

"We need to make breading. Do we have--ah, there."

"Is the chicken cut?"

"No, would you?"

They putter around each other, the next few minutes, a dance they learned over the past 6 months, ever since she moved in with him. It's not as graceful as their rhumba, but homier, and they slide through the steps with the same practiced ease. He's handing her the pepper when the spluttering starts.

"What is--" Britney hardly has time to speak before there's a loud bang, the fryer jumps six inches in the air, and oil shoots all over the kitchen. They're lucky it's not hot enough to burn, because within seconds both of them are drenched. "How much oil did you *use*?"

"Half the bottle."

"Half the *bottle*?"

"Well, there wasn't a way to measure, and it all went in. Besides," Kevin says, his eyes raking over her oil-soaked clothes, "you didn't know how to use it either."

"I did too!"

"Britney."

"Fine, but still. Look at me," she says, and Kevin does. Her skin is glistening, even in the artificial lights, and where her skin is covered, wet clothes cling to her form. Kevin licks his lips, and brushes a tendril of grease-dampened hair off her forehead.

"Beautiful," he says.

Britney tosses a handful of breading at him. "You," she says, "are good enough to eat."

Kevin looks down at his chest, where the oil glues crumbs to his t-shirt, and arches an eyebrow at his bride. "Was that necessary?" he asks.

"No," she says, barely containing her giggles. "This, on the other hand..."

He shoots an arm up automatically, but bits of breading still pepper his hair. Before Britney can continue, he upends the bowl on her head, sending flour and breadcrumbs all over her. She wipes at her face, blinking, and laughs all the harder.

Kevin cups her cheek, brushing away crumbs with his finger. She looks up at him, eyes darkening.

"Beautiful," he says again, and ducks his head, pressing their lips together. Her mouth falls open, warm and soft and welcoming, and when she mewls in the back of her throat the vibrations tickle his tongue.

Britney rubs her thumb across his waist, under his shirt. "Kevin," she murmurs into the kiss, and he breaks away to pull the t-shirt off. Hands rake through buttons, fumble with belts, and they press against each other, hungry. He throws an arm around her waist to keep her from slipping, the oily floor making both of them unsteady -- unsteadier. Growling with frustration, he slides across the floor to a chair, pulling her onto his lap, and still she kisses him, eyes closed, pouring heat into his body from hers.

They sink to the floor, together, and dinner is forgotten.