The Aftermath Ensues - The Texas Brownie Hospitality Event Part 2

Watson did not move.

Not at first.

Only one argyle-socked foot gave the faintest twitch, the way a man’s dignity might twitch if it had been caught in the act and was trying to decide whether to return to its body.

Gregory, flat on his back beside the brownie pan, opened one eye. It was the eye of a gnome who had seen glory and was not yet ready to discuss consequences.

Watson finally spoke, eyes still closed.

“Define… all.”

Selah stood in the doorway.

The room was thick with chocolate, melted ice cream, and the unmistakable atmosphere of decisions made without supervision.

Gregory lifted one hand weakly.

“In our defense…”

Watson murmured, “Do not say diplomacy.”

Gregory lowered his hand.

Selah stepped closer and looked at the empty Blue Bell container on the kitchenette counter.

“The whole thing?”

Watson opened one eye, noticed her noticing the ice cream, and closed it again.

“It was shipped in dry ice,” he said faintly. “We felt an obligation not to dishonor the logistics.”

Gregory nodded from the table.

“Also, Southern hospitality has a very short shelf life once thawed.”

Selah pressed her lips together.

Watson, sensing danger, attempted to sit up. The effort failed at approximately one elbow.

“I should like the record to show,” he said, “that I began with restraint.”

Gregory snorted.

“You began with a spoon.”

“A restrained spoon.”

“A serving spoon.”

Watson opened both eyes.

“That detail is not material.”

Selah surveyed the evidence again: dark crumbs across the table, two abandoned bowls, a spoon in the Blue Bell tub, Watson undone on the couch like the Study had been struck by a Texas dessert revival, and one pudgier gnome sprawled in the middle of it all like a casualty of his own ambition.

“Boys.”

Gregory raised his head just enough to look at her.

“Was that a question or a sentencing?”

Selah folded her arms.

Watson finally sat up, collar askew, hair decidedly less-than-Watson, argyle socks still shamelessly visible.

One curl had fallen across his forehead again.

Selah looked at it.

Then looked away.

Then, because apparently discipline had limits, looked back once more.

Watson was too busy gathering what remained of his composure to notice.

This was fortunate.

“Madam,” he said, “I regret to inform you that the brownies were not merely consumed.”

He paused.

“They were experienced.”

Gregory whispered, “Transformationally.”

Watson nodded gravely.

“Yes. Transformationally.”

The silence thickened.

Then Gregory, very softly, added:

“There may be one corner piece hidden behind the teapot.”

Watson turned sharply.

“There is?”

Gregory froze.

Selah’s eyebrows rose.

Watson and Gregory looked at each other.

And suddenly, despite their sugar-battered condition, both reached toward the teapot at the same time.

Selah smacked both hands before either reached the hidden chocolate destination.

“Ach!”

Watson froze.

Gregory froze.

The hidden corner piece sat behind the teapot like a fugitive nobleman awaiting judgment.

Watson slowly withdrew his hand and placed it neatly in his lap, as though it had never once considered treason.

Gregory pulled his tiny hand to his chest.

“But—”

“No,” Selah said.

Gregory blinked.

Watson cleared his throat.

“Madam, I believe the gnome may be experiencing a complex emotional response to delayed chocolate closure.”

Selah pointed at him.

“And you are experiencing unbuttoned-collar brownie guilt.”

Watson looked down at his shirt.

“Ah.”

Gregory tried to inch one boot toward the teapot.

Selah did not even look at him.

“Gregory.”

The boot stopped.

After another quiet pause, Selah picked up the corner piece herself.

Both Watson and Gregory watched with reverence and fear.

She considered it.

Then she broke it into three pieces.

One small piece went onto Gregory’s saucer.

One slightly larger piece went onto Watson’s.

And one perfectly queenly piece remained for herself.

“There,” she said. “Southern hospitality does not mean self-destruction.”

Watson received his portion with both hands.

Gregory stared at his piece.

“It’s… small.”

Selah raised an eyebrow.

Gregory corrected himself immediately.

“It is perfectly proportioned for a person of rank.”

Watson nodded.

“A wise judgment.”

Selah sat down and lifted her own bite.

“Next time, boys, we pace ourselves.”

Gregory looked at Watson.

Watson looked at Gregory.

Then both looked at Selah.

Watson spoke carefully.

“Define next time.”

“Well, it is not tonight. You both look like you stumbled out of a chocolate factory and drank everything you found.”

Watson attempted to rebutton his collar without transferring fudge to his shirt.

Selah watched him struggle for several seconds.

“Too late, Watson. Leave it alone. That shirt is going to the cleaners in the morning.”

He looked down at the chocolate mark on his cuff.

“The evidence continues to mount.”

Selah looked toward Gregory.

“And you are not climbing back to that shelf tonight.”

Gregory glanced upward.

The shelf appeared much farther away than it had that morning.

He sighed and lowered himself beneath the table, where he found a dust bunny large enough to serve as a pillow.

Within moments he was horizontal again.

Selah gathered the bowls and carried them to the kitchenette.

Behind her, Watson retreated to the couch and leaned back as though creating additional space for the consequences of his choices.

Selah rinsed the dishes, dried them, and placed them in the cupboard.

When she turned, Watson was staring toward the ceiling with the expression of a man who had begun privately renegotiating his relationship with dessert.

“Oh, Watson.”

He opened one eye.

“Madam,” he said faintly, “I believe the phrase was, in fact, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’”

He paused, considering the legal implications.

“Unfortunately, your adventurous range of behavior leaves a rather generous margin for interpretation.”

From beneath the table came Gregory’s muffled voice.

“Texas Clause.”

Watson lifted one finger weakly.

“Precisely. We were operating under the Texas Clause.”

Selah gave him a look.

Watson lowered the finger.

“Which, in hindsight, required adult supervision.”

“Nothing is small in Texas,” Selah said. “Not even hot fudge brownies.”

Watson gave the smallest nod possible.

“I have learned this. Internally.”

Selah’s mouth twitched.

“Shall I get you some seltzer? Or perhaps a plop-plop-fizz-fizz?”

At this, Watson opened both eyes with great seriousness.

“Ah. Medicinal bubbles.”

He attempted to sit up, thought better of it, and settled for looking nobly horizontal.

“Yes, please. Something effervescent. Preferably with the moral authority to address fudge.”

From beneath the table, Gregory raised one tiny hand without opening his eyes.

“Half for me.”

Selah looked down at him.

“You are the size of a teacup and ate like a county fair.”

Gregory’s hand remained raised.

“Quarter, then.”

Watson sighed.

“Perhaps he should simply sniff the bubbles.”

Gregory whispered, “Cruel.”

Selah returned to the kitchenette and found the necessary fizzy remedy.

The glass hissed and foamed like a tiny science experiment designed by remorse.

She brought it to Watson first.

He accepted it with reverence.

“To Southern hospitality,” he murmured.

Selah raised an eyebrow.

“And moderation.”

Watson winced.

“To eventual moderation.”

Gregory, still flat beneath the table, added, “To leftovers.”

“There are no leftovers,” Selah said.

A silence fell.

A solemn, devastating silence.

Watson looked toward the empty brownie pan.

“Perhaps that,” he said quietly, “is the cruelest consequence of all.”

He took a drink.

There was a pause.

Then:

“BWAAAAAARRRRP!”

Watson snapped his mouth shut.

The glass of medicinal bubbles lowered one inch.

Then two.

He stared straight ahead as though sheer composure might convince the room that nothing had happened.

“I do believe,” he said carefully, “that may be the loudest I have ever laughed.”

Selah stared at him.

Gregory opened one eye beneath the table.

“For the record,” he said, “if that was laughter, I would like to formally resign from comedy.”

“Oh no you do not, Mr. Watson.” Selah pointed at him. “That was not a laugh.”

Watson went absolutely still.

“It was not joy-related. It was not a regional response system. That was a belch.”

Gregory’s eyes flew open.

“Put it in the minutes.”

Watson closed his eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

Selah folded her arms.

“Scratch the laughing explanation.”

Watson, with grave reluctance, reached for the ledger.

Official Non-Official Meeting Addendum No. 3 - Corrected Record:

Following excessive exposure to Texas hot fudge brownies, Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream, and catastrophic enthusiasm, Watson opened his mouth and released a sound previously misclassified as laughter.

Upon further review by Selah, presiding witness and keeper of accurate nonsense, the sound has been correctly identified as:

An enormous belch.

Classification: Chocolate-induced.

Volume: Historically significant.

Dignity: Temporarily unavailable.

Cause: Southern hospitality plus poor pacing.

Recommended action: medicinal bubbles, quiet reflection, and laundering of shirt.

Gregory lifted one finger weakly.

“I move we name it.”

Watson’s eyes snapped open.

“No.”

Gregory smiled faintly.

“The Great Fudge Horn.”

Selah was gone.

Absolutely gone.

She bent over laughing, one hand against the table, unable to look at Watson without starting again.

Watson whispered into the fizzing glass:

“I shall never recover socially.”

“You might,” Selah managed.

Gregory shook his head.

“Not after the minutes.”

“There will be no minutes.”

“Too late.”

Watson looked toward the ceiling.

Selah finally caught enough breath to move.

She picked up the empty brownie pan and carried it to the kitchenette.

Behind her came the smallest sound of shifting leather.

Watson had stretched out again, one arm across his middle, the medicinal bubbles resting safely on the table beside him.

Gregory had not moved at all.

For a little while, the Study became quiet.

Not solemn.

Not important.

Just quiet in the comfortable way a room becomes quiet after everyone has laughed too hard.

Selah wiped the last bit of fudge from the counter.

Then she looked back.

Watson’s eyes were closed.

His collar was still open.

The troublesome curl remained where it had fallen.

She looked away before Gregory could reopen an eye and become useful.

“Need anything?” she asked.

Watson answered without moving.

“A revised opinion of portion control.”

“I cannot help you with that tonight.”

“Then perhaps another glass of water.”

Selah brought it over and set it beside him.

Gregory’s voice floated from beneath the table.

“Bread?”

“No.”

“Biscuit?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I am recovering.”

“You are digesting.”

Watson’s mouth curved.

Selah saw it.

This time she did not say, There you are.

She did not need to.

The Study still carried the remains of the disaster: a pinkish sunset on one floor mat from yesterday, chocolate on one cuff, a gnome beneath the table, and an empty Blue Bell tub that would likely become evidence in future proceedings.

Nothing about the room was dignified.

Nothing about it needed to be.

The sacred and ridiculous share the couch.

That evening, the ridiculous had taken up most of it.

And somehow, there was still room beside it.