Stocking Stuffers Part Two
For janie_tangerine:
*This is set in the same verse as "There Must Be Some Kind of Way Out of Here".
The coat lays discarded in the corner, Jimmy never liked it that much anyway, and he’s sick of looking at it now. It reminds him too much of Castiel, too much of all the things he gave up for nothing.
His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, but even that does little to stave off the thick heat of the bar. He can feel his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back and the sensation makes him grimace.
Beside him, Boone looks unfazed.
“How can you stand this?” Jimmy asks.
“I’m from California,” Boone says. “I’m just used to it, I guess.”
Jimmy tugs at his shirt, untucking it in the process. Not for the first time, he wishes he had died in something more comfortable.
“The expression is hot as hell not hot as heaven, you know?” he asks plaintively, his face tilted toward the sky. He remembers a time when his prayers were reverent, now he finds every word he speaks to God filled with mutiny.
Boone laughs and reaches for the buttons of Jimmy’s shirt.
“Calm down,” Boone says. “It won’t last forever.”
“What part of eternity don’t you understand?”
The smile on Boone’s face fades a little, his fingers pausing on the last button.
“I get being angry, trust me. You have no idea how angry I am, but…forever is a really long time to be pissed, man. This is all we’ve got now---a bar with a broken thermostat and decent company. Let’s make the best of it, okay?”
Boone pushes Jimmy’s shirt off his shoulders, balls it up and tosses it in the corner with the jacket. It feels good to see them there, to know that he can be free of something. He leans forward in his seat until he can feel Boone’s breath on his lips. He has the most remarkable lips.
“Okay,” Jimmy says before closing the space between them.
*
For toestastegood:
George still has a long, thin scratch down the side of his face from the crash and Mitchell finds himself pulling George’s hand away from it at least twice a day, as if he’s a child incapable of not picking at his scab. George is rubbing at it once again as they trudge through the jungle, but this time Mitchell doesn’t bother him. Above them, the sky is almost completely dark, the moon will be full soon and then they’ll have much more important problems than George giving himself an infection.
“What if I eat the pregnant girl, Mitchell? Or the doctor? Oh God, this is a disaster. I told you werewolves and vampires weren’t meant to go on holiday.”
“How was I supposed to know the plane was going to crash?” Mitchell asks.
“We’re us, of course it was going to crash.”
“It’s going to be okay, George. I won’t let you eat anyone. Well, maybe that arse with the drawl.”
“Yeah? And what if I eat you?”
There’s a plaintive note in George’s voice that breaks Mitchell’s heart. This really is a fucking disaster. He rests his hand on George’s back and rubs it soothingly.
“If you eat me, you’re on your own, mate,” Mitchell jokes.
“You’re not funny,” George says, but there’s a faint smile on his lips that says otherwise.
A cloud shifts above them, bathing the jungle in soft light. Mitchell can feel George’s back stiffen beneath his hand.
“How do you feel?”
George stretches his hand out in front of him, flexing his fingers before turning to Mitchell in astonishment.
“I should be changing right now.”
“So, why aren’t you?”
George shakes his head.
“I don’t know.”
They wait in the jungle all night, sitting side by side at the base of a tree, for the wolf to come. It never does. By the time the sun comes up, George is crying quietly.
Mitchell wraps an arm around his shoulder, unsure if what he needs is comfort or assurance.
“I don’t ever want to leave this place,” George says.
Mitchell pulls him closer.
*
For primarycolors92:
Sherlock strolls in dripping water on the floor with every step, his dark curls matted flat to his head, and one errant raindrop dribbling down the tip of his nose. John looks up from his book and stifles the urge to laugh.
“You forgot your umbrella?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock says. “The air when I left the flat this morning was dry and cool, not at all conducive for rain. The sky was cloudless and according to all of London’s esteemed meteorologists there were no fronts on the horizon in any direction.”
“So…it’s not raining then?”
“Oh, it is raining, John. But I did not forget my umbrella, there simply was no need for one.”
John sighs and returns to his book.
“Ah, of course there wasn’t. My mistake.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“I’m very wet.”
John doesn’t bother fighting back his laugh this time. Sherlock’s sour, affronted expression combined with his drenched appearance and the fact that he’s standing helplessly in a puddle is just too much to take. He sets his book aside and disappears into the bathroom to find some towels. By the time he gets back, there is a half naked Sherlock all but sitting on top of the radiator.
John grins as he drapes a towel across Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Sherlock?”
“Mmm?”
“Next time you leave the house, take your umbrella.”
“But I didn’t need---”
“Just do it for me. Please?”
Sherlock doesn’t look very happy about this arrangement, but he nods anyway.
“For you.”
*This is set in the same verse as "There Must Be Some Kind of Way Out of Here".
The coat lays discarded in the corner, Jimmy never liked it that much anyway, and he’s sick of looking at it now. It reminds him too much of Castiel, too much of all the things he gave up for nothing.
His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, but even that does little to stave off the thick heat of the bar. He can feel his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back and the sensation makes him grimace.
Beside him, Boone looks unfazed.
“How can you stand this?” Jimmy asks.
“I’m from California,” Boone says. “I’m just used to it, I guess.”
Jimmy tugs at his shirt, untucking it in the process. Not for the first time, he wishes he had died in something more comfortable.
“The expression is hot as hell not hot as heaven, you know?” he asks plaintively, his face tilted toward the sky. He remembers a time when his prayers were reverent, now he finds every word he speaks to God filled with mutiny.
Boone laughs and reaches for the buttons of Jimmy’s shirt.
“Calm down,” Boone says. “It won’t last forever.”
“What part of eternity don’t you understand?”
The smile on Boone’s face fades a little, his fingers pausing on the last button.
“I get being angry, trust me. You have no idea how angry I am, but…forever is a really long time to be pissed, man. This is all we’ve got now---a bar with a broken thermostat and decent company. Let’s make the best of it, okay?”
Boone pushes Jimmy’s shirt off his shoulders, balls it up and tosses it in the corner with the jacket. It feels good to see them there, to know that he can be free of something. He leans forward in his seat until he can feel Boone’s breath on his lips. He has the most remarkable lips.
“Okay,” Jimmy says before closing the space between them.
*
For toestastegood:
George still has a long, thin scratch down the side of his face from the crash and Mitchell finds himself pulling George’s hand away from it at least twice a day, as if he’s a child incapable of not picking at his scab. George is rubbing at it once again as they trudge through the jungle, but this time Mitchell doesn’t bother him. Above them, the sky is almost completely dark, the moon will be full soon and then they’ll have much more important problems than George giving himself an infection.
“What if I eat the pregnant girl, Mitchell? Or the doctor? Oh God, this is a disaster. I told you werewolves and vampires weren’t meant to go on holiday.”
“How was I supposed to know the plane was going to crash?” Mitchell asks.
“We’re us, of course it was going to crash.”
“It’s going to be okay, George. I won’t let you eat anyone. Well, maybe that arse with the drawl.”
“Yeah? And what if I eat you?”
There’s a plaintive note in George’s voice that breaks Mitchell’s heart. This really is a fucking disaster. He rests his hand on George’s back and rubs it soothingly.
“If you eat me, you’re on your own, mate,” Mitchell jokes.
“You’re not funny,” George says, but there’s a faint smile on his lips that says otherwise.
A cloud shifts above them, bathing the jungle in soft light. Mitchell can feel George’s back stiffen beneath his hand.
“How do you feel?”
George stretches his hand out in front of him, flexing his fingers before turning to Mitchell in astonishment.
“I should be changing right now.”
“So, why aren’t you?”
George shakes his head.
“I don’t know.”
They wait in the jungle all night, sitting side by side at the base of a tree, for the wolf to come. It never does. By the time the sun comes up, George is crying quietly.
Mitchell wraps an arm around his shoulder, unsure if what he needs is comfort or assurance.
“I don’t ever want to leave this place,” George says.
Mitchell pulls him closer.
*
For primarycolors92:
Sherlock strolls in dripping water on the floor with every step, his dark curls matted flat to his head, and one errant raindrop dribbling down the tip of his nose. John looks up from his book and stifles the urge to laugh.
“You forgot your umbrella?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock says. “The air when I left the flat this morning was dry and cool, not at all conducive for rain. The sky was cloudless and according to all of London’s esteemed meteorologists there were no fronts on the horizon in any direction.”
“So…it’s not raining then?”
“Oh, it is raining, John. But I did not forget my umbrella, there simply was no need for one.”
John sighs and returns to his book.
“Ah, of course there wasn’t. My mistake.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“I’m very wet.”
John doesn’t bother fighting back his laugh this time. Sherlock’s sour, affronted expression combined with his drenched appearance and the fact that he’s standing helplessly in a puddle is just too much to take. He sets his book aside and disappears into the bathroom to find some towels. By the time he gets back, there is a half naked Sherlock all but sitting on top of the radiator.
John grins as he drapes a towel across Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Sherlock?”
“Mmm?”
“Next time you leave the house, take your umbrella.”
“But I didn’t need---”
“Just do it for me. Please?”
Sherlock doesn’t look very happy about this arrangement, but he nods anyway.
“For you.”