Fic: Threads
Title: Threads
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries, bookverse
Rating and word count: PG-13, but just barely, about 1,200
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson.
Notes: To get myself back in practice I'm once again writing a few random-word fics. This time, the Oxford American Dictionary (wish I could afford the giant OED) gave me "needlecraft." Thank you, as always, to nyteflyer for the beta.
“Well, damn.”
Timothy, engrossed in the tricky business of ironing a shirt cuff, didn’t turn around. “What’s the matter?”
“I just lost a button. Third one from the top.”
“So, sew it back on.” Timothy set the iron on its stand and held up his shirt for inspection. “There’s a sewing kit in my top dresser drawer.”
“I’ll just get another shirt.”
“You’ll have to sew it back on sometime.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Unfortunately, I was wearing was my last clean shirt. I’d put off doing my laundry for any number of reasons, and now I was stuck. If it hadn’t been for an important client meeting I would have dragged a shirt out of the laundry hamper and spritzed it with a little cologne. However, a client who could make me ten thousand dollars richer deserved a clean shirt, one that wasn’t held together with a safety pin.
I started rummaging around in our shared closet. Timothy had quite a few shirts that would have done nicely, but he’d drawn a line when it came to sharing his clothes after I’d gotten blood all over his favorite blue Permapress dress shirt. That it was my blood didn’t soften his position at all.
“Don’t even think about kidnapping one of my shirts.” Timothy was standing right behind me, breathing down my neck.
“I wasn’t.”
“Why don’t you just fix the button?”
“I don’t have time.” That wasn’t true; I had an hour before I had to be at my office. There was plenty of time to sew on the button - except I didn’t know how to do it. Through clever manipulation, lame excuses and sheer laziness, I’d reached the age of forty without getting acquainted with a needle and thread.
“It only takes a couple of minutes. I’ll get the kit.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll just work around it.”
“It’s no bother.”
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Timothy said. “The sewing kit’s in my top drawer.”
As if I needed reminding. I waited until I heard Timothy pick up the phone, then started rummaging through his bedside table. He kept a stapler in there, right next to the Vaseline Intensive Care lotion, for reasons he’d never explained. I could staple my shirt together and hope the staple was less noticeable than a safety pin.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped a foot. “You’re supposed to be on the phone.”
“Wrong number. What are you doing?”
“I have to staple something.”
“Not your shirt. Tell me you’re not going to staple your shirt.”
I tossed the stapler on the bed. “I don’t have time to play Betsy Ross.”
Understanding dawned on Timothy’s face. He always was quick on the uptake. “You don’t know how to sew on a button, do you?”
“Of course, I do.”
“No, you don’t.” Timothy opened his dresser drawer and drew out a small black case. “Looks like I need to teach an old dog a new trick.”
“Bow wow.”
“When we’re done I’ll teach you to sit up and beg.”
“I did that last night.”
“True.” Timothy sat on the bed, opened the case and showed me a selection of threaded needles. “I’ve got one for just about every color. Just remember to rethread the needle before you put it away.”
“Sure.”
Timothy rolled his eyes and pointed to the space between his spread knees. “Kneel down.”
“We don’t have time.”
“You’re hilarious. Kneel down so I can sew on that button.”
I knelt and handed him the button. “Don’t poke me with that needle.”
Timothy pulled out a few loose threads. “I wouldn’t dream of poking you.”
“That’s too bad. I always dream about poking you.”
A grin flirted with the corners of Timothy’s mouth. He drew the needle through my shirt. “Now, pay attention. When you’re fixing a button you have to put in a few anchor stitches first. The button will hold better if you do.”
The scent of Timothy’s cologne wafted from the front of his shirt. I took a deep breath and felt my dick twitch. “Anchor stitches. Got it.”
“Then it’s an easy matter to set the button.” He held the button in place with his thumb, drawing the needle through one of the holes, then back through another hole. He glanced at me. “Are you paying attention?”
Something was paying attention, but it wasn’t my brain. “Strict attention. Very strict attention.”
“Run the needle through two opposite holes about eight or ten times.” He demonstrated, then tied a knot in the back, and bit the thread with his perfect teeth. I found myself wishing he’d bite something else. “Then do the same with the other two holes.”
He rethreaded his needle, squinting as he tried to poke the thread through the eye. “How is it you never learned how to do this?”
I shrugged, engrossed in watching his manicured fingers. “My mother took care of all that.”
“That was nice of your mommy. What about the Army? Surely your mother didn’t follow you to Southeast Asia.”
“I traded favors with the other guys.”
“What kind of favors?”
“Probably the same favors you traded at your Indian chicken ranch.”
Timothy chuckled, and the sound went straight to my crotch. “You know,” I said, “when I’m on my knees we’re usually doing something a lot more interesting.”
“Don’t get any ideas. Remember that I’m armed.” Timothy whipped the needle through the remaining two holes. “So, did Bridget sew your missing buttons after you got married?”
By mutual agreement we didn’t talk about Bridget too often, and I wasn’t about to change that policy. “She couldn’t sew, either. We let the dry cleaners take care of it.”
He stopped sewing and looked at me, his clear blue gaze deep and penetrating. “I hope you don’t think I’ll do this every time you lose a button.”
I touched his freshly shaven cheek. “I’d be willing to take it out in trade.”
He smiled, rubbing his cheek against my palm. “I’ll think about it. I’m not sure you have anything I want.”
I let him have that one. I watched as he knotted the thread, bit it in two and then examined his work. “That should hold for a while.”
He rethreaded his needle, tucking it back into its case. “I think we’re done.”
I didn’t move. My knees were aching, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up. I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed his neck.
“Thank you.”
He wound his arms around my shoulders and kissed my ear. “You’re welcome.” He nibbled on my earlobe, making me shiver. “But I’m still not sewing on all your buttons.”
“Maybe a few?” I pushed his shirt collar aside and kissed the soft skin over his collarbone. “One or two?”
“One or two, but that’s all.” He drew back and kissed my forehead. “Time for your meeting.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I said.
“You can take me out for dinner to make up for it.”
“Deal.”
I kissed him, taking my time about it. I’d rather have stayed right where I was, putting my knees to good use, but even my libido understood the value of ten thousand dollars. However, there was always the evening. Maybe I could loosen the button on my pants.
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries, bookverse
Rating and word count: PG-13, but just barely, about 1,200
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson.
Notes: To get myself back in practice I'm once again writing a few random-word fics. This time, the Oxford American Dictionary (wish I could afford the giant OED) gave me "needlecraft." Thank you, as always, to nyteflyer for the beta.
“Well, damn.”
Timothy, engrossed in the tricky business of ironing a shirt cuff, didn’t turn around. “What’s the matter?”
“I just lost a button. Third one from the top.”
“So, sew it back on.” Timothy set the iron on its stand and held up his shirt for inspection. “There’s a sewing kit in my top dresser drawer.”
“I’ll just get another shirt.”
“You’ll have to sew it back on sometime.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Unfortunately, I was wearing was my last clean shirt. I’d put off doing my laundry for any number of reasons, and now I was stuck. If it hadn’t been for an important client meeting I would have dragged a shirt out of the laundry hamper and spritzed it with a little cologne. However, a client who could make me ten thousand dollars richer deserved a clean shirt, one that wasn’t held together with a safety pin.
I started rummaging around in our shared closet. Timothy had quite a few shirts that would have done nicely, but he’d drawn a line when it came to sharing his clothes after I’d gotten blood all over his favorite blue Permapress dress shirt. That it was my blood didn’t soften his position at all.
“Don’t even think about kidnapping one of my shirts.” Timothy was standing right behind me, breathing down my neck.
“I wasn’t.”
“Why don’t you just fix the button?”
“I don’t have time.” That wasn’t true; I had an hour before I had to be at my office. There was plenty of time to sew on the button - except I didn’t know how to do it. Through clever manipulation, lame excuses and sheer laziness, I’d reached the age of forty without getting acquainted with a needle and thread.
“It only takes a couple of minutes. I’ll get the kit.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll just work around it.”
“It’s no bother.”
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Timothy said. “The sewing kit’s in my top drawer.”
As if I needed reminding. I waited until I heard Timothy pick up the phone, then started rummaging through his bedside table. He kept a stapler in there, right next to the Vaseline Intensive Care lotion, for reasons he’d never explained. I could staple my shirt together and hope the staple was less noticeable than a safety pin.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped a foot. “You’re supposed to be on the phone.”
“Wrong number. What are you doing?”
“I have to staple something.”
“Not your shirt. Tell me you’re not going to staple your shirt.”
I tossed the stapler on the bed. “I don’t have time to play Betsy Ross.”
Understanding dawned on Timothy’s face. He always was quick on the uptake. “You don’t know how to sew on a button, do you?”
“Of course, I do.”
“No, you don’t.” Timothy opened his dresser drawer and drew out a small black case. “Looks like I need to teach an old dog a new trick.”
“Bow wow.”
“When we’re done I’ll teach you to sit up and beg.”
“I did that last night.”
“True.” Timothy sat on the bed, opened the case and showed me a selection of threaded needles. “I’ve got one for just about every color. Just remember to rethread the needle before you put it away.”
“Sure.”
Timothy rolled his eyes and pointed to the space between his spread knees. “Kneel down.”
“We don’t have time.”
“You’re hilarious. Kneel down so I can sew on that button.”
I knelt and handed him the button. “Don’t poke me with that needle.”
Timothy pulled out a few loose threads. “I wouldn’t dream of poking you.”
“That’s too bad. I always dream about poking you.”
A grin flirted with the corners of Timothy’s mouth. He drew the needle through my shirt. “Now, pay attention. When you’re fixing a button you have to put in a few anchor stitches first. The button will hold better if you do.”
The scent of Timothy’s cologne wafted from the front of his shirt. I took a deep breath and felt my dick twitch. “Anchor stitches. Got it.”
“Then it’s an easy matter to set the button.” He held the button in place with his thumb, drawing the needle through one of the holes, then back through another hole. He glanced at me. “Are you paying attention?”
Something was paying attention, but it wasn’t my brain. “Strict attention. Very strict attention.”
“Run the needle through two opposite holes about eight or ten times.” He demonstrated, then tied a knot in the back, and bit the thread with his perfect teeth. I found myself wishing he’d bite something else. “Then do the same with the other two holes.”
He rethreaded his needle, squinting as he tried to poke the thread through the eye. “How is it you never learned how to do this?”
I shrugged, engrossed in watching his manicured fingers. “My mother took care of all that.”
“That was nice of your mommy. What about the Army? Surely your mother didn’t follow you to Southeast Asia.”
“I traded favors with the other guys.”
“What kind of favors?”
“Probably the same favors you traded at your Indian chicken ranch.”
Timothy chuckled, and the sound went straight to my crotch. “You know,” I said, “when I’m on my knees we’re usually doing something a lot more interesting.”
“Don’t get any ideas. Remember that I’m armed.” Timothy whipped the needle through the remaining two holes. “So, did Bridget sew your missing buttons after you got married?”
By mutual agreement we didn’t talk about Bridget too often, and I wasn’t about to change that policy. “She couldn’t sew, either. We let the dry cleaners take care of it.”
He stopped sewing and looked at me, his clear blue gaze deep and penetrating. “I hope you don’t think I’ll do this every time you lose a button.”
I touched his freshly shaven cheek. “I’d be willing to take it out in trade.”
He smiled, rubbing his cheek against my palm. “I’ll think about it. I’m not sure you have anything I want.”
I let him have that one. I watched as he knotted the thread, bit it in two and then examined his work. “That should hold for a while.”
He rethreaded his needle, tucking it back into its case. “I think we’re done.”
I didn’t move. My knees were aching, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up. I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed his neck.
“Thank you.”
He wound his arms around my shoulders and kissed my ear. “You’re welcome.” He nibbled on my earlobe, making me shiver. “But I’m still not sewing on all your buttons.”
“Maybe a few?” I pushed his shirt collar aside and kissed the soft skin over his collarbone. “One or two?”
“One or two, but that’s all.” He drew back and kissed my forehead. “Time for your meeting.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I said.
“You can take me out for dinner to make up for it.”
“Deal.”
I kissed him, taking my time about it. I’d rather have stayed right where I was, putting my knees to good use, but even my libido understood the value of ten thousand dollars. However, there was always the evening. Maybe I could loosen the button on my pants.