igrab
in
the_grrrrid
On Sundays | Sam/Rinzler
title. On Sundays
author. igrab
pairing. Sam/Rinzler
wordcount. 538
summary. Being human is about making choices, and having choices to make.
On Sundays, Rinzler wakes up to the smell of bacon.
There's a lot of things the Grid didn't have. Those memories are going fuzzy in his head, because he's human now, he doesn't have perfect recall. He's glad of it. Being human is so different, being human is like being free. How did that song go? The one Sam swears he never listens to but is on his ipod all the same? So this is my new freedom, it's funny, I don't remember being chained. It's like that.
Being human is about making choices, and having choices to make.
On Sundays, Rinzler wakes up to the smell of bacon, because Sam is surprisingly active when he doesn't have to be anywhere. Rinzler has choices. He can go out into the living room and wrap around Sam like an overly affectionate octopus. He can let his head fall back to the pillow, drift back into one of those dream-lands that continue to fascinate him, see if anyone he knows is there. It might be Sam or Quorra, laughing and making him feel. It might be Clu. It might be Tron. There's a kind of game in never knowing.
He can even, if he wants to, roll around on the floor or get up and walk out the door, he can do whatever he wants, because he's human, and it's Sunday.
On this particular Sunday, Rinzler stretches. He feels the slightly-warm spot where Sam must have been not all too long ago, and he rolls over onto that side, just for a moment. He tries to see the world through Sam's eyes. Too much work. Too crazy. (The best part of loving someone, Rinzler thinks, is a little like dreaming. You never know.)
He slides out of bed and rolls around on the floor a little. This section of Sam's place is carpeted, which is such an endless source of unbelievable joy that Rinzler has trouble putting it into words. He just rolls and rolls and makes that sound with his damaged vocal chords that Sam calls purring, as his body is surrounded by soft furry goodness that tickles when he stays still.
After a few minutes of that, he stands, looks around in a general way for pants but doesn't put out much of an effort. It's Sunday. Sam has no rules on Sunday, but, like the unspoken rule of no rules, there's also an unspoken disdain for clothes of any kind, because it's Sunday, it's just them, they're together and clothes just get in the way.
He makes his way out to the main room, pantsless. Sam is cooking, also pantsless, and the sizzling smell of bacon draws Rinzler like a magnet to the stove, where he doesn't try to hug Sam to death - not yet - he just rests his chin there, on his shoulder, his mind a lovely stream of baconbaconbacon.
"Morning, sunshine," Sam says in his low, teasing voice, and Rinzler doesn't feel teased. He feels warm, like the sun. He feels safe. He feels loved.
author. igrab
pairing. Sam/Rinzler
wordcount. 538
summary. Being human is about making choices, and having choices to make.
On Sundays, Rinzler wakes up to the smell of bacon.
There's a lot of things the Grid didn't have. Those memories are going fuzzy in his head, because he's human now, he doesn't have perfect recall. He's glad of it. Being human is so different, being human is like being free. How did that song go? The one Sam swears he never listens to but is on his ipod all the same? So this is my new freedom, it's funny, I don't remember being chained. It's like that.
Being human is about making choices, and having choices to make.
On Sundays, Rinzler wakes up to the smell of bacon, because Sam is surprisingly active when he doesn't have to be anywhere. Rinzler has choices. He can go out into the living room and wrap around Sam like an overly affectionate octopus. He can let his head fall back to the pillow, drift back into one of those dream-lands that continue to fascinate him, see if anyone he knows is there. It might be Sam or Quorra, laughing and making him feel. It might be Clu. It might be Tron. There's a kind of game in never knowing.
He can even, if he wants to, roll around on the floor or get up and walk out the door, he can do whatever he wants, because he's human, and it's Sunday.
On this particular Sunday, Rinzler stretches. He feels the slightly-warm spot where Sam must have been not all too long ago, and he rolls over onto that side, just for a moment. He tries to see the world through Sam's eyes. Too much work. Too crazy. (The best part of loving someone, Rinzler thinks, is a little like dreaming. You never know.)
He slides out of bed and rolls around on the floor a little. This section of Sam's place is carpeted, which is such an endless source of unbelievable joy that Rinzler has trouble putting it into words. He just rolls and rolls and makes that sound with his damaged vocal chords that Sam calls purring, as his body is surrounded by soft furry goodness that tickles when he stays still.
After a few minutes of that, he stands, looks around in a general way for pants but doesn't put out much of an effort. It's Sunday. Sam has no rules on Sunday, but, like the unspoken rule of no rules, there's also an unspoken disdain for clothes of any kind, because it's Sunday, it's just them, they're together and clothes just get in the way.
He makes his way out to the main room, pantsless. Sam is cooking, also pantsless, and the sizzling smell of bacon draws Rinzler like a magnet to the stove, where he doesn't try to hug Sam to death - not yet - he just rests his chin there, on his shoulder, his mind a lovely stream of baconbaconbacon.
"Morning, sunshine," Sam says in his low, teasing voice, and Rinzler doesn't feel teased. He feels warm, like the sun. He feels safe. He feels loved.