FIC REPOST: the good part
Title: the good part
Author: vensre
Starring: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The way that I can imagine is not the true Way.
Notes: Written for puddle_took, to make her happy. Originally posted here.
~:
Stretch.
Stretchh.
Pause. ScribblescribblescribbleERASEscribblescribble. Pause.
Stretchhhh. This time his shirt rides up, and you look away carefully.
It's just skin.
Brushing eraser-dust onto the floor, nibling on the point of his pencil, and you know that next time he smiles there'll be traces of graphite on his teeth. You resolve to make him smile as soon as possible.
ScribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribbleSTRETCH, a serious stretch, edge of boxers displayed through the slot in the chair-back, and you are inordinately pleased that they are the ones you gave him last Christmas. No, two Christmasses ago.
Never mind what kind of mates give each other pants for Christmas. You gave him that journal, too, didn't you? And if you could turn the thermostat down just one more degree, maybe he'd need one of your jumpers, and--
Nuh uh. That's going a bit far.
But he's in your house. He's already surrounded by you. Only not literally.
How easy it suddenly is to move to remedy that.
Your arms slide around his shoulders from behind, and he does not start at your touch. He breathes deep before looking at you, and stretches that long neck backward, chin to the sky. Ceiling.
You rest your cheek on his. You've been thinking.
"Bored, Bills?" It occurs that you were supposed to have been reading. A glance over your shoulder shows your book set pages-down and getting a bit rumpled. It would piss you off if you've lost your place, but that really isn't a priority right now, is it?
"Getting there."
He lets his breath out through his nose like a yawn. His skin smells of... and here your mind fails, because there aren't enough good words for scent in the English language. Hmm. I'd say... brownish-gold.
You laugh, and he sits up and twists without shaking off your arms, so his can go around your waist, too, and suddenly you're a hundred times more okay than you were, and you hadn't even noticed if you weren't.
"D'you need me t' entertain you? Isn't that your job, host? What do you do when I'm not here?"
"Rot, mostly," you confess, and he laughs and you laugh and no, it isn't true, but it feels that way right now.
He pulls on your waist, then, hauling himself up out of the chair so that you almost fall, but of course you don't really. Then he's standing there with a vaugely puzzled, curious look. Like should I try juggling, then, what?
"Read to me," you say, with no preplanning, and. "Well, maybe you've not read this, and I'm halfway through, but--"
"Alright." He leans over (such unlikely angles to him sometimes) and snags the book, a finger where it was open as he flips through. "What, no Kissing In Manhattan?"
Rats! That would have been an experience. "Nawp, finished that one. Ehm, from here, then," you point out your place, not lost after all, and he grins and parks himself carelessly on the loveseat, one leg thrown over the armrest. His hair is ridiculous.
"Ha-h'm. Here was something that Ford felt he could speak about with authority. Hey, I've read this!"
"Have you?" You've settled beside him, not quite relaxed enough. You have the obdurate urge to read over his shoulder.
"Ages ago. This is classic! Why'd you take off the dust jacket? Oh, never mind, here goes: 'Life,' he said, 'is like a grapefruit.' 'Er, how so?' 'Well, it's sort of orangey-yellow and dimpled on the outside and squidgy in the middle. It's got pips inside, too. Oh, and some people have half a one for breakfast.' Ha!" says Dom loudly, and you jump a little. "You've never read this before? And you're almost to the good part, why'd you stop? This isn't a boring book, you know," he says with authority. "It's insane."
"I was..." you trail off. Not much you can say, really. Well. "I was at a good part."
"You were at a good part," he repeats mildly, untroubled.
"Yeh. 'Cause." And your hand tugs on the tail of his shirt a little, just kind of a pullpullpull that he'll hardly notice. Your knuckle bumps the soft skin of his side, and he writhes a little, in no position to escape, really, and looks at you.
And sighs, and smiles a little glowy smile. And leans over and lets the book slide off his lap, leans on you, and you didn't expect it but he's draped across your lap now, inhaling and exhaling like a monk trained to do it all day for the path to heaven. His arms are heavy, and it can't feel good, your knee digging into wherever it's digging.
Dom's weight settles on you, and if you were okay before, now you are... something way better. But you're not thinking too hard about it.
"Me too," he says, and you laugh, and kiss his nose, and just, sort of...
Yeah.
Spend the rest of the evening like that.
:~
{The bit Dom reads is from Chapter 23 of So Long And Thanks For All The Fish, by Douglas Adams. No infringement intended.}
Author: vensre
Starring: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The way that I can imagine is not the true Way.
Notes: Written for puddle_took, to make her happy. Originally posted here.
~:
Stretch.
Stretchh.
Pause. ScribblescribblescribbleERASEscribblescribble. Pause.
Stretchhhh. This time his shirt rides up, and you look away carefully.
It's just skin.
Brushing eraser-dust onto the floor, nibling on the point of his pencil, and you know that next time he smiles there'll be traces of graphite on his teeth. You resolve to make him smile as soon as possible.
ScribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribbleSTRETCH, a serious stretch, edge of boxers displayed through the slot in the chair-back, and you are inordinately pleased that they are the ones you gave him last Christmas. No, two Christmasses ago.
Never mind what kind of mates give each other pants for Christmas. You gave him that journal, too, didn't you? And if you could turn the thermostat down just one more degree, maybe he'd need one of your jumpers, and--
Nuh uh. That's going a bit far.
But he's in your house. He's already surrounded by you. Only not literally.
How easy it suddenly is to move to remedy that.
Your arms slide around his shoulders from behind, and he does not start at your touch. He breathes deep before looking at you, and stretches that long neck backward, chin to the sky. Ceiling.
You rest your cheek on his. You've been thinking.
"Bored, Bills?" It occurs that you were supposed to have been reading. A glance over your shoulder shows your book set pages-down and getting a bit rumpled. It would piss you off if you've lost your place, but that really isn't a priority right now, is it?
"Getting there."
He lets his breath out through his nose like a yawn. His skin smells of... and here your mind fails, because there aren't enough good words for scent in the English language. Hmm. I'd say... brownish-gold.
You laugh, and he sits up and twists without shaking off your arms, so his can go around your waist, too, and suddenly you're a hundred times more okay than you were, and you hadn't even noticed if you weren't.
"D'you need me t' entertain you? Isn't that your job, host? What do you do when I'm not here?"
"Rot, mostly," you confess, and he laughs and you laugh and no, it isn't true, but it feels that way right now.
He pulls on your waist, then, hauling himself up out of the chair so that you almost fall, but of course you don't really. Then he's standing there with a vaugely puzzled, curious look. Like should I try juggling, then, what?
"Read to me," you say, with no preplanning, and. "Well, maybe you've not read this, and I'm halfway through, but--"
"Alright." He leans over (such unlikely angles to him sometimes) and snags the book, a finger where it was open as he flips through. "What, no Kissing In Manhattan?"
Rats! That would have been an experience. "Nawp, finished that one. Ehm, from here, then," you point out your place, not lost after all, and he grins and parks himself carelessly on the loveseat, one leg thrown over the armrest. His hair is ridiculous.
"Ha-h'm. Here was something that Ford felt he could speak about with authority. Hey, I've read this!"
"Have you?" You've settled beside him, not quite relaxed enough. You have the obdurate urge to read over his shoulder.
"Ages ago. This is classic! Why'd you take off the dust jacket? Oh, never mind, here goes: 'Life,' he said, 'is like a grapefruit.' 'Er, how so?' 'Well, it's sort of orangey-yellow and dimpled on the outside and squidgy in the middle. It's got pips inside, too. Oh, and some people have half a one for breakfast.' Ha!" says Dom loudly, and you jump a little. "You've never read this before? And you're almost to the good part, why'd you stop? This isn't a boring book, you know," he says with authority. "It's insane."
"I was..." you trail off. Not much you can say, really. Well. "I was at a good part."
"You were at a good part," he repeats mildly, untroubled.
"Yeh. 'Cause." And your hand tugs on the tail of his shirt a little, just kind of a pullpullpull that he'll hardly notice. Your knuckle bumps the soft skin of his side, and he writhes a little, in no position to escape, really, and looks at you.
And sighs, and smiles a little glowy smile. And leans over and lets the book slide off his lap, leans on you, and you didn't expect it but he's draped across your lap now, inhaling and exhaling like a monk trained to do it all day for the path to heaven. His arms are heavy, and it can't feel good, your knee digging into wherever it's digging.
Dom's weight settles on you, and if you were okay before, now you are... something way better. But you're not thinking too hard about it.
"Me too," he says, and you laugh, and kiss his nose, and just, sort of...
Yeah.
Spend the rest of the evening like that.
:~
{The bit Dom reads is from Chapter 23 of So Long And Thanks For All The Fish, by Douglas Adams. No infringement intended.}