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Oct. 10th, 2010 07:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyA tiny thing for Cat, who deserves it.
In Tim's old place - never Tony's, as though it was less an assault on his masculinity, conducted on neutral ground - it was always about the bed. Even when it should've moved past that, when it was movie-sprawls and can't-move-bruise-space, can't let it go crime-scene workspace, it was still bed related; a barrier against making what they had any more than it was that Tony didn't even have to engineer.
So Tim hadn't quite been expecting the enthusiasm when he went new apartment hunting, hadn't expected the questions about his new swingin' bachelor pad - and seriously, how did people ever think Tony was cool? - certainly didn't expect the couch-shopping buddy. Or that the memory of how Tony'd looked, sprawled against the artificially-worn soft brown leather and grinning up at him, would be the thing that swung it, in the end.
See, now he's starting to think that maybe it's not so much neutral space as it is the fact that it's Tim's; that letting Tony in on the whole couch-buying process was a promise that he doesn't even remember making, and wouldn't want to take back if he could. It's been in his new apartment all of thirteen days, and Tony's found twice as many ways, so far, of making himself comfortable on it. Upside down, right side up, lengthways both ways; legs hooked over arms and arms hooked over backs and feet tucked up on an arm with his head in Tim's lap; movietime sprawls and mealtime sprawls and post-case too-tired-to-sleeptime sprawls; loose-limbed roll over the back of the sofa into the kind of untidy heap that proves Tony's teenage years will never leave.
And then there're what Tim's pretty sure are Tony's favourite: any kind of sprawl that ends with him draped too heavy over half of Tim, or the greater part of Tim, or if he doesn't move quick enough, pretty much all of him. Likr now, when Tim's trying determinedly to unseat the inert DiNozzo from his couch-arm belly-flopped lassitude, spreading warmth right across Tim's back and entirely too much pressure across his post-beer bladder.
"Tony," he says, warning. When the only response is a pantomimed snore he gives one final heave, finally getting him off-balance and leading to a thud, and a crash, and a skitter of claws on the hardwood floor as Jethro comes in, Tim's pretty sure to laugh.
"Judges give the dismount a five point two," Tim says, and Tony mimes outrage.
"Like hell," he says, "Jethro loves me."
Tim grins and stretches across the soft leather; the couch is pretty much a perfect fit.
"Yeah," he says after a moment. "I guess he does."
In Tim's old place - never Tony's, as though it was less an assault on his masculinity, conducted on neutral ground - it was always about the bed. Even when it should've moved past that, when it was movie-sprawls and can't-move-bruise-space, can't let it go crime-scene workspace, it was still bed related; a barrier against making what they had any more than it was that Tony didn't even have to engineer.
So Tim hadn't quite been expecting the enthusiasm when he went new apartment hunting, hadn't expected the questions about his new swingin' bachelor pad - and seriously, how did people ever think Tony was cool? - certainly didn't expect the couch-shopping buddy. Or that the memory of how Tony'd looked, sprawled against the artificially-worn soft brown leather and grinning up at him, would be the thing that swung it, in the end.
See, now he's starting to think that maybe it's not so much neutral space as it is the fact that it's Tim's; that letting Tony in on the whole couch-buying process was a promise that he doesn't even remember making, and wouldn't want to take back if he could. It's been in his new apartment all of thirteen days, and Tony's found twice as many ways, so far, of making himself comfortable on it. Upside down, right side up, lengthways both ways; legs hooked over arms and arms hooked over backs and feet tucked up on an arm with his head in Tim's lap; movietime sprawls and mealtime sprawls and post-case too-tired-to-sleeptime sprawls; loose-limbed roll over the back of the sofa into the kind of untidy heap that proves Tony's teenage years will never leave.
And then there're what Tim's pretty sure are Tony's favourite: any kind of sprawl that ends with him draped too heavy over half of Tim, or the greater part of Tim, or if he doesn't move quick enough, pretty much all of him. Likr now, when Tim's trying determinedly to unseat the inert DiNozzo from his couch-arm belly-flopped lassitude, spreading warmth right across Tim's back and entirely too much pressure across his post-beer bladder.
"Tony," he says, warning. When the only response is a pantomimed snore he gives one final heave, finally getting him off-balance and leading to a thud, and a crash, and a skitter of claws on the hardwood floor as Jethro comes in, Tim's pretty sure to laugh.
"Judges give the dismount a five point two," Tim says, and Tony mimes outrage.
"Like hell," he says, "Jethro loves me."
Tim grins and stretches across the soft leather; the couch is pretty much a perfect fit.
"Yeah," he says after a moment. "I guess he does."
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Date: 2010-10-10 06:50 pm (UTC)I love the images of Tony-sprawls. And the last line which makes my heart go squinch with happiness. I'm all warm in the belly, now. Thank you! *smishes*