Saturday night

[melagan.livejournal.com]

He's never sure how it happens. One minute all is cool and going to plan and the next thing you know Brendan does some innocent little thing that completely derails him.

Tonight Brendan got home before him and started cooking dinner. It's a standard plan. Whoever gets home first, cooks. Vincent tries to get home early if at all possible. He likes to cook and Brendan, well to say he's not a chef would be kind, at least the scrabbled egg, hotdog, and canned pineapple combo had been interesting.

This time it has nothing to do with food. Brendan is stirring some damn thing on the stove, still in his suitcoat and tie. The only concessions to relaxation Bren's made is a slightly loosened knot in his tie and his naked feet.

Vincent has to sit, staring as Bren moves around the kitchen innocently flashing bare ankles at him. Ankles that Vincent knows exactly how they taste from the kisses he's lavished on them. He knows how warm they are rubbing up against his calf when they're in bed, and Vincent's intimately aware of how they look in heels.

Vince doesn't really care what Brendan cooks right now, just as long as it's fast. He'll help. Least he can do is pour some wine and he will... just as soon as he can stand.