Possibly the sappiest thing I've ever written.
Quick fake!tag because I feel like it.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Monday Night Football and beer
There's nothing that mixes so well as football and beer, especially Monday Night Football and beer. It was tailor-made for beer, really, the time of night, the commercials, the bright excitement of garish graphics and quick cheerleader shots, just enough to tantalize. Farnsworth slams back beer after beer, easy, because it's Monday night, and football's on, and yeah, OK, yesterday was a little rough. The Falcons losing badly, losing when they should have won, and some revelations that, while not precisely unpleasant, are certainly not the best sorts of things to hear.
So, OK, beer. It's Monday, John Madden is nattering on roundly about the Eagles' quarterback woes, he's allowed.
Maybe he drinks a little too much, but it's not like he's got to wake up for work tomorrow anyways, right?
After the last field goal is missed, short from 60 yards, he yawns and gets up, clumsily stripping off his tshirt and scratching at the hollow of his back. Ty comes charging in from around the corner and leaps into the newly-vacated warm spot on the couch, settling down on her haunches quickly and glaring balefully up, daring him to try to reclaim his seat. Farnsworth snorts, tries to pet her head and ends up petting the couch, a good foot to the right. He drops his shirt down onto the cushion next to her, knows she'll pull it over and make a nest of it if she wants, something Ty likes to do with clothing left lying around, she likes having his scent around her, and Bonderman's, something Farnsworth can understand.
He staggers upstairs, deliberately gripping the railing and leading himself up. He barely manages to wash up, banging his forehead on the mirror as he tries to brush his teeth, before kicking off his pants and collapsing into bed in his boxers.
It's warm and nice in bed, Farnsworth perfectly content to lie there with his nose in a pillow, awake but still, the world somehow spinning very very slightly at the corners of his eyes, freezing when he tries to look directly at it and catch it in motion.
Bonderman comes up, quiet as Ty when she sheathes her claws, obviously thinking Farnsworth is already asleep. He slides into bed as carefully as he can, trying to not rock the mattress, slowly easing his side into contact with Farnsworth's, an unconscious, tired happy sigh escaping his lungs.
Farnsworth gives his brain a minute to process this new information ("Bondo/bed/in/warm/bed/OK"), and rolls over, startling Bonderman, whose eyes go wide as he tries to back up in surprise. Farnsworth grabs him about the shoulders, though, reels him back in and licks the knot of muscle where Bonderman's neck meets his shoulder. Bonderman tastes vaguely like the soap he must have used to wash his face before coming to bed, a little salty underneath that, something underneath that neutral and familiar.
"Mine," Farnsworth mutters into the crook of Bonderman's neck, half-slumped on top of him, boneless. "Mine," he adds, intelligently, before biting down and sucking, painful suction while soothing with his tongue.
Bonderman makes a small surprised noise, automatically tilting his head back, arms coming up to surround Farnsworth's back and to cradle the back of his head. Farnsworth finishes the mark to his satisfaction, pulls his head away to rest it on Bonderman's chest so he can look up, fuzzily, at his face.
Bonderman still looks a little surprised, so Farnsworth reaches for his cheek and gets a handful of chin instead. He pats his way up Bonderman's face like a blind person and cups his cheek with slow unsteady fingers. Bonderman's eyes fall closed, the worry line between his eyebrows smooths out, and his face falls into a loose smile.
Farnsworth thinks about all the bad bad people out there who want to take Bonderman away, evil fucking east coast catchers, and strange anonymous men, and Dave Dombrowski, and Bud Selig. He pats Bonderman's face and thinks about how he has to protect him, look out for him, growl and snarl for him, because, Mine, mine, mine.
He slides up a tiny bit and bumps the bridge of his nose into the bottom of Bonderman's chin, huffs out a small laugh, laying two or three untidy kisses along Bonderman's jawline before slumping down to his shoulder and passing out, surrounded by Bonderman's arms and on top of Bonderman's chest, surrounded by the utterly commonplace and utterly unique smell of Bonderman, the taste of him on the incisive ends of his teeth.
He dreams that he's a bear, big, brown, spiky fur and long curving claws. He's running through the forest, running, faster, breath short, muffled cracks behind him, hunters, and hey, he's a hunter, but his bear's mind is fuzzed with light and fear and it doesn't process.
Other bears crash through the underbrush with him, he can hear them and see glimpses of them moving, but it doesn't matter, every bear for himself.
One stumbles into his path, though, only slightly older than a cub, slender and with a thick coat, a juvenile bear with a square muzzle and sad eyes. He nudges it in its side, and the fur feels good on his cold black bear's nose, so he takes the juvenile's ear gently in his teeth and tugs. The hunters are coming. They've got to move.
Everything's muffled around him, the other bears running parallel to them with the volume turned down, the shouts and clinks of the hunters faded. All he can hear is his steady panting and the dry noise his feet make, big on the bed of dried leaves on the forest floor, his gait wide and plodding. The juvenile sets up a quicker, lighter trot, his footfalls setting up a harmony with Farnsworth's heavy bear feet, a harmony in breaking thin colored leaves.
He makes a small noise in bed, a twitch, and he's running on the leaves behind his eyelids, but in bed Bonderman wraps his arms tighter, nuzzles the crown of Farnsworth's head and rests his nose there for a long time.
Farnsworth smiles in his sleep, big and uncomplicated, and the night marches on into dawn.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Monday Night Football and beer
There's nothing that mixes so well as football and beer, especially Monday Night Football and beer. It was tailor-made for beer, really, the time of night, the commercials, the bright excitement of garish graphics and quick cheerleader shots, just enough to tantalize. Farnsworth slams back beer after beer, easy, because it's Monday night, and football's on, and yeah, OK, yesterday was a little rough. The Falcons losing badly, losing when they should have won, and some revelations that, while not precisely unpleasant, are certainly not the best sorts of things to hear.
So, OK, beer. It's Monday, John Madden is nattering on roundly about the Eagles' quarterback woes, he's allowed.
Maybe he drinks a little too much, but it's not like he's got to wake up for work tomorrow anyways, right?
After the last field goal is missed, short from 60 yards, he yawns and gets up, clumsily stripping off his tshirt and scratching at the hollow of his back. Ty comes charging in from around the corner and leaps into the newly-vacated warm spot on the couch, settling down on her haunches quickly and glaring balefully up, daring him to try to reclaim his seat. Farnsworth snorts, tries to pet her head and ends up petting the couch, a good foot to the right. He drops his shirt down onto the cushion next to her, knows she'll pull it over and make a nest of it if she wants, something Ty likes to do with clothing left lying around, she likes having his scent around her, and Bonderman's, something Farnsworth can understand.
He staggers upstairs, deliberately gripping the railing and leading himself up. He barely manages to wash up, banging his forehead on the mirror as he tries to brush his teeth, before kicking off his pants and collapsing into bed in his boxers.
It's warm and nice in bed, Farnsworth perfectly content to lie there with his nose in a pillow, awake but still, the world somehow spinning very very slightly at the corners of his eyes, freezing when he tries to look directly at it and catch it in motion.
Bonderman comes up, quiet as Ty when she sheathes her claws, obviously thinking Farnsworth is already asleep. He slides into bed as carefully as he can, trying to not rock the mattress, slowly easing his side into contact with Farnsworth's, an unconscious, tired happy sigh escaping his lungs.
Farnsworth gives his brain a minute to process this new information ("Bondo/bed/in/warm/bed/OK"), and rolls over, startling Bonderman, whose eyes go wide as he tries to back up in surprise. Farnsworth grabs him about the shoulders, though, reels him back in and licks the knot of muscle where Bonderman's neck meets his shoulder. Bonderman tastes vaguely like the soap he must have used to wash his face before coming to bed, a little salty underneath that, something underneath that neutral and familiar.
"Mine," Farnsworth mutters into the crook of Bonderman's neck, half-slumped on top of him, boneless. "Mine," he adds, intelligently, before biting down and sucking, painful suction while soothing with his tongue.
Bonderman makes a small surprised noise, automatically tilting his head back, arms coming up to surround Farnsworth's back and to cradle the back of his head. Farnsworth finishes the mark to his satisfaction, pulls his head away to rest it on Bonderman's chest so he can look up, fuzzily, at his face.
Bonderman still looks a little surprised, so Farnsworth reaches for his cheek and gets a handful of chin instead. He pats his way up Bonderman's face like a blind person and cups his cheek with slow unsteady fingers. Bonderman's eyes fall closed, the worry line between his eyebrows smooths out, and his face falls into a loose smile.
Farnsworth thinks about all the bad bad people out there who want to take Bonderman away, evil fucking east coast catchers, and strange anonymous men, and Dave Dombrowski, and Bud Selig. He pats Bonderman's face and thinks about how he has to protect him, look out for him, growl and snarl for him, because, Mine, mine, mine.
He slides up a tiny bit and bumps the bridge of his nose into the bottom of Bonderman's chin, huffs out a small laugh, laying two or three untidy kisses along Bonderman's jawline before slumping down to his shoulder and passing out, surrounded by Bonderman's arms and on top of Bonderman's chest, surrounded by the utterly commonplace and utterly unique smell of Bonderman, the taste of him on the incisive ends of his teeth.
He dreams that he's a bear, big, brown, spiky fur and long curving claws. He's running through the forest, running, faster, breath short, muffled cracks behind him, hunters, and hey, he's a hunter, but his bear's mind is fuzzed with light and fear and it doesn't process.
Other bears crash through the underbrush with him, he can hear them and see glimpses of them moving, but it doesn't matter, every bear for himself.
One stumbles into his path, though, only slightly older than a cub, slender and with a thick coat, a juvenile bear with a square muzzle and sad eyes. He nudges it in its side, and the fur feels good on his cold black bear's nose, so he takes the juvenile's ear gently in his teeth and tugs. The hunters are coming. They've got to move.
Everything's muffled around him, the other bears running parallel to them with the volume turned down, the shouts and clinks of the hunters faded. All he can hear is his steady panting and the dry noise his feet make, big on the bed of dried leaves on the forest floor, his gait wide and plodding. The juvenile sets up a quicker, lighter trot, his footfalls setting up a harmony with Farnsworth's heavy bear feet, a harmony in breaking thin colored leaves.
He makes a small noise in bed, a twitch, and he's running on the leaves behind his eyelids, but in bed Bonderman wraps his arms tighter, nuzzles the crown of Farnsworth's head and rests his nose there for a long time.
Farnsworth smiles in his sleep, big and uncomplicated, and the night marches on into dawn.