Retarded little commentfic
Prompted by a truly stupid conversation about pinstriped fedoras and footie pajamas with cassiopeia13 over at jim_and_bones. I kid you not.
Bones keeps a straight face for less than a second after Jim emerges from the bedroom. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Jim tries to scowl, but only ends up sneezing. “Shut up. I’m sick. Aren’t you supposed to be coddling me right now?”
“And end up sick myself?” Bones says, amazingly unsympathetic. “It’s your own damn fault you’re not up-to-date on your vaccinations.” He peers down at Jim’s feet. “Are those- Are those footie pajamas?”
Jim tries unsuccessfully to hide the offending footwear. “What? No. Shut up.”
“They totally are!” Bones howls. He leans over the back of the couch and squints. “Is that a cloud print?”
“Nooooo…” Jim says, trying to edge away.
“No, they’re sheep,” Bones laughs. “God, Jim, where the hell did you get footie pajamas with sheep on them?”
“I’ll have you know that these are at the height of couture right now,” Jim replies in injured tones.
“On what? A planet populated entirely by children?”
Jim tries to think of a witty comeback but only ends up doubling over coughing. When he finally manages to struggle into an upright position, Bones’ face has softened considerably.
“Oh, get over here, you big baby.” He raises an arm invitingly, and Jim folds himself on the couch next to Bones. He plucks his discarded fedora off the coffee table (I wear it, Bones, because it tells the world I am a certified P.I.M.P.) and plops it on his head.
“Does this class it up any?”
Bones just hooks his arm around Jim’s neck and brings him closer. “Sure, kid.”
Bones keeps a straight face for less than a second after Jim emerges from the bedroom. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Jim tries to scowl, but only ends up sneezing. “Shut up. I’m sick. Aren’t you supposed to be coddling me right now?”
“And end up sick myself?” Bones says, amazingly unsympathetic. “It’s your own damn fault you’re not up-to-date on your vaccinations.” He peers down at Jim’s feet. “Are those- Are those footie pajamas?”
Jim tries unsuccessfully to hide the offending footwear. “What? No. Shut up.”
“They totally are!” Bones howls. He leans over the back of the couch and squints. “Is that a cloud print?”
“Nooooo…” Jim says, trying to edge away.
“No, they’re sheep,” Bones laughs. “God, Jim, where the hell did you get footie pajamas with sheep on them?”
“I’ll have you know that these are at the height of couture right now,” Jim replies in injured tones.
“On what? A planet populated entirely by children?”
Jim tries to think of a witty comeback but only ends up doubling over coughing. When he finally manages to struggle into an upright position, Bones’ face has softened considerably.
“Oh, get over here, you big baby.” He raises an arm invitingly, and Jim folds himself on the couch next to Bones. He plucks his discarded fedora off the coffee table (I wear it, Bones, because it tells the world I am a certified P.I.M.P.) and plops it on his head.
“Does this class it up any?”
Bones just hooks his arm around Jim’s neck and brings him closer. “Sure, kid.”