Pantless
Pantless by sheafrotherdon
~ 356 words, John/Rodney, Nantucket verse. A question of sheets, for dogeared, who is a nutcase, like Rodney.
Their first almost-fight of winter is all because of sheets.
"What are . . . what did you do? Rodney splutters, sitting so awkwardly half-in and half-out of bed, that it's all John can do not to burst out laughing.
He senses this would be a mistake. "Do?"
Rodney shifts gingerly. "Our sheets are no longer slippery," he says, and pokes at them.
"They're flannel," John offers, already tucked into the bed's other side. "Warmer. For winter."
Rodney waves a hand in agitation. "Flannel?"
John just raises an eyebrow in lieu of finding the energy to say something.
"Flannel is for pants," Rodney says. "Pajamas are flannel! Sheets are not! Flannel on flannel produces sticking and twisting and there is no sliding! Sliding is imperative!"
John blinks. "Sliding?"
"Sliding!" Rodney says, and gets out of bed to demonstrate this by getting back in with the minimum amount of grace. "Do you see? Do you see how it is impossible to slide into bed when both sheets and pants are flannel?"
"You could, I don't know." John scratches his chin - three days growth of stubble, on its way to becoming a beard, means he's pretty itchy. "Try a new technique."
"Like what?" Rodney snaps. "Bounding? Bouncing? Cartwheeling? Oh, oh, I know, perhaps a double-backward-Tskahara twist?"
Silence.
"Shut up," Rodney huffs as, with great care, he arranges himself beneath the covers.
"Warm feet," John points out. "No cold sheets to - "
Rodney holds up a finger.
"I'm just saying . . ."
Rodney jabs his finger in the air.
"Or you could just take off your pants, which is my preferred state of . . ."
Rodney glares at him.
"I'm pantless," John points out, grinning.
Rodney narrows his eyes.
"Tooootally pantless," John says.
"God," Rodney sighs at last. "And now I suppose I must withstand flannel burn on my elbows and knees so that you can OOOOOF!! DO NOT KISS ME THERE! AIE!!"
Which is the last cogent thing he says in some time, considering John's ruthless beneath-blankets tackle, and soon everyone is pantless and breathless and making new stains on the brand new sheets.
~ 356 words, John/Rodney, Nantucket verse. A question of sheets, for dogeared, who is a nutcase, like Rodney.
Their first almost-fight of winter is all because of sheets.
"What are . . . what did you do? Rodney splutters, sitting so awkwardly half-in and half-out of bed, that it's all John can do not to burst out laughing.
He senses this would be a mistake. "Do?"
Rodney shifts gingerly. "Our sheets are no longer slippery," he says, and pokes at them.
"They're flannel," John offers, already tucked into the bed's other side. "Warmer. For winter."
Rodney waves a hand in agitation. "Flannel?"
John just raises an eyebrow in lieu of finding the energy to say something.
"Flannel is for pants," Rodney says. "Pajamas are flannel! Sheets are not! Flannel on flannel produces sticking and twisting and there is no sliding! Sliding is imperative!"
John blinks. "Sliding?"
"Sliding!" Rodney says, and gets out of bed to demonstrate this by getting back in with the minimum amount of grace. "Do you see? Do you see how it is impossible to slide into bed when both sheets and pants are flannel?"
"You could, I don't know." John scratches his chin - three days growth of stubble, on its way to becoming a beard, means he's pretty itchy. "Try a new technique."
"Like what?" Rodney snaps. "Bounding? Bouncing? Cartwheeling? Oh, oh, I know, perhaps a double-backward-Tskahara twist?"
Silence.
"Shut up," Rodney huffs as, with great care, he arranges himself beneath the covers.
"Warm feet," John points out. "No cold sheets to - "
Rodney holds up a finger.
"I'm just saying . . ."
Rodney jabs his finger in the air.
"Or you could just take off your pants, which is my preferred state of . . ."
Rodney glares at him.
"I'm pantless," John points out, grinning.
Rodney narrows his eyes.
"Tooootally pantless," John says.
"God," Rodney sighs at last. "And now I suppose I must withstand flannel burn on my elbows and knees so that you can OOOOOF!! DO NOT KISS ME THERE! AIE!!"
Which is the last cogent thing he says in some time, considering John's ruthless beneath-blankets tackle, and soon everyone is pantless and breathless and making new stains on the brand new sheets.