Sunday Morning
by s.a.

Connor stumbled through the door, bags and papers spilling everywhere. He leaned against the counter and sighed, looking at the chaos on the floor, before bending to pick it up. He'd managed to shove a good portion of his papers back into his briefcase when he looked up at the sound of Wesley entering the room.

Wes gave him a small grin and stooped down to swipe a bag of oranges. "Need a hand?" he asked. Connor rolled his eyes and stood, brushing his lips across Wesley's as he rose, taking the oranges from Wes's hand. "At least this is one more thing I don't have to pick up. And this is what, the thirtieth time I've tripped over that stoop? I'm telling you, we need to get it fixed."

Wesley's fingers caught and traced the side of Connor's face. "You've been saying that since we moved in here. Surely, had you really wanted it fixed, you would have taken some measure to do so in the past four years."

Connor gave him a mock glare. "Surely had you cared for my well-being and all those stubbed toes I complained about, you would have done it for me."

Wesley stepped closer, hands slipping around Connor's waist and pulling him near. "Maybe I just liked hearing you complain."

"Well, you're a crazy old man, then," Connor whispered before they kissed.

They kissed tenderly for a few moments, Connor's fingers running up Wesley's back and Wesley's hands tightening on Connor's waist, stumbling backwards searching for purchase against the wall.

There was a loud squishing noise, and they pulled away, looking at the floor. Connor groaned with a grin on his face, his head tipping backwards to knock gently at the wall. "I was really looking forward to using that dressing on Thursday night, too," he sighed, poking gently at the distorted plastic bottle with his foot.

"We can always get more," Wesley pointed out as he began to pick up the other groceries from the floor. He paused to look at the bottle. "Besides, you know Laura doesn't like Parmesan."

Connor sighed. "I'd hoped I could sneak it past her. The woman has no taste."

Wesley hefted his armful onto the counter and leaned backwards, watching Connor bend to pick up a can of tomato soup.

"Today's count?" he asked finally, nodding towards Connor's briefcase.

"We're about three-fourths of the way through, now," Connor said, placing the rest of the food on the island and running a hand through his loose hair. "We got chapter twenty-two out the door, and that was the real bitch, you know, but now we're past the hump and Katie's relatively confident we'll finish it before the month is out. Which gives three months for revisions and edits before we put it to the board. I know we're cutting it close, especially after the horror stories you told me about your own dissertations, but Wes, I can totally feel it now. We're going to make it, and you will be looking at a brand spanking new holder of a costly piece of paper."

Wesley nodded, putting away the things strewn around the kitchen. "I never doubted you. You've been working quite hard, though. I've certainly missed you around here--who else would wake me at six in the morning to play basketball against the side of the house?"

Connor grinned, smacking a kiss against Wesley's cheek. "You know you like me all sweaty and half-naked."

Wesley arched an eyebrow at him. "On the whole I prefer you sweaty and all-the-way naked."

"That could be arranged," Connor murmured against Wesley's ear, pressing himself flush against Wesley's side.

Wesley hummed an assent, twisting to fasten his lips to Connor's. His hands threaded in Connor's hair, and Connor shifted in his arms, pulling Wesley ever closer. Their kisses were slow, languid, full of memory and promise. They were old lovers, knowing hands working on each other carefully and touching with reverent, loving fingers. They moved against each other, quiet moans and gasps the only sounds.

Later, they found themselves tangled in the bed sheets, the evening news on the television and Chinese takeout boxes littering the floor. Bits of the Sunday paper were crumpled at the foot of the bed, Wesley's scathing comments captioned in red against the print of the page.

Wesley's glasses hung precariously on the end of his nose, and he was hugging Connor close, supporting his weight and looking over his shoulder at the latest chapter completed that afternoon. Connor was candidly pointing out how they'd resolved a number of issues with the data and concepts, but Wesley's eyes were barely glancing over the page.

He was concentrating more on the deep sound of Connor's voice against his chest, the way Connor's arms would wave and his hands would almost lose the pages he was clutching. He kept each of these moments close in his mind, desperate not to lose any of them, because he knew what he had and cherished it.


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