A/N: miss-baxter on tumblr knows my weakness too well. This might wind up being a multi-chapter... Let me know what you think.
Truth in Advertising
He'd been so careful. Not a drop of paint had been dripped or slopped onto his clothes or shoes. He and Phyllis had worked companionably on the trim and eaves of her cottage all morning and he hadn't made a bloody fool of himself even once.
He'd been so damn careful. From his tentative offer to help his new neighbor with her painting, to trekking up and down the stepladder like a sherpa tackling the north face of K2, to becoming comfortable enough to smile at her light-hearted teasing and admire the way her hair pulled back in a pony tail revealed the lovely sweep of her cheekbones, he'd swallowed his anxiety and taken one step at a time.
He'd been as careful as anytime ever in his life, because he was determined not to watch in horror as this potential relationship went down in flames of humiliation and awkward small talk.
He was being so careful carrying the pan of paint across the garage in order to clean it that he didn't even see Mrs. Regis' bloody, stupid cat lurking in Phyllis' garage.
One part of his mind wondered idly why cats make noises like damned souls when you lightly trod on their tails while the other part of his mind cringed in horror as he yelled in surprise, jumped three feet, and dumped the entire tray of paint down the front of his clothes and onto the garage floor. He watched the cat flee with murderous eyes.
"Joe?" Phyllis called from within the cottage. She'd gone in to clean up and make lunch for them both. "Are you alright?"
He looked up, alarmed, as she poked her head around the door jam and took in his splattered, dripping state.
"Not really," he replied. Risking a glance at her face, he was relieved to see sympathy and concern.
"Oh, Joe…was it that cat?" At his nod, she winced. "I'm so sorry. It runs in here every time the garage door is open."
"Not your fault," he replied with a game attempt at a smile.
She smiled back, making him forget for a moment that his shoes made squishing noises every time he shifted his weight.
"Well…" she said, looking around the garage appraisingly. "You may be in luck."
"How so?" he asked, pulling his shirt away from his chest and grimacing at the cold, sticky paint that had soaked through.
"It's only latex, so it should mostly come off," she said brightly. "And I've got a box of clothes over there…" He followed where her finger pointed to a stack of unopened boxes stacked neatly in the corner. "…that belonged to my brother. He can't be arsed to come get them, so if you'd like to use some, you won't have to trek back to your house through the neighborhood covered in paint."
Joe looked more than a bit alarmed at the possibility of stripping down in her garage. Phyllis' mouth twitched in a smile, then she walked over to the boxes and began to scan the labels.
"Here we are," she said, shifting boxes until the one she sought was accessible and setting it down near the puddle of paint at Joe's feet. "I don't know what all is in there, but surely you can find something to wear temporarily."
"Er… where shall I…how do you think…?" he asked, glancing out of the open garage door at the cars going slowly past on their street.
"I'm not going to make you change in the garage, Joe," she said reassuringly. "Roll up your pants, take off your shoes, fetch that box upstairs and shower up. And be quick about it…lunch will be ready soon."
He stood with his mouth open a moment at the thought of showering in her house, but when she gave him another smile and an impatient flap of her hand, he bent to loosen the laces of his trainers.
"There'll be towels and such in the washroom," she said over her shoulder as she went back up the steps to her cottage.
He looked up to thank her, but she'd already shut the door behind her. Biting his lip in consternation, he stepped out of his shoes and away from the puddle of paint. Rather than fetch the whole box upstairs, he peered in the top and pulled out a pair of Bermuda shorts and a white t-shirt.
Phyllis continued chopping vegetables in the kitchen, waiting to hear the door open. She smiled broadly as the image of Joe - furious, anxious and an absolute mess - came to her mind again. She cocked her head as she heard the door from the garage creak softly, but didn't turn to watch him creep silently by. After a few thumps and some muffled swearing, she heard the rush of the shower start up.
If she didn't think it would scare him out of his wits, she'd have gone up to make sure he had found everything he needed….
If she had gone up, she'd have been treated to the sight of Joe standing in the middle of the washroom as the mirror began to fog over, staring glumly at the state of his boxers. Gingerly, he peeled them off and chucked them on the pile of saturated clothes. The heat of the water made him yelp when he first stepped into the shower stall, but he gritted his teeth and began to mercilessly scrub the paint off of his body and hair, taking his mind off of the sting by entertaining an improbable fantasy of Phyllis joining him in the stall…
The water ran on and on, and Phyllis began to get impatient. Checking the heat under the pot of pasta, she turned it down and went up the stairs to stand outside of the washroom door. Steam escaped from the bottom.
"Did you drown in there, Joe?" she asked loudly. There was a scuffling noise and she was rewarded with a loud thump, as if he'd lurched against the side of the shower enclosure, followed by a muttered "Bloody hell!" "Need any help?"
For a moment, Joe was tempted to holler that he did. Only for a moment. He'd gotten soap in his eyes and had been groping for a flannel when he'd heard Phyllis just outside the door. His efforts to scrub the paint out of his hair had mostly been unsuccessful and the water was starting to go cold.
But the thought of Phyllis Baxter standing five feet away from him, with only a two inch door between them, while he staggered around naked in her bathroom was as disconcerting as it was exciting.
"I'm fine!" he yelled back in a shaky voice that didn't exactly reassure Phyllis.
"You sure?"
"Yeah! I'm nearly done!" He ducked back under the spray, which was rapidly going from tepid to frigid, with some relief and prayed that she would head back downstairs soon.
"Alright, then," she said doubtfully. "Lunch is nearly ready." Slowly, and with several dubious backwards glances, she made her way back down the stairs.
Joe breathed a sigh of relief and turned off the water. Shivering, he toweled off vigorously and scrubbed a clear spot on the mirror to see how he'd done on his hair. The thick, white streaks of remaining paint were not encouraging, and he made plans for a haircut soonest.
Grumbling to himself about how this day that had started with such promise had gone pear shaped so quickly, he pulled the borrowed shirt over his head and slipped into the shorts.
Going commando turned out to be the least of his problems.
Phyllis heard the washroom door creak open as she was putting the finishing touches to the sauce bubbling on the stove. She waited for Joe to join her in the kitchen, clean and hopefully in the mood for lunch.
"Phyllis…?" he called from the upstairs landing.
"Yeah?"
"Um, your brother…he's a big bloke?"
"I suppose he is," she replied with a surprised tone. "He's my baby brother, though, so I never think of him as big."
Joe sighed so heavily that Phyllis could hear him from the kitchen. She restrained herself from marching to the foot of the stairs to see what he was on about.
Clutching the waistband of the shorts that threatened to slide off of his hips, Joe mused that "baby brother" had to have at least five inches and fifty pounds on him. He cinched his hastily cleaned belt as tightly as he could, but the shorts wobbled uncertainly on his hipbones, making him very conscious of his lack of underthings.
And when he saw the graphic image on the front of the shirt, he very nearly punched himself for not paying more attention to the clothes he'd fished out of the box.
Joe took the steps slowly, hoping to stall Phyllis discovering what a prat he looked in her brother's clothes. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door bell rang.
"Can you get that, Joe?" Phyllis yelled from the kitchen. "I'm draining pasta."
Hoping it was someone who could be sent off, Joe cautiously opened the front door a few inches. The older woman standing on the step looked at him curiously.
"Can I help you?" he asked, looking at her hand to see if she was holding a tract.
"You can tell me who you are and why you're answering my daughter's front door," she replied pleasantly.
Joe stood frozen, holding the door open as Phyllis' mother raised an inquiring eyebrow at him.
"Is that you, Mum?" Phyllis shouted from the kitchen. "I wasn't expecting you until later." Drying her hands, Phyllis emerged from the kitchen to see Joe peering through the cracked door and her mother held at bay on the steps. "C'mon in," she said, stifling a laugh behind her hand.
Joe stepped back, opening the door reluctantly. Mrs. Baxter paid him little attention until she had come inside and hugged Phyllis. Then both of them stared at him, unable to control their nearly identical grins. Joe felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair as they took in the voluminous shorts and the t-shirt which proclaimed SEX MACHINE in impact font.
"I'll just go gather up my clothes," he muttered. When their grins widened, he opened his mouth to correct any misunderstanding. Then wisely closed it again and slunk up the stairs. Phyllis and her mother's voices came up clearly through the heating grate in the floor of the upstairs landing.
"He seems nice," Mrs. Baxter said. "Artistic, is he? With the paint in the hair and all?"
Phyllis laughed. "Joe was helping me paint the trim on the cottage and had a bit of an accident."
"So that's Joe…" Mrs. Baxter looked at her daughter with a speculative smile.
"What? What's that look for, Mum?"
"Is he then?"
"Is he what?"
"A sex machine?"
Joe leaned heavily against the wall and wondered how badly it would hurt if he hurled himself out of the washroom window. With any luck, he'd land on that bloody cat…
"Mum!" Phyllis replied indignantly. "You ought to know those aren't his clothes. You've seen them on Gaz often enough."
"You didn't answer my question," Mrs. Baxter said smugly.
"Well, I don't know, do I? And it wouldn't be your business anyway! And don't you embarrass him."
"At least tell me if you have any intention of finding out if that shirt represents truth in advertising…"
"Mum!"
Heaving a deep sigh, Joe decided he'd hidden upstairs as long as he could. Tucking his clothes wrapped in a towel under his arm, he walked down the stairs, pausing at each one as if he was heading for his execution. He cleared his throat as he approached the door to the kitchen, wondering if his presence would make any difference at all to Phyllis' mum.
"There you are!" Phyllis said over loudly when she saw him peer around. "Lunch is ready and my mum was just going," she finished with a glare at her mother, who simply smiled at her and winked at Joe.
"You're right," she said. "Must dash."
"Don't leave on my account," he stammered, trying to smile pleasantly but only managing to conjure up a miserable grimace.
"No, she's got lots to do today," Phyllis informed them both.
"It's been….um, lovely to meet you, Joe," she said as Phyllis herded her towards the door.
"Likewise," Joe said weakly.
After a few low words on the step, Phyllis shut the door firmly behind her mother and turned to smile at Joe.
"I'm sorry about my mum," she said apologetically. "She's not got the best…filters. I wish you could have met her under different circumstances. She's a bit much to take at first."
"Ah..well… she didn't exactly, um, meet me at my best," he said, waving his hand at the shirt. "Maybe I should just…um, go…"
"Oh, I wish you wouldn't," Phyllis replied softly. "I was looking forward to lunch with you. And at least let me throw these things in the wash for you."
"You were? I mean, even after all this?" He chuckled awkwardly as he handed her his clothes. "I should think you'd be delighted to get rid of me before I trip over a carpet runner and set your dining room on fire, or something."
"Don't be daft," she replied, taking his arm and leading him into the kitchen where she threw his clothes into a basket next to the washer. "I'll just get this plated up, and we'll eat."
"Should I, maybe, see if there's something in that box that might be…more appropriate?"
Phyllis let a snort of laughter and swept her eyes over the shirt. "Knowing Gaz, there isn't likely to be anything much better in there. I should have thought of that before I offered them to you."
Thrusting a basket of garlic bread into his hands, she led the way with the plates and told him to sit down. They sat in silence for a moment as Joe tried to think of something to say.
"If its making you uncomfortable, Joe, feel free to just take the shirt off," she suggested after he'd made several attempts to begin a conversation.
He stared at her before breaking into a laugh. "Well, that gets us past the awkward small talk."
"Good," she replied with a smile. "I was hoping we would."
"So was I," he admitted.
Conversation became a great deal easier after that, and lasted through the washing up and into the afternoon, until Joe reluctantly decided he'd better get home.
"Thanks again for all your help, Joe," she said as she walked him into the garage to get his trainers.
"My pleasure," he replied sincerely. "I'll get these clothes back to you as soon as I can."
"You can keep them," she replied with a teasing smile.
"When would I ever wear them?" he laughed.
"The next time my mother comes over?"
He laughed harder. On impulse, she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. But when he turned towards her in surprise, she didn't let that stop her, gently capturing his lips with hers. He returned the kiss eagerly.
"Shall I call you?" he asked looking hopefully at her.
"Yeah…. Do," she said, reaching out to grasp his hand and squeeze it. "I look forward to it."
He left with a smile and a far away look in his eyes. Phyllis watched him pick up his trainers and track barefoot through the puddle of paint on the garage floor without seeming to notice. She grinned in delight and shook her head as she watched him wander off towards his house, clutching the waistband of the shorts, leaving white footprints behind him, and completely ignoring the stares their neighbors were giving his shirt.
"Oh, I think I'm going to enjoy finding out if there's truth in advertising," she said to herself as she went back inside and closed the door.
