Disclaimer: I swear, Desperate Housewives isn't mine.
Story Summary: Seven sweet moments between Tom and Lynette. Chapter one: Tom's always been a bit of a dork.
A/n: I opened Word tonight to write yet another angsty fic about everything that's going on in the current season, but then I realized that what I should really be doing is celebrating the reasons why I love this couple (and yes, I do still love them). So I've decided this week is going to be all about the good stuff. Good fic and good memories (on my blog—check it out; come reminisce if you need a break as I do).
The goal is one a day for this week. I'd love to hear what you think, so take a second to review. Many, many thanks to all of you in advance.
-Ryeloza
All the Pretty Little Moments
By Ryeloza
One: Square with No Sides
"So," says Lynette. She leans forward, elbows propped on the table with her chin in her hands, the candlelight gently illuminating the soft curve of her cheek. It's really haunting, how beautiful she looks tonight, and his stomach is knotted in anticipation. He can see promise in the look in her eyes, hear it in the huskiness of her voice, feel it in the way her bare toes run up and down his calf.
"So," he echoes, and he's so, so grateful that his voice comes out low and flirtatious; so, so grateful for the way her eyes drop for the briefest moment, making him believe that he has the same power over her that she has over him.
"Do you have a side of the bed?"
The words break whatever semblance of control he has over the situation. Flirtation and teasing and hope aside, there is actual intention behind that question, and his entire body tenses at the idea of finally seeing her naked. He laughs, wanting to seem suave and cool, but it comes out more nervous; he winces, but she only smiles wider.
And it feels good. It feels good that he doesn't have to be that guy right now. He can just be Tom: that slightly dorky guy who didn't even get kissed until he was eighteen; the guy who still can't believe that a gorgeous woman like her really has any interest in him; the guy who is so excited just to be sitting across from her and laughing with her and reveling in the intensity of her gaze.
"No," he says before he can even consider if that's not really a turn-on—does it show a lack of commitment? He forges ahead blindly. "I'm pretty flexible."
"Me too." She reaches his thigh with her toes, brushes him intimately for just a moment, and pulls away. He swallows hard, rubbing his hands against his pants nervously. "Well, you know," he babbles, trying to think about anything besides shoving everything off of the table and taking her right there, "you're the first woman I've met who doesn't care."
"So you've had a lot of women in your bed?"
"What? No!" But the panic is unfounded; he can see that she's teasing him. And he realizes that that's one of the reasons he likes her, because everything's not so damn serious all of the time. "I just…Okay, can I tell you something?"
"You can tell me anything."
Yeah, he thinks, but can I tell you something really dumb without you deciding I'm the least sexy man on the planet?
"Well," he says, deciding he's too far in to turn back now, "it's kind of…I mean, it's just that it'd be nice to know that no matter which side I sleep on, I'll still be able to smell you in my sheets."
Dear God…That came out even worse than I thought it would…
Lynette leans back a little; the movement shifts her too far out of the dim light—he can't read her face any more—and he's pretty sure he's just completely blown it. "Not…Well not you," he amends, trying to fix the situation. "Just…you know…someone…theoretically…Can you forget I even brought this up?"
"Tom," she says. She reaches out across the table; it takes him a second to realize she wants his hand, and he prays it's not as clammy as he thinks it is. "It's okay."
"No."
"Yeah. It's kind of sweet. In a weird way."
And there's that relief again. He wonders when he'll stop being surprised by the fact that she isn't completely turned off by his less than cool exterior.
He wonders if someday she'll be able to make him forget that he was ever nervous at all.
"I'm sorry," he says, not quite sure what he's apologizing for. "It's just that I really like you."
"I really like you too."
"And I tend to be—Wait, what?"
"I really like you too," she repeats slowly. "You don't have to try so hard."
"I'm just…I'm not very good at this whole dating thing. I'm good at the flirting, and I'm great at the bedroom stuff—"
"Is that a promise?"
"Er—"
She smiles, dipping her head for a second and squeezing his fingers. "You're great at the flirting," she says. "But I didn't agree to go out with you just because you hit on me."
"You didn't? Because I was pretty persistent."
"Oh I know." Her tone is low and dangerous again; his body stiffens at the sound of it. "It's a very admirable quality. But, seriously, Tom…I decided to go out with you because you're genuine and nice and funny and passionate."
"Oh yeah?" And he can't help but smile. Just a little. Just because it's nice to know that underneath all the longing looks and little touches and teasing at work, this really does have the potential to become something more.
And he's starting to realize that he really wants it to be more.
"Yeah," she says. "Well, and because my stomach does cartwheels every time I see you."
There's a million things he wants to say to her in that moment. That she's amazing and special and he's never met anyone like her. That she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. That this is the first time he's been with someone where he isn't defining the entire relationship with limits. That he wants to spend the night with her—the whole night, together in a bed where they don't have sides.
But instead:
"I'm glad it's not just me then."
It's pretty lame.
Yet somehow, exactly right.
