Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives absolutely isn't mine. I swear.
Story Summary: Ten little reasons that Tom falls in love Lynette. Pre-series.
The Little Things
By Ryeloza
I.
The first time he sees her toes, they're painted blue.
Actually, it's pretty funny. They're working really late, and they're both exhausted, and all of a sudden she kicks off her heels and there they are—ten brightly painted toenails. It's not just any blue either, but this bright, electric sapphire that's kind of shimmery. When he sees it, he thinks of the ocean stretching out endlessly into the night sky.
"What?" she asks, because he's staring at her feet, which is kind of weird. He just shrugs like she hasn't just revealed this whole side of her that isn't power suits and perfectly coifed hair and business.
"Nothing," he says, but he can't stop smiling.
II.
He walks into her office one day and finds her trying to hang a spoon off of her nose. He's pretty sure he hasn't seen someone attempt that since elementary school, and he watches in fascination as she manages to make it stick.
"Impressive," he says, and her eyes flit to him, but instead of being embarrassed or disconcerted, she just looks entirely nonplussed.
"This is nothing," she says casually. "I can also lift my leg behind my head."
He's the one left flustered.
III.
She likes westerns.
One Saturday they go to rent a movie together, and she pulls a copy of "Big Jake" off of the shelf and raises an eyebrow at the incredulous look on his face. "It's a classic," she says, as though that explains it. "It was the first movie I ever saw."
As if that doesn't just raise more questions.
"What? How old were you?"
"I don't know—five? My dad was a big John Wayne fan."
She says this as though she's clinically detached, but it's so purposeful that it makes it obvious that there's some kind of pain involved; it's the only time she's ever mentioned her dad to him. "Don't tell me you don't like westerns," she marvels, gaping at him like this is the odd part of this conversation—not that he'll point that out.
"Of course I do."
IV.
Around their fifth or sixth date, he takes her to the park to fly a kite because at some point she'd casually mentioned that she'd never done that before, and he was nothing short of flabbergasted. He buys her this purple and blue polka-dotted kite, and when she sees it she smiles in a way he's never seen before. As he watches her running and laughing with delight as the kite goes up, up, up in the air, he can't help but wonder if she was ever a little kid. Sometimes it seems like she's having fun for the very first time. The thought breaks his heart, and yet…
He likes being the one to make her joyous like this.
V.
When she kisses him—really, deeply, passionately kisses him—she always makes this soft little humming noise of contentment.
It's perfect.
VI.
On his birthday, he finds little notes from her hidden in his stuff throughout the day—on his fridge; in his briefcase; attached to his computer monitor; in his lunch. Each one is a hint to what she got him as a present, and by the end of the day, he's fairly certain that she bought him a tie. He's not exactly disappointed, but it's kind of puzzling that she'd go to so much trouble over something so simple.
She leaves work before him because she promised to cook him dinner, and when he gets to her apartment that night, there is one more note attached to her door. "Come in," it says, like that doesn't make his stomach knot up; she lives in a pretty sketchy neighborhood, and he thinks he might shake her for being so lackadaisical about her safety. Still, he goes in, calling for her as he enters, surprised when he hears her respond from the bedroom.
As he steps into the room, every thought he has, everything he wants to say to her flies right out of his mind. She's lying on her bed, completely naked except for the necktie loosely knotted above her chest.
"Happy birthday," she says, grinning.
VII.
He catches a rare summer flu around August. She makes him chicken noodle soup and toast and doesn't complain when he wants to watch golf all day.
And even though he tells her not to, she still kisses him goodnight.
VIII.
No matter what time of year it is, she usually wears a sweater around the house before bedtime. "I'm cold," she says, even though whenever he touches her, she always feels warm. He likes the paradox; likes that even though she radiates heat, she still shivers until he wraps his arms around her at night.
IX.
She buys him a fish.
"Thank you?" he says curiously as he sets the bowl on his kitchen counter and frowns. The fish speeds around in circles as they stare at it.
"You said you can't keep a plant alive."
"Oh."
"You can remember to feed him, right?"
Tom glances at her. "It's a him?"
"Horatio."
He presses his lips together, trying to fight a smile, but it's impossible. She bought him a fish and named it Horatio—it's ridiculous. "Thank you," he says again, and she smiles softly.
X.
She's the most spontaneously affectionate person he's ever known. She holds his hand and kisses him and squeezes his arm and hugs him. Sometimes one little touch from her is enough to get him through the worst day.
He really loves her for that.