Sunday Morning, 10 AM
"Geoff?"
Stretching out more comfortably on the bed, Geoff glanced at the clock on the screen of his laptop. Jamie's latest attempt at giving him the silent treatment had lasted seven minutes, fifteen seconds. Quite an accomplishment for his chatterbox.
"Yes, darling?"
"My grandmother always says, 'Many hands make light work.'"
Geoff fought to keep the smile out of his voice. "Does she?"
Jamie popped up beside the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. "I've scrubbed almost all the skirting board. Couldn't you help with the last bit? We'd be done so much sooner."
"You're almost done now. Just to the corner and that's it."
"But —"
Geoff cut through the incipient protest. "Jamie, as my grandmother would say, 'A little less talk, a little more work, please.'"
Jamie sighed as he returned to work. "I would have a partner who's genetically predisposed to making others clean."
"Not 'others', darling, only you. And only when your behaviour warrants it. You're hardly in danger of developing housemaid's knee or something equally Victorian."
"I should be careful, though, don't you think?" Jamie tried. "My career —"
"I'm not worried in the least," Geoff assured him. "You're fit and you haven't been down there more than," he looked at his watch, "three quarters of an hour."
"Thank god for small flats," Jamie muttered.
"There's always a second time 'round if I'm not satisfied."
He managed to read two emails before Jamie spoke again.
"Geoff…"
"Yes, darling?"
"Johnny Depp would help me."
"I'm sure he would. Shall I put that on the list of reasons you'd leave me in a second if he so much as glanced your way?"
"Please."
Openly grinning, Geoff clicked the keys on his laptop. "All set."
"What number was that?" Jamie inquired.
"One hundred twenty-eight." Geoff shut down the laptop and set it on the floor. Sliding over to the side of the bed, he peered over Jamie's shoulder as he finished scrubbing. "Come up here, you," he ordered as Jamie dropped the rag into the bucket of dirty water.
Jamie fell on top of him, burying his head against Geoff's chest. "I'm sorry."
"About…?"
"Shouting, throwing the plate — although I didn't mean to have it go out the window. That was an accident."
"Spectacularly bad aim," Geoff agreed, carding his fingers through Jamie's curls. "Straight out and onto the roof."
"I'm glad the window was open."
"So am I. And what have we learned from all this?"
"That I can't always do what I want just because I want to. I did want to go to Avignon with Robin and Tris, but I have my course and you have to work and our holiday is in three weeks. We have responsibilities that have to be seen to."
"Anything else?"
"I should have eaten my breakfast before I threw the plate. I'm starved!"
Jamie and Geoff
Stretching out more comfortably on the bed, Geoff glanced at the clock on the screen of his laptop. Jamie's latest attempt at giving him the silent treatment had lasted seven minutes, fifteen seconds. Quite an accomplishment for his chatterbox.
"Yes, darling?"
"My grandmother always says, 'Many hands make light work.'"
Geoff fought to keep the smile out of his voice. "Does she?"
Jamie popped up beside the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. "I've scrubbed almost all the skirting board. Couldn't you help with the last bit? We'd be done so much sooner."
"You're almost done now. Just to the corner and that's it."
"But —"
Geoff cut through the incipient protest. "Jamie, as my grandmother would say, 'A little less talk, a little more work, please.'"
Jamie sighed as he returned to work. "I would have a partner who's genetically predisposed to making others clean."
"Not 'others', darling, only you. And only when your behaviour warrants it. You're hardly in danger of developing housemaid's knee or something equally Victorian."
"I should be careful, though, don't you think?" Jamie tried. "My career —"
"I'm not worried in the least," Geoff assured him. "You're fit and you haven't been down there more than," he looked at his watch, "three quarters of an hour."
"Thank god for small flats," Jamie muttered.
"There's always a second time 'round if I'm not satisfied."
He managed to read two emails before Jamie spoke again.
"Geoff…"
"Yes, darling?"
"Johnny Depp would help me."
"I'm sure he would. Shall I put that on the list of reasons you'd leave me in a second if he so much as glanced your way?"
"Please."
Openly grinning, Geoff clicked the keys on his laptop. "All set."
"What number was that?" Jamie inquired.
"One hundred twenty-eight." Geoff shut down the laptop and set it on the floor. Sliding over to the side of the bed, he peered over Jamie's shoulder as he finished scrubbing. "Come up here, you," he ordered as Jamie dropped the rag into the bucket of dirty water.
Jamie fell on top of him, burying his head against Geoff's chest. "I'm sorry."
"About…?"
"Shouting, throwing the plate — although I didn't mean to have it go out the window. That was an accident."
"Spectacularly bad aim," Geoff agreed, carding his fingers through Jamie's curls. "Straight out and onto the roof."
"I'm glad the window was open."
"So am I. And what have we learned from all this?"
"That I can't always do what I want just because I want to. I did want to go to Avignon with Robin and Tris, but I have my course and you have to work and our holiday is in three weeks. We have responsibilities that have to be seen to."
"Anything else?"
"I should have eaten my breakfast before I threw the plate. I'm starved!"
Jamie and Geoff