Slash could always tell when Duff got bored. It was nothing romantic, really. It wasn’t that they’d been together so long that he could read the slump of Duff’s shoulders, or the quirk of his lips. Honestly, Slash was kind of terrible at body language. He could tell when Duff wanted to fuck and he could tell when Duff wanted to beat him up. That was really about it.
Nah, he could tell when Duff got bored because the television came on. Neither of them really watched TV, so he hadn’t been real sure why Duff insisted that they get cable. But he’d caved in the face of the Brown Puppy Eyes of Doom, and soon learned what the big deal was. It wasn’t that Duff liked to watch certain programs, or even that he liked having the option of watching certain programs.
Duff was a flipper.
Generally, it happened when Slash was out. He’d go off to do something and Duff would get sick of dicking around in the music room, or playing with the random bogus spreadsheets he liked to make up. So he’d go flop down on the couch and turn on the television and just… flip. And then Slash would walk in the door and hear snatches of channels. Ha… Bec… Def… Bits of words, snippets of songs. It was kind of endearing.
He’d been out picking up groceries this time. Shopping for food always made him feel entirely too domesticated, and he fully suspected that’s why Duff had made it his chore. That, and Duff really liked to say “Go get some milk, honey, we’re all out” and then laugh in that sweet way he had that somehow made Slash not want to kill him. Slash was still undecided on how to feel about that, so he’d contented himself with just rolling his eyes and doing the shopping.
“You bored again, baby?” he called, bumping the door shut with his hip. Several cats looked up, interested by the prospect of new treats, and Slash grumbled at them. “Piss off, little mooches. All I’ve got is orange juice and bread.”
“Uh huh,” Duff called from the living room, voice spacey and distracted. Slash rolled his eyes and stomped into the kitchen, tucking away the food before going to tend to his most high-maintenance pet. Duff tended to get pissy if there were groceries left out on the counter. As Slash padded into the living room, he scowled. When had he gotten so pussy whipped?
“Gimme that, babe,” he ordered, holding out a hand as he flopped down on the couch next to Duff. Duff, as he’d expected, grunted and held his arm sideways across his body so that Slash couldn’t reach the remote. “C’mon, you’ll give yourself a seizure.”
“Go away, Mom.” Duff grinned faintly as he said it, which was the only thing that saved him from a vicious noogie. Slash was still slightly disgruntled, though, and he folded his arms.
“At least settle on a channel, man,” he complained, waving at the blur of images flashing by. He realized that, as a guy, Duff was expected to channel surf, but he really did carry it too far. “Come on, there must be something cool on.”
Duff shrugged and stopped flicking channels, then flung the remote across the room. It was immediately pounced on by three different cats, who then proceeded to squabble over who had been there first. Slash peeked over the back of the couch for a moment to make sure no fur was flying, then turned back to the television.
“Animal Planet?” he asked doubtfully, and Duff shrugged again.
“It’s got babies on it,” he explained. Slash shot a sideways look at Duff, eyes narrowed. Men didn’t have biological clocks, did they? Duff cooed and pointed at the screen, diverting Slash’s attention briefly. “Aww, baby rhino!”
“Dude… are you five or something?” Duff looked over at him, eyes open wide in his patented confused look. It was so goddamn cute that Slash had to lean over and kiss him. Duff made a pleased little noise in the back of his throat and squirmed closer, practically into Slash’s lap. Well, that was a good start anyway.
“Why’d you say I was five?” Duff asked, breaking the kiss and cocking his head a little. He was like a ruffled, puzzled bird and it took all of Slash’s self control not to kiss him again.
“Cause, babe,” Slash answered, “kids care about animals and crap.” He paused, then added darkly, “And hippies. Hippies care.”
Duff laughed and Slash was forced to hide behind his hair so Duff wouldn’t see his answering grin. It was one of the infuriating, wonderful things about Duff; when he laughed, it was impossible not to join in. It had ruined many an excellent sulk.
“But look at it, Saul!” Slash winced a little. No matter how many times he protested, he couldn’t get Duff to call him by anything but his given name. Once, Duff had very pointedly called him Butternipples all day, and Slash had been forced to concede defeat. Anything was better than Butternipples. “It’s all wobbly and tiny and crazy!”
Slash cast a critical eye on the baby rhino. It was, as Duff claimed, extraordinarily wobbly, tiny, and crazy. And, he had to admit, kinda cute in an ugly sort of way. “Okay, okay. You win, the rhino is cute. If we had a bigger yard, I’d buy you a baby rhino and then you could sit out on the deck and throw it marshmallows or something.”
“I don’t think rhinos eat marshmallows,” Duff answered promptly, and Slash had to shake his head. It never ceased to amaze him how literal Duff could be sometimes. He wondered if it was on purpose, or if Duff just didn’t bother to think before he said shit. “Besides, I don’t need one. I’ve got you!”
“Aww—HEY!” Slash was so distracted by the way Duff had snuggled up to his side that he missed the comment initially. He could tell by the way Duff’s shoulders shook with laughter that that had been his intention all along. “I am not like the baby rhino!”
“You’re pretty crazy,” Duff said. His fingers tickled across Slash’s stomach, and Slash shrugged. He’d give Duff that one, but only because it was true. “And you wobble when you get out of bed in the morning.” Also true. First thing in the morning, Slash wasn’t so coordinated.
“You try to walk and scratch your balls at the same time,” he groused. Duff, predictably enough, cracked up and reached down to scritch lightly at Slash’s crotch, nails scraping along the fabric of his jeans. “Anyway, I’m not tiny.”
“Sure thing, Captain Stumpy Legs!” Duff answered cheerfully. Slash punched him on the arm, prompting another round of gleeful laughter.
“Look, just because you’re the Jolly Green fucking Giant…”
“I am not green! Zombies are green.”
“You’re deliberately missing the point! Anyway, it might do you some good to eat some brains!”
“Did you just imply that I’m stupid?” Duff folded his arms and sulked at Slash very pointedly. It wasn’t a very good pout, though, because the corners of his mouth kept trembling.
“I implied that you’re a ditz,” Slash corrected. His own scowl fared better than Duff’s sulk, but only because he was so accustomed to it.
“Well, brace yourself cause I’m about to imply that you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” Duff put on a haughty look that held up reasonably well, and Slash promptly tackled him.
“How about I strip you naked and fuck you over the back of the couch instead?” he purred, hands running down Duff’s lean body. The thought was rather delicious, and he expected Duff to leap at the offer. Instead, the bassist made a face and shook his head.
“Ew, no. Last time we did that, you didn’t clean up and there are come stains all on the back now.” Slash stared at Duff, torn between revulsion and vast, vast amusement. He opted for a mix of both with a dash of indignation thrown in.
“How come it’s my job to clean up your spunk?”
“Because,” Duff answered with a ridiculous amount of dignity. “It’s your fault it gets all over the place.” Slash snorted. It wasn’t very masculine of him, but he couldn’t help it. Duff was utterly cute sometimes.
“Okay, man. Let’s go to the bedroom then,” he commanded, standing up and hauling Duff with him. “I have to reassert my manliness and all that bullshit.”
“You mean fuck me till I can’t walk,” Duff said happily, following Slash like an obedient little duckling.
“I don’t know about that,” Slash laughed. There had been a time when he would have whole-heartedly agreed with that sentiment. He wasn’t twenty years old any more, though, and he knew that Duff would whine like an old man with a dodgy hip if he got fucked that hard. “I’ll definitely make you squeal, though.”
“I do not squeal!”
“You’re right. You kind of huff and grunt like a constipated yak…”
Ah, blissful irony, Slash thought as he was tackled by six feet and three inches of indignant, squealing bassist. Duff was so easy to tweak that it almost wasn’t fun anymore. Almost, of course, being the operative word. Hell, anything that ended with him on the floor and Duff straddling his hips was perfectly fine with him.
