nickngreg | (no subject)

Title: Domestic Chores
Chapter: 4/12
Author: jettblack0110
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Nick hates doing laundry.
Warnings: A little bit of language and a little bit of boy love

It was just a sock, he did not know why he was so angry about a sock. But there he was stomping and huffing around the house, angry that he had found a stray sock in the laundry. Nick had risen earlier than normal to throw his and Greg’s clothes in the washing machine—both were running low on clean trousers and shirts, having not done laundry for nearly three weeks. Their schedules had been hectic lately, it must have been the summer heat or something, but people seemed to be killing each other more often. In fact, both he and Greg were sleeping off a triple homicide they had worked, which resulted in double shifts for the both of them. Instead of coming home and screwing like they usually did, both fell into bed and slept for nearly twelve hours. Well, Greg was still asleep. But Nick never was much of a sluggish person, unlike his sinusoidal lover who could be the epitome of energy or the embodiment of sloth. Nick had woken due to the oppressive heat that had built up in their room during the late afternoon.

The heat intensified the stuffiness of their small apartment, and Nick had inhaled the smell of dirty laundry. When he gagged, he knew it was time to do laundry, a chore he had always abhorred. He rolled out of bed, selecting a clean t-shirt to throw on with his boxers, and set about gathering the discarded clothing that littered their bedroom floor. After throwing the dirty clothes in the general vicinity of the washer and dryer, he gave their bedroom a once-over, making sure he had not missed a single article of clothing. He checked under the bed and in the closet, under the dresser and in their bathroom. Finally satisfied, he placed a chaste kiss on Greg’s brow before closing the bedroom door. Starting with the whites, he sorted through the rest of the laundry before throwing it into the washer. As the whites were stewing, Nick made a bowl of cereal and turned the television on. Due to their busy week, he had missed several documentaries he had been meaning to watch. So he selected the first one and watched contentedly, ears sensitive to the resounding bing of the finished load of laundry.

He threw the whites into the dryer, pausing to laugh at a pair of white boxers patterned with little red crabs—Greg’s crabby boxers. Nick loved Greg’s boxer choices, most all of his others were also patterned with silly images. Opening Greg’s pants was always an adventure, a game, to see which boxers he had selected for the day. Nick tossed the boxers in the dryer with the rest of the whites, started a new load in the wash, and then went and pressed his ear to the bedroom door. Everything was completely silent. He allowed himself an indulgent chuckle as he contemplated Greg’s ability to sleep for so long. Still smiling to himself, Nick resumed his documentary. But he did not really watch. Instead, he affectionately thought about his current situation with Greg. In his past relationships, Nick had never really been domestic with his partners. They had lived together, but they always took care of their own necessities. Nick never had to do his partners’ laundry or dishes or take care of them when they were sick. But then Nick found Greg, and he wanted to do those domestic nothings. Greg had been sick recently, and Nick thrived in his position of caretaker. He loved comforting his sniffling lover. Nick even liked to do dishes for Greg as Greg dried. Enjoyed the silent understanding and companionship and affection that coursed through the kitchen. And although he loathed doing laundry in any case, he did not mind having to do Greg’s extra loads. Just the smell of Nick’s laundry detergent on his lover’s skin was enough to bring out the possessive animal in him.

Nick’s musings were interrupted by the buzz of the dryer. He shuffled over and opened the door, folding the clothes and placing them on top of the dryer. As he neared the bottom, something caught his eye. A lone sock. It had a black band around the toe, a distinguishing mark that matched none of the other socks in the pile. Nick’s eyebrows drew together as he contemplated the rebellious garment. How could there be a stray sock? He had checked everywhere to make sure he had left nothing behind. But there it was. A low growl rumbled in Nick’s throat as he picked up the sock and physically held it next to all the others. It was for sure a stray. He was not sure why he was so annoyed with the common laundry issue, but he chocked it up to the fact that he was probably still tired from working and the fact that Greg was still asleep while he was doing household chores. He stalked into the bedroom, huffing and growling as he rifled through both sock drawers to make sure it was not a clean one he had mistakenly washed again. No such luck. He was then on his hands and knees, just like he would be on a case, searching for that elusive piece of evidence with his flashlight. But cranky and without a flashlight, Nick stood back up. Looking at the bed, his eyes met two sleepy-looking brown ones.

“Morning, sleepy head,” Nick growled.

“’S’matter, Nicky?” Greg slurred.

“Doing laundry.”

Greg hummed as he rolled to his side, staring at Nick. He patted the bed invitingly, and of course, Nick could not resist. They got situated, Greg’s back flush against Nick’s chest, Nick’s arm draped over Greg’s waist. Nick was a little excited, pressed up against his lover. Greg always slept nude, and his current condition was no change. Nick pressed a little firmer into his lover’s body, littering the pale neck with feather-light kisses.

Needless to say, things got a little heated, even more than the smothering heat of the Vegas afternoon. Light kisses turned hard, along with other things. As Nick nipped his way down Greg’s body, Greg bent his knees, planting his feet flat on the mattress and incidentally right next to Nick’s hands. Nick wrapped his hands around Greg’s ankles as he kissed lower on the abdomen in front of him. But then he stopped dead as his hand travelled over an unfamiliar texture. Rough cotton. He ceased his ministrations and looked at the foot in his hand. It was covered by a white sock with a black band around the toe.

“Why’d you stop?” Greg gasped, his chest heaving in his excitement.

“You have a sock on.”

“So fucking take it off, Nick.”

“I had a stray sock in the wash.”

“You are so not delaying sex because of a sock!” Greg ripped his foot violently out of Nick’s grasp and tore the offending garment off, throwing it at Nick. The sock hit him lightly on the chest before landing on Greg’s stomach. Nick snapped out of his domestic hen mode as he watched the sock move up and down with Greg’s hitching breaths.

“You’re right. Fucking now, laundry later.” He crawled back on top of Greg, kissing him hard. He had not removed the sock.