Poetry Ficlets (5/5) - 'Tyger Tyger' (Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Tyger Tyger (The Poetry Ficlets [5/5]) Rating: PG-13 Pairing: Andy Roddick/… I’ll leave you all to guess. ^__~ Summary: Andy can’t sleep until he works out who’s behind his dreams. Notes: Last of the Poetry ‘Ficlets’, based on my favourite poem ever. :) It wandered from the tone of the poem somewhat though. *sighs* Muses. Disclaimer: None of it is mine, I just like to play with the pretties for a while. William Blake wrote and owns Tyger Tyger which is wonderful and should be read be everyone. *nods* But still not mine.
The Poetry Ficlets – Tyger Tyger
~ Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright, Through the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? - William Blake, Tyger Tyger ~
Andy knows he’s dreaming.
He knows it in that distant, faintly desperate way you know it when the monster is racing towards you and part of the nightmare is that you’re frozen in place, having to watch the teeth getting closer and closer until they snap shut. He knows it enough to know that as real as it feels, he’s not running through a jungle right now with the night air hot and damp around him and wet leaves brushing his face. He knows it in a way that doesn’t lessen the terror of something stalking close behind him, giant paws brushing softly through undergrowth.
He knows he’s dreaming but doesn’t know how to stop.
His feet are bare and he can feel the soft mud and leaves catch between his toes as he runs. A vine snakes around one ankle and he jerks, almost falls; touches waking with the tips of his fingers before he catches his balance, keeps running. He can hear the sound of snarling above his harsh breathing, curling round him like the claws will, a dream of razor sharpness sinking into his soul. Terror and adrenaline keep him running because if he reaches the edge of the trees, if it doesn’t catch him, then he’ll wake up. He’ll wake up in his own bed tangled in sweat-soaked sheets and it won’t rip him to pieces.
He glances back and sees teeth coming at him, glittering white through the dark beneath a pair of eyes that are lit with gold, slitted pupils wide in the darkness of the forest, shining with the excitement of the hunt. With a yell he leaps forward and trips, falls, deadly claws coming down-
- and he hits the floor of his bedroom with a yell, rolling into a ball before the coldness of the air conditioning washes away the humidity of the jungle, sweat trickling down his spine. He presses his face to the rough carpet and takes a deep breath, still shaking. Imagined claws rip down his back and he flinches-
“Andy?” a sleepy voice asks from by the door and the light flicks on. Andy yelps and shuts his eyes because fuck, the brightness hurts. A hand touches his shoulder and he lets himself be helped to sit up, leaning back against the bed.
“This is fucking crazy Mardy,” he hisses, rubbing his eyes before glancing up at his friend. Mardy’s worried expression fades in and out of focus. “It’s every night now. I’m gonna go crazy at this rate.”
Mardy kneels on the floor, hand still on Andy’s bare shoulder. “Andy if you won’t go see someone about it-“
“I don’t need a fucking shrink Mardy! I just need a good night’s sleep!”
“Alright!” Mardy sighs. “Well you could always… You said it’s some sort of cat right?”
“A tiger.” Andy swallows and runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when it comes away dripping with sweat. “It’s definitely a tiger.”
“So it must stand for something.” Mardy half shrugs when Andy looks at him questioningly. “My sister’s big on this whole idea of dreams representing your subconscious desires or something like that. She said the cat-“
“You told your little sister about my nightmares?” Andy groans, leaning his head back on the bed. “Thanks a bunch Mardy, now she probably thinks I’m psycho too.”
Mardy rolls his eyes. “We don’t think Andy, we know.” He ducks the hand Andy half-heartedly tries to swat him with. “But she thinks it stands for something that you want or you’re afraid of.”
“So what? I have to find out what it represents and let me guess, face it up to it?” Andy can’t help a smirk, despite the adrenaline still making him shake. “Sounds like bullshit to me Mar. I’d rather be cracking up.”
“Your choice.” Mardy shrugs. “Now are you gonna keep yelling all night? Because if you are I’ll make some coffee.”
“Yeah.” Andy sighs. “Coffee sounds good.”
~~~
“Where do you think Andy Roddick’s mind is today Barry?”
“Not on this tennis match, that’s for sure! Just look at that ball fly past him!”
Andy’s doing exactly that, watching shot after shot sail past his racquet as he struggles to keep his eyes open. Oh god he’s losing so badly. He’d be humiliated if he wasn’t so fucking tired. Even worse, things keep catching the corner of his eye; an orange shirt; a kid with striped black face paint; a sign with a giant pair of yellow eyes on it and he’ll be damned if he can work that last one out, because just who would bring a random sign like that to a tennis match anyway? It’s all making him very twitchy and he has no idea how he’s stayed in the set this far. Tim seems to be taking it easy on him and as fucking annoying as the Brit can be sometimes – Andy’s been on the wrong end of a fair few of his pranks – today Andy could hug him. Where someone like Lleyton would be making him look like a moron right now, Tim’s sticking to making him look moderately stupid.
He amends that to ‘Very stupid’ as another easy shot deflects off the frame of his racquet into the crowd.
“Out!”
No shit! Andy bites the sharp retort back and heads for his chair. Get a grip Roddick for fuckssake.
He rests his head in his hands as he sits, feeling sweat trickling between his fingers. For a moment he shivers but the sun burning on his shoulders reassures him; it’s the middle of the day, in the middle of the tennis court. No tigers here. Which isn’t really much consolation, since he’s managing to lose spectacularly anyway.
What had Mardy said? The tiger represented something? Andy inwardly sneers at the thought but he has a few minutes to waste and nothing can make him play any worse at this point. Reaching down for his water, he takes a sip as he thinks.
He doesn’t think he’s scared of anything in particular right now. He’s resigned to losing more often than he’d like; he’s happy with Dean as his coach; his break up with Tommy a few months ago was completely amicable and he still calls the German often. He has the car he’s always wanted. No one picks on him in the locker room like they do some of the littler guys. So what the hell could be making a tiger stalk him in his dreams?
The umpire calls time and its back out on court for Tim’s service game which Andy loses to love before collapsing back in his chair. Alright, if not something then it must be someone.
The first person to come to mind is Mardy but Andy shakes that off as just familiarity. He adores Mardy but in a completely platonic way and Mardy’s okay with that. There’s no issues he can find in his relationship with the other American to give him nightmares. Likewise with Tommy; the German is closer to Andy than family and their relationship just came to a naturally comfortable end. Andy digs through his recent meetings with his family and close friends and comes up with nothing. He’s not even pissed any of them off lately, an accomplishment in itself, but not really helpful right now.
The next game he wins without even realising, running on auto-pilot and the instinct to ace every serve taking over. Tim looks a little shell shocked across the net but Andy doesn’t even notice, mentally listing everyone on the tour, because if it isn’t family or friends then it’s a rival.
Hewitt. Andy fumbles an easy shot at the thought of the Australian, growling under his breath. He hates playing Lleyton, mainly because he keeps losing but he’s got over the few humiliating losses, came within a couple of points of beating the Australian in Indian Wells. He’s dealing with Hewitt and despite the occasional yelling match, they don’t hate each other as such. Mardy pointed out last summer that they’re too alike and got whacked with a handy pillow for it but deep down Andy knows what he means. Playing Lleyton is simply a fight for the affections of the crowd, a battle for the right to be smug just within the limits of sportsmanship. He doesn’t get on with Lleyton simply because one tennis court isn’t big enough for two of them and there’s no underlying feelings he can find that would turn the Australian into a subconscious menace. Andy sighs and puts a little too much force behind a forehand to send it sailing wide. This is hopeless.
He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice Tim stumble, the Brit dropping to grab his ankle with a grimace. It’s not until a couple of hours later, the rest of the match and the press conference a blur behind him, that Andy fully realises he ‘won’ – technically speaking - the match and he’s facing Roger in the final tomorrow. The thought is enough to make him groan and hide his face in his hands, because his head hurts from trying to figure out his dreams and he’s still no closer to getting anywhere.
“Andy?”
Andy glances up from where he’s sitting on the locker room bench, jerked from his thoughts and frowning at the person hovering in the doorway. “Hey Roger. Wasn’t your match this morning?”
“Ja.” Roger steps into the room and Andy openly admires the Swiss’ grace as he walks to his locker. There’s something about the way Roger moves, long, relaxed strides that seem to suggest the Swiss doesn’t give a damn what people think, entirely comfortable in his own skin. Andy wishes he could be that relaxed but he finds it impossible not to bounce, not to spin in circles and hop from foot to foot. Mardy calls it a caffeine complex. His mother calls it irritating. His brothers…
… well, just thinking about what his brothers say about it makes him blush.
“I left my watch here.” Roger casts a smile over his shoulder as he produces his watch from his locker and slips it over his slender wrist. Andy hastily drags his gaze away and nods.
“Right,” he mumbles absently. It’s a little comforting to know even Roger isn’t infallible, though he’d bet a year’s prize money that the Swiss doesn’t have dreams that keep him up half the night or have him falling out of bed, yelling his head off. He probably dreams about endless golden trophies and people trying to kiss his feet. Andy takes a moment to imagine the entire tour fighting to try to kiss Roger’s feet and can’t help chuckling. Especially if he makes his mental Roger ‘accidentally’ step on Hewitt’s head as the Australian bends down…
“Andy?”
“AAH!” Andy jumps several inches off the bench as a hand unexpectedly touches his shoulder and nearly falls, barely catching himself on the edge of his seat. Roger stares down at him, eyes wide with surprise.
“Andy, are you okay?”
“…Yeah.” The American takes a deep breath, his heart pounding. “Yeah I’m good. Really.”
“Can I…?” Roger asks, gesturing to the bench beside him. Andy shrugs, still trying to slow his breathing.
“Sure.”
Roger sits, seeming to struggle for words. “You seemed a little... out on court. How do you say it?”
“Spaced out?” Andy suggests and amends it to “Distracted?” when the Swiss looks confused. Roger nods at the correction. “That’s ‘cause I was.” He shrugs again, starting to collect his scattered clothes and stuffing them into his tennis bag. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Do you need to see a doctor?” Roger asks, sounding genuinely concerned. Andy looks up from his bag, wearing a grin that’s edged with surprise.
“I’m touched Feds. Didn’t know you cared.”
“If you’re going to be like that-“ Roger growls, starting to get up. With a surge of guilt, Andy grabs the Swiss’ hand and tugs him back down.
“Whoa Roger, don’t get all offended. I didn’t mean it like- okay I did mean it like that but I was just teasing.” He reaches behind the Swiss to snag his sweat-damp tennis shirt and scrunches it up to stuff in the bag, knowing it’ll probably stay there a couple of months and not caring. Roger still looks a little hurt. “Christ Rog, put your hackles down. If you must know, I keep having… bad dreams. Nightmares.”
“Anything in particular?” Roger asks. Andy’s got his head half buried inside his bag looking for clean socks but still picks up on the curiosity in the Swiss’ voice.
“Yeah actually.” He looks over his shoulder with a frown. “You that interested?”
Roger smiles. “Yes.”
Andy blinks in surprise. “Huh. Well, remember that you asked to know.”
“Of course.”
“Basically, I’m running through a jungle.” Andy sits up, rubbing a hand through his hair that’s sticking up at all angles as it starts to grow out. Roger’s listening with a calmly intent expression. “It’s typical jungle stuff you know, mud and rain and leafy stuff. I’m running as fast as I can and it’s like I’m really there.”
“Just a jungle?” Roger asks slowly. Andy shakes his head and bends down to pull on the only pair of socks he could find in his drawer that morning, one red and one blue. Probably Mardy stealing the others again, he thinks direly and drags his mind back to the conversation with Roger.
“No. There’s something chasing me, something huge and faster than me, with these massive teeth. I think it’s a tiger. Which makes no sense because I’ve always been more scared of bears, ever since my brother filled my room with teddies one April Fool’s Da-” He breaks off and blushes suddenly, glancing up at Roger. “Tell anyone that and you’ll become very intimately acquainted with my racquet, understand?”
Roger smirks but bites his lip, appearing to think better of whatever he was about to say. “I understand.”
“Good.” Andy looked back at his shoes, still blushing. “And this tiger, it leaps at me, I can hear it snarling, then just before it hits me, I wake up. Or fall out of bed. I never knew carpet could give you so many bruises.” He sits up straight and looks sideways at the Swiss who’s looking lost in thought. “Sorry you asked?”
“No, it’s fascinating,” Roger murmurs and Andy’s about to growl at him before he realises the Swiss is sincere. “Do you think the tiger repre-“
“Represents something I want or am afraid of, yeah. I’ve had this spiel from Mardy.” Andy sighs heavily. “Since when did the entire tour turn into a bunch of Freudian fanatics?”
“Actually I learnt that from my psychologist,” Roger remarks absently. Andy blinks and stares at him for several, long seconds.
“You have a shrink?”
“I used to, when I was younger. And she wasn’t a shrink, she was a sports psychologist.” Roger frowns at Andy’s expression. “What?”
“Fuck. If you have to go see a shrink-“
“A sports psychologist.”
“- A shrink Roger, don’t interrupt, then there’s no hope for the rest of us. I may as well commit myself now and get it over with.” Andy pouts in mock-sadness at the ceiling. “I’ll probably end up in a padded room, rocking back and to in the corner and muttering about the potato people or something. I wonder if Mardy’ll visit me? Send me flowers maybe. Unless he’s in the cell next door, which I guess could be fun...”
“Are you quite finished?” Roger asks patiently. Andy looks at him with an innocent face.
“You’re a cruel man Roger. No pity for me cracking up.”
“You aren’t cracking up. Your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”
“Oh really?” Andy swallows an inane giggle at the Swiss’ assured tone and turns to face him, folding his arms as if insulted. “So what exactly is my inner tiger trying to say Dr Feds?”
Roger shrugs, apparently unaware he’s being teased. “I don’t know. I’m not you. There must be something you want badly enough for it to be giving you nightmares. Something important.”
Andy shakes his head. “I’ve tried this. Gone through most of the tour, backwards, forwards and sideways. Not literally gone through!” he adds sharply at Roger’s smirk. “Jesus, you’ve got a dirty mind under all that control Federer. But there’s nothing, or no one, I can think of that I want that badly. Sorry to burst your shrink’s bubble.”
Roger shrugs and slides off the bench, standing up. “It’ll be something you’re missing, something that would mean a lot to you if that helps.”
“No one means that much to me,” Andy grumbles, zipping his bag closed. “Though I get the feeling it’s something I’m at least a bit scared of… the tiger’s bigger and faster than me.”
“Something you look up to maybe?” Roger sounds contemplative as he turns towards the door, Andy frowning up at him. “It will also probably be something you see often, if it’s that embedded in your subconscious.”
“Well that should narrow it down with all the travelling we do.” Andy stands, smiling at Roger as the Swiss pauses by the door. “See you for the match tomorrow?”
“Getting familiar,” Roger remarks dryly. “I’ll see you then. I’ll let you know if I think of anything about the dreams.”
“Thanks. I’ll take any advice I can get at this point.” Andy swings his bag over his shoulder and crosses the room, holding the door for Roger to go before him. “It’s so frustrating because I get the feeling the answer’s staring me right in the face and I just can’t see it.”
“Must be terrible,” Roger says sympathetically. “Hope you sleep better tonight.”
“Yeah,” Andy grumbles quietly as the Swiss walks away. “Not much chance of that.”
~~~
“Andy, you look like crap.”
“Why thank you oh light of my life. Is that your professional opinion?” Andy glowers at Mardy across the locker room. “You aren’t all sunshine and roses yourself you know.”
“Only because a certain friend of mine kept waking me up when he repeatedly fell out of bed, yelling his head off.” Mardy blinks sleepily, curled around his second cup of coffee of the day. Andy is already on his fourth. “Maybe we could get railings for your bed. Or buy you a giant crib. It’d stop you falling out at least.”
“Helpful Mardy, really.” Andy throws a tennis ball at him. “You can stop nursemaiding me and go away now. See, here’s Roger.” The Swiss pauses at the door at the sound of his name and Andy smiles at him. “He won’t let me befall some great and terrible accident between here and the court. So run along.”
“Andy-“ Mardy breaks off and sighs, lifting his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He’s all yours Federer,” he mutters as he heads towards the door. “Go easy on him. He’s possibly deranged.”
“Love you too sweetie,” Andy yells sarcastically after his best friend as Mardy disappears out the door. He catches Roger’s confused look. “I was joking Rog. Me and Mardy are strictly platonic.”
“Do you think he could be your mysterious tiger?” Roger asks, stripping off his shirt to get changed. Andy catches himself admiring the golden brown skin and forces himself to look away, studying the suddenly fascinating lockers.
“I don’t think so. If Mardy and I were meant to happen, we would’ve acted on it already. We’re just friends.”
“I see. Did you sleep any better last night?” Roger tugs a fresh shirt over his head and Andy silently sighs with relief, temptation removed from view. It’s really not fair, that the guy can be that damn good at tennis, that nice and that hot all at once. Really not fair at all.
“No. Worse, if anything.” He sighs out loud this time. “Don’t think I’ll be much of a match today to tell you the truth.”
“You never know. You may surprise yourself.” Roger flashes a bright smile at him as a knock at the door signals the court is ready for them. “Good luck Andy.”
“You too.” Andy manages a smile in return but waits until Roger’s out the room before adding a little resentfully, “Not that you’ll need it.”
~~~
“Looks like today is going to be another fine example of how not to play tennis from Andy Roddick eh Barry?”
“Couldn’t agree more Leif. Oh, look at him miss that forehand! Federer’s trying to lead him through this match in baby steps but Roddick can’t even keep up with those. Something must be very confused in his mind right now if I’m any judge.”
Out on court, Andy stares dismally at an out-of-reach shot from Roger bouncing in by a wide margin. Even he can tell the Swiss is practically doing back-flips to distract everyone from the fact Andy isn’t playing his best, and, like the entire damn crowd, he can tell that Roger’s failing. As rare an occurrence at that is, it isn’t really surprising. The top fifty best tennis players combined couldn’t stop Andy from looking stupid right now, he’s so tired.
Roger’s watching him with a worried frown from across court, but Andy can only manage a faint smile as reassurance until he realises that oh god, he has to serve. Silently he prays that he’ll be able to at least get a couple of balls over the net and turns to face Roger, bouncing the ball a couple of times only to lose his grip and send it skidding away. Tuning out the ripple of amusement from the crowd is easy when he’s so tired, he just stops listening, focusing only on keeping his eyes open. One serve Andy, he tells himself. Just get one over the net. Don’t embarrass yourself too much.
He starts to toss the second ball up to hit, his eyes skimming past Roger as he looks up as usual… only this time his gaze locks with the dark stare and suddenly his racquet is clattering to the court from nerveless fingers. Oh god, those are the eyes. Not the colour; he’d freak if Roger’s eyes suddenly turned gold but the look, the feeling behind them. It’s exactly the same as the tiger stalking him through his dreams. Andy doesn’t realise he’s staring blankly at Roger until the Swiss frowns at him, mouthing “What’s wrong?” Suddenly he’s aware of the laughter in the crowd and flushes bright pink, retrieving his racquet. He must be wrong. It can’t be Roger, or maybe he’d just picked up on the Swiss’ eyes before and his subconscious had mixed it in with the dream. He didn’t want…
… did he?
Don’t be stupid. Just serve the fucking ball and forget it. Andy wishes he had a convenient wall to beat his head against but settles for serving instead, this time avoiding Roger’s eyes. Somewhat surprisingly, the ball gets over the net and they settle into the rally, Andy keeping his attention fixed on the ball. He refuses to believe the tiger represents Roger. Sure the Swiss keeps beating him, and sure he’s gorgeous and okay, so maybe Andy likes to watch him undress in the locker room every once in a while, but that doesn’t mean he – or at least his subconscious – wants more than that. He’s just overreacting. Satisfied with his rationalising, Andy forgets not to look up – and meets Roger’s eyes just as he lunges for a particularly difficult volley. Concentration vanishes, one foot catches on the other and before he knows what happened Andy hits the court hard, knocking the air out his lungs in a painful gasp.
More bruises. Joy. He’s going to look like a walking domestic violence commercial at this rate.
“Andy!” There’s a thud and Roger lands next to him, having apparently leapt clear over the net. Andy blinks at him in shock and more than a little confusion, still dazed from the fall. Last time he tried that trick with the net, he almost broke his nose. Fucking Roger, always managing to pull things off. It’s not fair that he’s perfect.
“Andy?” Roger has a hand on his shoulder and Andy can feel the warmth of the Swiss’ palm through his shirt. Come to think of it, he’s never seen any other player leap the net to make sure their opponent is okay. It’s sort of sweet actually. Andy frowns and looks up, seeing the worry written across Roger’s face.
“I’m okay,” he reassures the Swiss a little hoarsely. “Just knocked my breath away a bit.”
“Are you sure?” Roger supports him as he tries to sit up, easing the American upright. “Take it easy for a minute. What happened?”
“I don’t-“ Andy frowns harder, shaking his head. His whole left side hurts from hitting the court, his head is dizzy with tiredness and all he can feel is Roger’s arm around his waist, the Swiss’ other hand resting comfortingly on his shoulder. He loves that Roger ran across the court to help him, regardless of the match. He loves that the Swiss was taking it easy on him from the start. He even loves how fucking perfect the man is. Andy groans silently, unable to avoid the fact any longer.
“Roger?” he mutters, blinking to focus tired eyes on the Swiss’ face, still furrowed with worry. “I… I think…”
“Yes?” Roger prompts gently. Andy sighs.
“I think you’re my tiger.”
“Sounds like concussion to me.” The trainer remarks as he leans over Andy’s shoulder, gently but firmly detaching Roger from the American. “Come on Andy, let’s get you to your chair.”
“No wait, you don’t-“
“Come on.” The trainer almost drags him to his feet with the help of the on-court medic, the two of them forcibly turning Andy away from Roger. The American tries to struggle but he’s too bruised to put up much of a fight. “Let’s get you sitting down and see how you feel.”
Andy glances desperately back over his shoulder and meets Roger’s dark eyes, wide with shock. “Locker room,” he mouths. “Later.”
He just catches Roger’s nod before the umpire announces “Game, set, match, Roger Federer,” and the Swiss is hidden by a rush of officials and press.
~~~
It’s hours later that Andy finally limps into the locker room, having spent the time since the match explaining his myriad bruises and insisting that yes, he still knows who the President is, it’s Lincoln right, no wait he was joking, he promises he was, he didn’t have concussion. Doctors don’t seem to take kindly to attempts at humour and Andy’s more than a little grumpy at being poked and prodded for no reason.
He doesn’t expect to find Roger in the locker room. The Swiss probably got bored hours ago and went home. He’ll just pick up his stuff then go back to the hotel and crash in hopes of getting some sleep now he’s finally worked out what his subconscious has been trying to tell him. “I’m in love with Roger Federer,” he mutters as he walks into the dim locker room, most of the lights turned off this late at night. “Who’d have thought?”
“I sort of hoped you’d realise it eventually,” a voice replies and Roger steps out the shadows. “Are you okay?”
“One hundred percent no concussion. I could’ve told them that hours ago but I don’t think they wanted to believe me after the president joke.” Andy half-grins but stares at the floor, avoiding Roger’s eyes. “Look Roger, about what I said earlier-“
“Did you mean it?”
Startled, Andy glances up and meets intense sincerity in Roger’s expression. “I- well- yeah, I did. And, wait… realise it eventually? You mean you-“
“Yes,” Roger answers softly before Andy can even finish. “For months. I just didn’t know how to approach you and when you seemed so attached to Mardy, I thought…”
“So you think we… you want me as in want, you know, because I’m okay if you’re not sure.” Andy swallows nervously as Roger steps closer, dark eyes intently watching him fidget. “I mean I’ll be disappointed I guess but not, surprised, or anything, I guess I mean-“
“Andy?”
“I- Yes?”
“Shut up.”
And before Andy can protest, Roger’s arms are around him and the Swiss is kissing him, soft lips trembling against his. It’s not enough and Andy wraps his own arms around Roger, pulling him in close. It’s all the encouragement he needs and the kiss hardens, lips and teeth and tongues tangling wetly until Andy’s leaning heavily on Roger just to keep standing. By the time they break apart, he’s out of breath and sinks weakly onto the nearest bench, the Swiss going with him.
“Um.” Andy turns in Roger’s arms and buries his face in the crook of Roger’s neck. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Roger strokes his hair. “Andy, does this mean you want…”
“You? Us? Yeah, pretty much.” The American kisses the soft skin beneath his mouth. “After all, you’ve been stalking me in my head for months. I was just too dense to get the message.”
“How did you know?” Roger shifts on the bench so they’re more comfortably pressed together and Andy’s already half asleep, the Swiss a warm, comforting pillow. “That it was me?”
“Your eyes,” Andy murmured sleepily. “They were the same… same sort of look. Mmmmm.” He cuddles closer to Roger as the Swiss stands, guiding them towards the door. “Can we crash in my room? Mardy’ll worry if I’m not there when he calls.”
“Of course.” Roger presses a kiss to Andy’s forehead as they walk. “Will you be able to sleep now do you think?”
Andy feels himself start to grin.” Well that all depends on what you have in mind. I’m not sure my subconscious tiger will be fully satisfied until I’m… certain you’re sincere.”
“Oh really?” Roger’s voice almost has a purr to it. “And what would proving my sincerity involve?”
“I’m sure we could come up with something.” Andy chuckles against Roger’s neck, grin widening as the Swiss shivers. “You know, I’m glad it was you Rog. Even if you did keep me awake for months.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t plan on sleeping just yet,” Roger murmurs and the purr is still in his tone, vibrating his throat against Andy’s mouth. “I think proving my sincerity will involve losing some sleep, or even quite a bit…”
Andy straightens up and kisses him, tongues duelling for a moment before the American leans back, grinning wickedly.
“Somehow, I think that will be a sacrifice I’m very willing to make.”