Tandy Bowen doesn't have to pick between (cloakndagger) wrote in repose,
Re: Billy/Tandy: the neighborhood
"The hankie code?" Tandy didn't know a hankie code. He knew codes, the kind that were typed and executed but not hankies. He had an unerring suspicion that it was dirty, because Billy's eyes gleamed the way that boded either trouble or a joke that Tandy didn't know the punchline to. "Is that like hanky-panky?" But he'd picked up his bag, toting it over one arm and clutching the laptop like it was a precious life-line because it was, essentially.
"You're more acquainted with the bulk purchase of lube than me," he said with equanimity and followed Sabrina out of the kitchen as the dish-towel served its purpose and was tossed into a crumple. Tandy's footsteps were light given comparative bulk. He'd done a lot of creeping around, which meant being careful about weight distribution and he didn't creak the stairs on the way up.
"My own bathroom?" Both eyebrows went up. It was a generosity of space Tandy hadn't expected. He hadn't known what he did expect, except that it was undoubtedly exceptionally Billy, and he had a vague notion of essentially crashing on the metaphorical equivalent of the couch. But they paused in the doorway of a room less ...vivd, and bright and Billy, and more mellow. Quiet. Tandy looked from bare, very blue walls to the sizeable bed and turned to face Billy, his mouth quirking.
He wasn't expressive as a general rule. "You bought exactly a million pillows, I see. This is really neat." He stepped across the threshold, the smell of stringent fresh paint in his nose and he reached out an arm in one long stretch to touch the white paper lampshade. It was clean lines, and stark in a way the downstairs wasn't, and Tandy's face sketched something close to admiration, which was a lot for a man low on facial quirks.
"This is really neat." He gently put his laptop and bag down on the bed, and stood back. "So do I get to see yours too?"