Re: That One Tree Behind the Reg. Table: Billy K & Lin A
The talent of that kind of nuanced physicality, the absurdity of how Lin managed to convey the suggestion that he might in fact have hidden creepy crawlies on him at this very moment without even saying a word - that had to be admired, even if it made Billy feel torn between delighted laughter and very violent shoving. Not that he was ever super effective in the violence department, he of the scrawny and weakling physical categorization, but his intense dislike of all things with too many legs was not to be underestimated. (Bugs were a hard no-fly zone, thank you and goodnight, no need to stop by the gift shop on your way out.)
Fortunately for both parties, Billy’s instincts about the other’s inclination towards lines of the utmost sophistication were proven spot on, and a triumphant grin settled itself into place on his mouth as they set off on the hunt. But he turned it faux-thoughtful, appraising look cast shrewdly from under the weight of Lin’s arm around his shoulders. “Y’know, better not. You do look a little old for me.”
Brown eyes warm with teasing-twinkle and lashes blinking innocently, Billy was totally ready to duck in the event that Lin took a swing at him - fast reflexes one of the most useful benefits learned through growing up in a big family. And at first he actually thought that Lin’s sudden preoccupation was a ruse designed to get Billy’s guard down for retaliation, classic ‘hey-what’s-that-over-there’ cartoon tactics 101. But then he heard it, too: the delicate clatter of cups cradled in saucers and ornate chairs being slid out in a bidding to sit, please, come dine with us.
So he followed the direction of Lin’s gaze and blinked in surprise, his steps faltering so that the two bodies drew apart, Billy sliding out from under the slack of the encircling arm and then drawing closer to the table in wonder. “What…?” He cast a raised-brow glance behind him before he turned back to the table, reaching out with slender fingers to touch the pristine white tablecloth, light and tentative. Real enough, then? The fabric felt like soft expense, and there was the solid press of a table evident beneath, and this felt more like a formal seder dinner at his Bubbe’s house. (With less matzah, maybe.)
“This is…” he trailed off, leaning over the table and reaching out to pluck a resplendently-decorated cupcake off a glittering platter and place it in the palm of one hand. He even gave it an experimental sniff, breathing in the toothsome aroma of fondant icing that made up the tiny little flowers in shades of pink and yellow. The weight in his hand was real, but he knew, logically, that the table hadn’t been in front of them just a minute ago. “This is really good magic. Are you doing this?”