Deviation Actions

Tenochtitlan's avatar

Literature Text

Tennant gazed at the book on the table like it was the sole and only cause of all the anguish he had ever experienced in his life -- and that might have even been believable if it wasn't for the print-outs scattered across the table, and all the little red marks across the map the book sat upon. He sighed, picked up a pen, and held it poised over the paper.

He stared.

He waited.

He waited a bit longer -- just in case -- but no other solution came to mind, leaving him only with his first insinct.

Which, for those keeping track, was also the only one he had considered, and instantly dismissed.

Behind him, unnoticed, a figure slipped across the room towards him. Its feet made almost no noise against the floor and while its shadow flickered in the light from the lamp, Tennant remained oblivious -- he was entirely absorbed in the book, and in the problem it represented.

A hand landed on his shoulder -- lightly, gently, barely enough force behind it to even justify the term landed -- but Tennant still tensed, jerking his head around to face his attacker. He relaxed less than a second later, and the slip would have been easy to miss if he hadn't been looking for it -- but Daniel didn't miss it. He didn't acknowledge it either, of course, but he definitely saw it.

Tennant turned back to the book as Daniel placed his other hand on his second shoulder, resting them there, lightly.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me," Tennant complained, a little dramatically. "I could have stabbed you with my pen or something."

"Mmmhm," agreed Daniel, terribly concerned by this threat. He peered down at the top of his bosses head -- more interested in his face than the book -- and Tennant tilted his head back to eye him, inadvertently making the quest that much easier.

Or maybe it was entirely deliberate. It was a little hard to tell, even for Daniel.

"I could have," he insisted, pretending not to be as amused as he was.

"You were distracted," Daniel admonished, automatically concerned.

"Of course," came the easy agreement. "You're here."

Despite himself, the bodyguard smiled -- it wasn't exactly a happy expression, but it didn't ooze doom and gloom and darkness, so close enough. He squeezed Tennant's shoulders again, idly giving the impression a massage was in his near future, and received a vaguely approving noise.

"Trouble?" Daniel asked, and regretted the faint undertone to his words. Tennant groaned, tossing the pen onto the table.

"I'm sure it's possible to get this guy out of the way," he complained, waving one hand idly in the direction of the book, as if that would explain everything -- it explained nothing, of course, but it wasn't worth arguing about. "But all I can think of doing is just shooting him."

He wasn't joking. Daniel didn't laugh.

"Not planning a more hands-on approach?" he asked, frowning, and not even trying to hide how unimpressed he was by Tennant's habit of doing exactly that. It didn't surprise him that all he got in response was a cocky grin.

"Next time," he shot back -- and he still wasn't joking, so Daniel still didn't laugh.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

Tennant sighed loudly, stalling as he considered the question.

"No," he answered finally, but it wasn't entirely clear if he was lying or not. His voice dropped, his tone becoming excessively morose. "But I am seriously considering if now isn't the time to change careers to something that requires less ... effort."

Daniel thought about this, idly squeezing his shoulders again.

"Maybe an accountant," Tennant continued, thinking aloud. "I'm pretty decent with numbers, I think."

"You wouldn't be allowed to punch everyone who annoyed you," Daniel pointed out.

"Sure I could," he argued, witha  lightening-quick grin. Then his good mood soured, and he sighed. "No, you're right -- a gym teacher, then."

"Because nothing could go wrong, leaving you alone with a bunch of impressionable children."

"I know -- it's a victimless crime."

"Have you considered pizza delivery boy?"

Tennant grinned again, and Daniel's lips twitched in response. It wasn't much, but he didn't feel very amused, even by this.

There was another noisy sigh from below, and Tennant flopped back against the couch; Daniel's hands slid down his shoulders and rested lightly on his chest. He didn't tap out a rhythm, he just rested them there, staring at the opposite wall.

They remained like that, for a minute.

"Is this going to be a problem?" Daniel asked again, seriously, breaking the silence. Tennant snorted, resting his cheek against one of Daniel's arms.

"No," he said, and looked up. "You worry too much."

"Imagine if I didn't," Daniel shot back. "You'd be neck-deep in assassins before you even looked up from your book."

Tennant outright laughed at that, and tugged him down for a quick kiss.

"You worry too much," he reiterated, about as reassuring as he could be without lying to his face. "Everything will be fine."

"Everything will be fine," Daniel echoed, just to show how unconvinced he was. Tennant grinned at him.

"Trust me," he agreed. "When have I ever been wrong?"


Wes rubbed at his face in frustration, doing anything to avoid staring at the paper in front of him for a few seconds. It turned out to be too brief a reprieve and when he looked back, he was still just as annoyed as when he'd looked away.

Clearly, whoever wrote this was a fucking idiot. That was the only explanation for their... tenuous... grasp on the English language, which in turn, was the only explanation for why he was gnawing angrily at his pen, a disgusted scowl on his face.

He carried on using the most obnoxiously red pen he could find, crossing out typos and making snide notes in the margins. Although the page had decidedly more colour to it by the time he was done, it still remained entirely uninteresting.

Wes sighed.

Outside, the rain pounded down. It made the air colder than usual, but he'd only barely noticed -- at some point he'd tossed a sweater on, but that was the only allowance he'd made. There was work to do, and --


Wes glanced down. Hitchcock stared up at him, silently daring him to disagree.

"Oh, please," griped the human, unamused by the interrupted. He lifted the cat's paw from his hand, but as soon as he dropped it gently back to the table to turn the page again --


but this time, with a little more insistence. Hitchcock stared at him, unblinking.

Wes frowned.

"I already fed you," he complained, and pointed at the bowl through the doorway. It sat on the spotless kitchen floor, gleaming very prettily. "See?"

Hitchcock said nothing. Wes rolled his eyes, decided it wasn't worth the effort of convincing him otherwise, and just flipped the page with his free hand.


Despite the flawless plan, the paper was still slapped back down -- no claws were out, so it didn't get shredded, but if Wes hadn't let it go, then he would have torn it himself.

What a great and terrible loss that would have been.

The cat meowr'ed reproachfully at his lack of interest, and Wes frowned harder, unsure if he should be impressed by this display.

"This is not the time," he informed his pet, and resolved to settle the matter once and for all. He stood up and gently -- though lacking any sort of ceremony -- plucked him up, turned, and placed him down on the floor. "There," he added, meaningfully, leaving the cat looking very insulted.

And as soon as Wes turned away, Hitchcock jumped up onto his chair, lifted his tail, and stared up at him.

Wes stared back, silently.

He didn't even meow. He just waited, patiently, like he had all the time in the world.

"Must you?" Wes groaned, caving first, but the cat offered no snappy retort. "I have to finish this," he argued, pointing at the table, but it was all for naught -- Hitchcock was not to be dissuaded from his course of action, and even had the gall to lean up, bumping his head impatiently against Wes' hand.

He purred, loudly, and flicked his tail.

Wes sighed, relenting, and picked up the cat again. This time he just cradled him against his chest, burying his face in the fur as he skulked over to the couch, dropping down carefully.

"You're a jerk," he grumbled, unimpressed, and stroked the soft fur. Hitchcock purred triumphantly, nuzzling and rubbing up against the human.

Wes grunted.

"A real jerk," he added, determined not to be so easily swayed.

Hitchcock was terribly chastised, he could tell -- it was obvious from the way he only purred louder, and snuggled in closer.

And outside, the rain kept on pounding down.
Extra bits for trade w/ Glace
© 2015 - 2023 Tenochtitlan
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In