Sweetheart, | winterfalcon short stories

Housewife

Sam has no goddamn idea how to take care of himself and James doesn't know how to flirt
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It takes Sam a week or so to notice. He doesn't do his own laundry anymore. it's one of the chores that James has silently but unequivocally taken over since he moved to Sam's place. (where their rooms were just across the hall from each other) Along with the cooking, gardening, and general cleaning.

Apparently you're supposed to wash your windows; who knew? james had given Sam a look when he had asked why the hell the inside of a window would be dirty, and then he'd shown Sam the black grime he'd collected on the damp newspaper he was using to wipe down the window, and Sam had said 'All right, man. wash whatever you want if it makes you happy,' and backed out of the room. So now the house smells faintly like floor wax and fresh lemon oil 24/7, and all his windows sparkle.

So Sam doesn't notice at first that the holes in his socks have all spontaneously closed up. It isn't until he's pulling off his favorite pair of socks at the end of a long day that he notices the new stitching, neat and almost invisible, patching the hole in the toe that's been idly bothering Sam for a few months now.
Sam pigeonholes James in the kitchen, where he's mixing up a batch of sourdough starter to leave in the fridge overnight.
Sam recently learned that James takes store-bought bread as a personal offence. 'It's just yeast, flour, salt, and water, Wilson, I can mix it in my sleep. Get that spongey bagged shit out of my kitchen.'

Sam leans on the fridge and holds up the socks with a dramatic flourish, like he's presenting evidence. 'Are you darning my socks?'
James looks down and scratches the scruff on his chin.
'Maybe,' he mumbles
'Are you blushing?' Sam asks, as a shit eating grin graces his face.
'Pfft, me? No.'
'Dude, You totally are.' He totally is.
James buries his face in his hands.
His moan of 'Steve swears I used to be good at this,' comes out a little muffled, but Sam gets the gist.
'Is this 1940s flirting?'
'Maybe.' James fingers shift just enough to let one eye peek out at Sam. 'Is it working?'
'Come over here and find out.'
Two months later when James officially moves his stuff into Sam's bedroom, the first thing he does is re-organize the bathroom.

'Hey, what'd I say?' Sam swung the shopping basket behind his back when James tried to slip in a bottle of something dark. 'No more shopping sprees at the hardware store. This time, for once, we stick to the list.'
Undeterred, James flipped the bottle over Sam's shoulder in a perfect arc to send it into the basket. 'We need it.'
'No, we do not need–' Sam snuck a look down into the basket. 'Yet another bottle of polish, what the hell, man? We already have like five bottles.' 'Three,' James corrected. He turned a vase over to check the price tag on the bottom, then snorted and put it back. 'We have wood polish, steel polish, and brass polish. That's copper polish.' 'Is this why you came back from Goodwill last week with that giant copper pot that we also definitely don't need?' Sam picked the bottle up and shook it accusingly. 'So you'd have an excuse to indulge your polish fetish?' 'Make you a deal,' James said, crowding Sam against the shelves and leaning into him a little. Sam looked up and, sure enough, they were in the store's one security camera blindspot. Of course James would know that. James really liked flirting and messing with Sam in public, as long as it wasn't public public. 'If we get the polish, I'll tell you about the time in '38 when Steve accidentally sat in our soup pot and got his bony little ass stuck.'
Sam felt his eyes go wide. 'He did not.' James just raised his eyebrows and looked smug. The fucker always knew when he'd won. 'Fine, the polish stays.' Sam tapped the bottle against the center of James chest and tried to look stern. 'But you're telling me that story on our way home, and I expect our new soup pot to shine, you understand?'
James hid his smile against Sam's temple. 'Sir, yes, sir.'
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