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Domestic Comforts

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"Hey, so. What d'you think about adding pie to the menu, babe?"

"We're an ice cream parlor, Dean. It says so on the sign." Without looking up from the kitchen table, or the ledger where he's calculating their expenses and profits for the past month, Viktor sighs.

This is about the absolute worst time to acknowledge any of his boyfriend's ridiculous fancies. Even with the numbers looking good, even with them looking more than good, Viktor has a headache building up behind his eyes. One that's getting in the way of Viktor's ability to keep staring at these receipts and the lines upon lines of numbers. He sets his pencil down, slides off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Hopefully, Dean will take the hint to drop the subject.

The chair next to Viktor drags along the kitchen's linoleum floor, then creaks as Dean flops into it, and before Viktor knows what's going on, he's got a warm, cozy presence sidling up to him and one of Dean's arms curling up around his waist, laying out over his spine. Distraction, thy name is Dean Winchester.

Viktor can't help rolling his eyes, for all that expression and the smirk that follows are more affectionate than not. Not that he doesn't appreciate this show, but he knows Dean's habits. He doesn't trust this show not to be an unsubtle ploy meant to lure Viktor into approving Dean's ideas about stocking and/or making up decidedly not-ice cream desserts. Still, he can't help leaning into Dean's embrace, into Dean's pudgy side and his soft belly.

He can't help nudging his fingers at the straining hem of Dean's t-shirt, either. Nominally, Dean's been trying to lose a little weight for the past few months, when this shirt was a bit clingy but not too small. Judging from how the thing rides up on his stomach, exposing a strip of skin before Viktor even tries to push it up further—not to mention, judging from what Viktor knows about his boyfriend's appetite and non-existent exercise schedule—Dean's done about the opposite of what he'd planned.

Viktor chuckles a bit and just lets his hand linger on Dean's stomach for a moment. It's all a nice alternative to dwelling on his headache, having a snuggle with which to indulge himself. More than that, he does appreciate the little gut Dean's sporting, how complacent and domestic it makes him look. How, with all this pudge and the childish way he gets excited about simple things (like pie, and Star Trek, and his little brother's engagement to his girlfriend out in Palo Alto, and concocting new treats for the shop, and making sure their Comic-Con costumes are perfect), he's the exact opposite of the life Viktor left behind when he quit the police service.

Viktor wriggles around in his seat so he can get that much closer to his boy. So he can rest his back against the spare tire Dean's been accumulating since they moved into the apartment above their café eighteen months ago. With a small smile, Viktor drops his hand to Dean's leg, squeezes his knee. Brushes his hand up and down Dean's inseam, pressing his palm and fingers into Dean's fleshy thigh.

Dean squeezes Viktor's hip, sighs like a contented house-cat, nuzzles up Viktor's cheek and kisses at the corner of his mouth—and doesn't even try to keep the whine out of his voice as he points out: "Well, yeah, but weren't we just talking about expanding our horizons? I mean, ice cream's great, especially mine—"

"Well, you'd know better than anybody," Viktor teases, batting at Dean's leg, then reaching up and back to poke at one of the chubby rolls on Dean's waistline. He ends up grabbing the little bit of muffin-top sticking out past the waistband of Dean's jeans. "How's the diet going, by the way? Weren't you trying to get back down to one-ninety-five, two-hundred before we head out west for Sam's birthday?"

Dean's cheeks blush, luminescent pink. He ducks his head, failing to hide his guilty smirk and showing off the little build-up of fat hanging out around his jaw and neck. It's not a proper double-chin, not yet, but it's definitely heading in that direction. Viktor snickers and turns to face Dean more, stealing a kiss, whispering as he nips at the fuller apples of Dean's cheek that he's had all the time in the world since Christmas and he only had fifteen, maybe twenty, pounds to lose. With a piglet snort, he digs his thumb into Viktor's side and scratches. Hard.

"Yeah, the diet got dropped when me and Jo invented that chocolate mint-berry flavor," Dean admits. "Right about now? I'll just settle for sticking close to two-thirty-six by the time we leave for Palo Alto. Sam was already knocking me about getting chubby at Christmas, and all his fat-ass jokes suck, so it's not like he can get any worse. Unless he grows a better sense of humor, which he won't, or Jess buys it for him, which she can't. On the bright side, though?"

He smirks against Viktor's lips. "I have it on good authority that a certain sexy ex-cop thinks I'm hot no matter what."

"It's Jo and I," Viktor says, rolling his eyes as he shifts into Dean's lap, straddles his thickening hips and gets comfortable on Dean's thighs. Smiling, he rests one arm on Dean's shoulder, curling it around behind his neck, and lets the other drop, so he can rub little circles up and down Dean's love-handle.

"I think I follow this logic about the ex-cop, though," he adds, snaking his fingers around the curve of Dean's side, then under the lower curve of his pudgy belly—and Viktor smirks when that makes Dean shudder, gasp. "Just between you and me, Dean? The ex-cop thinks… yeah, okay. Sam might not be all that fat, but he's got no room to make fun of anybody else's weight, especially when his insults aren't even clever. And just for the record? A little bit of comfort looks much better on you than him."

"Yeah, well…" Dean laughs, all breathy soft and sweet. "You're a pretty biased witness here, don't you think, Detective?"

"Oh, completely." A snicker. A stolen kiss. Resting his forehead against Dean's, Viktor splays his hand over the thickest part of Dean's middle, gently squeezes and sinks his fingers into Dean's warm, soft flesh. "It doesn't mean I'm wrong, though."

"And what does a certain sexy ex-cop maybe think about my pie idea?" Dean arches his eyebrows playfully, hopefully.

"A certain sexy ex-cop's going to need to think about that, Dean." But huffing in amusement, shaking his head, Viktor supposes that business is doing well enough to support looking into some further expansion.