Disclaimer: the closest I will ever get to being Neil Gaiman is wearing black. The closest I will ever get to being Terry Pratchett is wearing a hat. So, no problems there, eh?
Summary: pointless, plotless, fluffy slash. So, basically, it's plointless sluff. Or potless flash. Brian watches Wensley sleep. (Established relationship.)
Authoress' Note: yeah, I write slash. That's boy-on-boy action, for those of you who were wondering. Nothing graphic, but still… if that makes you queasy or offends your sensibilities, please do not continue reading. Go back to the Good Omens page and look for a nice Adam/Pepper.
Actually, if you don't like slash, you won't have much fun in the Good Omens section, because there are just so many Aziraphale/Crowley ficlets. It is a very appealing pairing, I must say. But I think that Brian and Wensley deserve a chance too. So if you're not doing anything… I'm sure they'd love to come play for a while. Just put them back when you're done. And be sure to write up what happened and post it, the sooner the better!
Morning Glory
"Oh, to keep the world forever at the dawn…"
Brian could watch Wensley sleep forever. The usually guarded look gone from his face along with his glasses, Wensley looks peaceful and innocent. His hair is no longer perfectly combed, flattened, and plastered to his head, but sticking up in odd places. One rather longish strand falls over his face, fluttering with every gentle breath.
In the early morning light, his skin looks almost like alabaster, the faint hollows in his cheeks accentuated by gray-blue shadows. The brown of his hair seems a shade or two lighter, a tad fainter in the dusky half-light. The sound of his soft respiration is somehow more poignant in the predawn silence.
One hand rests under his pillow, no doubt clutching the soft underside in a tight grip; the other lies across his chest, the hand curled softly. It's almost as if he's holding a flower or a baby bird or some other soft, fragile thing; Brian knows it would be completely safe cupped in that warm embrace of long, pale fingers. He wants to reach and out and stroke those fingers, longs to insinuate his hand into Wensley's, yearns to be held again in those loving arms.
Brian wonders if he has thought too loud, for Wensley's hand twitches. His long, girlish eyelashes flutter, and he mumbles incoherently through soft, dream-touched lips. Brian holds his breath as Wensley stirs slowly, his slender legs shifting slightly under the sheets. The sleeping boy rolls onto his side, curling into a ball.
The sun spills, little by little, through the window and onto the inhabitants of the bed, brilliant and strong and, above all else, early. It's a little too bright, but the womb of blankets he is encased in is warm and sloth-inducing; Brian has little inclination to get out of bed to shut the curtains tighter. Besides, the inconvenient light has a good effect on Wensley, who is completely illuminated by the golden, syrupy rays. His hair looks almost like a halo, framing his face.
But soon, too soon, it seems to Brian, Wensley blinks and wakes up. As soon as his eyes can focus, Wensley smiles up at Brian. "Hello, love," he whispers softly, pulling the other boy down, closer to him. As Wensley lays a kiss tasting of dreams sweetly and gently upon his lips, Brian knows this: he could watch Wensley asleep for ever. But he could be with him awake for eternity.
-finis-