Slash Drabble: Eric/Wes
Rating: PG 13, for slight allusions to sex and one curse word.
Disclaimer: Mmm. Daniel Southworth and Jason Faunt. Nope, don't own them. Sorry.
Taisha: Hmm. Apparently, this is going to be a random slash drabble series. I guess I'll also credit some inspiration to CamFan4Ever's "Sparring" series, seeing as its in the same vein. To also clear up some other stuff, pairings will be listed in the title, along with the type. (IE: EricWes: Romance) Also, I dedicate this to Cmar, because she is teh bomba.
Reviewers: Seeing as random things inspire me, here's some interaction for ya. List a SLASH pairing, and a theme (romance, friendship/pre-slash, fight, yadda yadda) you'd like to see (IE: Jason/Tommy, pre-slash). We'll see if it tickles my fancy. I'm not promising; after all, I also have Idioteque and Lobos on my plate.
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Its moments like these he secretly treasures.
Though nothing, not even pain of death will make Eric admit it, he likes the feeling of contentment he gets when Wes has drifted off and he's the only one in the bedroom awake (though sometimes, the birds are too.) He gets to hold Wes and watch him sleep, and it takes years off of his features that the Silver Guardians have put there. He looks like how he remembers him in school, when he was still pretty much carefree and there had been no resentment (on Eric's part, at least) or Time Force, Quantum Ranger or Jen.
Staying up late also has the tendency of nature calling.
Silently, he unwinds his arms from around Wes and tries to slip off the bed without waking his lover. It never works; Wes always rouses as soon as he's up.
"Where're you goin'?" his sleep-thickened voice asks, and Eric hastens to reassure him.
"Just the bathroom. Go back to sleep," he says quietly, and Wes's only reply is a grunt as he burrows back down into the covers and pillows. Wes won't fall asleep, Eric knows, until he's returned.
As he pads to the bathroom, he thinks it strange that reassuring Wes comes so naturally to him, when he honestly couldn't give a fuck about the rest of the world.
Entering the bathroom, he flicks the light on- winces against the brightness, the reflection off the linoleum, and glances squint-eyed at his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired- obviously, and his hair is messed up. Eric wears plain white boxers and no shirt, and there are marks – hickeys, goddammit Wes,- on his collarbone. He simply scowls, his natural reaction, and goes about his business.
………
Eric blinks against the sudden darkness when he turns off the light, and he stands motionless for some moments until his corneas adjust to the murky light and he shuffles his way back to his room. He slides back under the covers of his bed and smirks to himself when Wes groans slightly and wraps an arm around his midsection, waiting until Eric has settled down to pull himself up slightly and drape over the other man.
"You leaving calling cards on me?" Eric whispers to the sandy-blonde haired man, running his fingers though Wes's hair. A low thready laugh is his response, and soon he is again listening to Wes's breathing tapering off, and him not getting enough sleep, instead watching the other man.
Comfort has never been something he's given freely, but it seems, like with all other things, Wes is the exception.
