Wensleydale was enjoying himself inside the library. It was cool and quiet and the librarians didn't all have dripping maws full of teeth the size of hunting knives. But most of all he liked the books. There was something about all the knowledge there-something dusty but powerful and addictive too.
To a point, of course.
That point being when an unmannered oaf crept up behind him and whispered "boo" in a voice that was infuriatingly deep and rich. And just...infuriating. Not to mention childish and puerile and simply unmannered. Of course he'd jumped. He had to make the poor bugger feel better, the way he had nothing to do but sneak up on innocent victims selected in an illogical and purely slap-dash pattern.
Well, that was before he'd turned around and seen, well, seen a wide chest in a sports jersey. No face there.
So he'd looked up, and up, and up.
Good Lord Almighty. That was Brian...and not. Last time he'd remembered, Brian was barely taller than him and grubby and round and simply indistiguishable without his dirt. Wensleydale remembered times when he, Wensleydale, in all of his spectacled glory had managed to pin Brian down and make him scream uncle. The ribs were a major weakness.
But regarding the odds that faced him at this point, Wensleydale would calculate that the odds of him winning were somewhere between one in thirteen thousand-seven hundred-and-nine and negative five-eighths. It seemed that not only had Brian shot up (like Wensleydale) he'd also managed to gain an impressive amount of muscle tissue (unlik Wensleydale.) It was very aggravating.
That was before he'd gotten a good look at Brian's face, and aggravated became...well, impressed and aggravated. The child-curves had flattened and firmed to strong lines and planes with intriguing angle measurements, and the mouth was something Wensleydale didn't want to dwell on too much to prevent...opportunities for due loss of face. But the eyes were still Brian's, dark brown with hints of tawny gold and entirely too much laughter for Wensleydale's peace of mind.
And then the oaf had just grabbed him and manhandled him out of the library. The nerve of that man! And Wensleydale refused to admit to himself how nice it felt with Brian's larger hand around his wrist, warm and strong and...
(It might be prudent to remark that Wensleydale's subconcious, after a long and painful debate lasting eleven minutes with itself, had eschewed conversation with Wensleydale's logic, and loaned an impressive armoury of saucepans and blunt objects from Pepper. It was losing too much.)
And when they'd sat down on a park bench, after Brian had manipulated the vendor into handing him the cost of the ice-cream, Wensleydale had thought long and hard. Rather predictably, he had begun to get a headache, much the same as if someone had hit him over the head with a twenty-two-centimetre (in diameter) pot, stainless steel. Perhaps it was this that caused the momentary lapse of logic and rational thinking, in which Wensleydale leaned over and licked off that very distracting bit of chocolate ice-cream from the corner of that even more distracting mouth.
Then Brian turned his head and made that inquisive touch something very different altogether.
Dear me, Wensleydale thought later, dazed and bewildered and very happy, perhaps a momentary lapse of logic is quite beneficial in some instances. Inquiries must be made about other condiments pertaining to the sense of taste.
Somewhere a little voice cheered.
To a point, of course.
That point being when an unmannered oaf crept up behind him and whispered "boo" in a voice that was infuriatingly deep and rich. And just...infuriating. Not to mention childish and puerile and simply unmannered. Of course he'd jumped. He had to make the poor bugger feel better, the way he had nothing to do but sneak up on innocent victims selected in an illogical and purely slap-dash pattern.
Well, that was before he'd turned around and seen, well, seen a wide chest in a sports jersey. No face there.
So he'd looked up, and up, and up.
Good Lord Almighty. That was Brian...and not. Last time he'd remembered, Brian was barely taller than him and grubby and round and simply indistiguishable without his dirt. Wensleydale remembered times when he, Wensleydale, in all of his spectacled glory had managed to pin Brian down and make him scream uncle. The ribs were a major weakness.
But regarding the odds that faced him at this point, Wensleydale would calculate that the odds of him winning were somewhere between one in thirteen thousand-seven hundred-and-nine and negative five-eighths. It seemed that not only had Brian shot up (like Wensleydale) he'd also managed to gain an impressive amount of muscle tissue (unlik Wensleydale.) It was very aggravating.
That was before he'd gotten a good look at Brian's face, and aggravated became...well, impressed and aggravated. The child-curves had flattened and firmed to strong lines and planes with intriguing angle measurements, and the mouth was something Wensleydale didn't want to dwell on too much to prevent...opportunities for due loss of face. But the eyes were still Brian's, dark brown with hints of tawny gold and entirely too much laughter for Wensleydale's peace of mind.
And then the oaf had just grabbed him and manhandled him out of the library. The nerve of that man! And Wensleydale refused to admit to himself how nice it felt with Brian's larger hand around his wrist, warm and strong and...
(It might be prudent to remark that Wensleydale's subconcious, after a long and painful debate lasting eleven minutes with itself, had eschewed conversation with Wensleydale's logic, and loaned an impressive armoury of saucepans and blunt objects from Pepper. It was losing too much.)
And when they'd sat down on a park bench, after Brian had manipulated the vendor into handing him the cost of the ice-cream, Wensleydale had thought long and hard. Rather predictably, he had begun to get a headache, much the same as if someone had hit him over the head with a twenty-two-centimetre (in diameter) pot, stainless steel. Perhaps it was this that caused the momentary lapse of logic and rational thinking, in which Wensleydale leaned over and licked off that very distracting bit of chocolate ice-cream from the corner of that even more distracting mouth.
Then Brian turned his head and made that inquisive touch something very different altogether.
Dear me, Wensleydale thought later, dazed and bewildered and very happy, perhaps a momentary lapse of logic is quite beneficial in some instances. Inquiries must be made about other condiments pertaining to the sense of taste.
Somewhere a little voice cheered.
