{A/N: So I'm a horrible writer!anon (and anon in general). But here's the first part.}
In the end, I decided to blame everything on Stacy London and Clinton Kelly.
I mean, why not? If it wasn’t for them, their show, and a strangely well-timed spontaneous visit to England’s house in the middle of a What Not To Wear marathon, I wouldn’t have figured out that he liked it with the fire of a thousand dime novel heroines’ undying love for their rugged mountain men or counts or brigands or what have yous. Also, if it wasn’t for them and their impeccable fashion advice, I wouldn’t have gotten the perfect opportunity to take England on a random shopping trip around New York City, and we wouldn’t both be currently nodding off to an all weekend marathon of America’s Next Top Model on Oxygen (it was either that or The History of Sex on the History Channel, and I did not want to open that can of worms tonight).
Obviously, we’re both secretly middle-aged housewives. But that’s beside the point.
The point is that we were both in various states of half-asleep on the same bed, under the same covers, and I was going to have to try to spend the night calmly while doing absolutely nothing to let him in on the slightly maybe true thought that I maybe kind of liked him. Just a little bit. I mean, I did, and I did kind of want to jump in his pants sometimes (but only because he was kind of hot when he was being all moody and snappy and flustered), but… he was England. England didn’t like anybody, much less me. He was only staying with me at all because he was too cheap to buy a hotel room, and he was only on my bed ‘cause this was the only TV in my apartment that had all the color filters working properly, and I was only using him as a pillow because he was hogging all the good ones.
Yeah. That sounds about right.
Anyway. I was really trying to stay awake and keep my guest company like a decent host should do, but it was hard. I mean, it was after two in the morning, and I’d seen this cycle before when I was snowed in a few months ago, and England was humming in a distractingly soothing way. I wasn’t exactly touching him, since I’d taken the initiative to go the polite friend route and sleep between the sheet and the blanket while he was under both, but I was still kind of lying on his collarbone with his arm behind me. It was getting really hard to keep my eyes open.
I was in that weird plane of existence where you’re in the really slow process of falling asleep but not quite there yet when he asked me softly, “You awake, Alfred?” I jumped and groaned a little as the sound of his voice jerked me back to reality, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“Almost,” I mumbled into the oversized t-shirt I let him borrow, shifting a little to settle more comfortably against his side.
“I can give you one of my pillows if you want,” he offered, moving under me to reach behind him awkwardly with the arm that I wasn’t lying on, trying not to disrupt my position too much.
I shook my head. “Nah, it’s cool, this is fine,” I told him with a yawn.
He stiffened under me, and he might have stammered out an “O-okay, sure,” but I was too far gone to tell. I turned my body to match my head and fell asleep with a smile.
And Then, And Then [1a/3]
In the end, I decided to blame everything on Stacy London and Clinton Kelly.
I mean, why not? If it wasn’t for them, their show, and a strangely well-timed spontaneous visit to England’s house in the middle of a What Not To Wear marathon, I wouldn’t have figured out that he liked it with the fire of a thousand dime novel heroines’ undying love for their rugged mountain men or counts or brigands or what have yous. Also, if it wasn’t for them and their impeccable fashion advice, I wouldn’t have gotten the perfect opportunity to take England on a random shopping trip around New York City, and we wouldn’t both be currently nodding off to an all weekend marathon of America’s Next Top Model on Oxygen (it was either that or The History of Sex on the History Channel, and I did not want to open that can of worms tonight).
Obviously, we’re both secretly middle-aged housewives. But that’s beside the point.
The point is that we were both in various states of half-asleep on the same bed, under the same covers, and I was going to have to try to spend the night calmly while doing absolutely nothing to let him in on the slightly maybe true thought that I maybe kind of liked him. Just a little bit. I mean, I did, and I did kind of want to jump in his pants sometimes (but only because he was kind of hot when he was being all moody and snappy and flustered), but… he was England. England didn’t like anybody, much less me. He was only staying with me at all because he was too cheap to buy a hotel room, and he was only on my bed ‘cause this was the only TV in my apartment that had all the color filters working properly, and I was only using him as a pillow because he was hogging all the good ones.
Yeah. That sounds about right.
Anyway. I was really trying to stay awake and keep my guest company like a decent host should do, but it was hard. I mean, it was after two in the morning, and I’d seen this cycle before when I was snowed in a few months ago, and England was humming in a distractingly soothing way. I wasn’t exactly touching him, since I’d taken the initiative to go the polite friend route and sleep between the sheet and the blanket while he was under both, but I was still kind of lying on his collarbone with his arm behind me. It was getting really hard to keep my eyes open.
I was in that weird plane of existence where you’re in the really slow process of falling asleep but not quite there yet when he asked me softly, “You awake, Alfred?” I jumped and groaned a little as the sound of his voice jerked me back to reality, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“Almost,” I mumbled into the oversized t-shirt I let him borrow, shifting a little to settle more comfortably against his side.
“I can give you one of my pillows if you want,” he offered, moving under me to reach behind him awkwardly with the arm that I wasn’t lying on, trying not to disrupt my position too much.
I shook my head. “Nah, it’s cool, this is fine,” I told him with a yawn.
He stiffened under me, and he might have stammered out an “O-okay, sure,” but I was too far gone to tell. I turned my body to match my head and fell asleep with a smile.