Title: Yellow Wave
Author: Farfalla the Butterfly-Kitten
Email: blueberrysnail (at) yahoo dot com
Fandom: Boston Legal
Beta: Hypatia Kosh, who also looks good in moonlight
Written for the 2005 Slash Advent Calendar
Summary: A homophobic man who is attracted to other men is nothing new to the world.
It's the middle of the night and Alan is sleeping peacefully again, his years falling away as he dozes. He looks fifteen. Well, not really. Moonlight does some funny stuff.
You can't attribute all of this to moonlight, Denny.
I'm back in my armchair, once again the steadfast sentinel. I'm here to guard him, to watch him while he sleeps and protect him if he should wake up and bolt for the balcony doors again with another night terror. After we did the whole manly-man chum thing, movies and stories about women and whatnot, I started the evening here in this chair. Not in the bed. Just in the chair. And I'm back in the chair. Well, maybe it's one of those chair-and-a-half deals.
I haven't been here all night, though.
I have strange new memories to contemplate, and my mind oscillates quickly between the relief of denial and the relief of wallowing in it all. This haze of sleepy solitude encourages both. The rapidity with which the emotions switch places reminds me of the way thousands of little red and green spots on the television combine to make yellow. A flashing thought reminds me that yellow is the color of cowardice.
Denny Crane isn't afraid of anything. I am determined to process these events in some way.
I was sleeping lightly, not my usual style but ready to protect like the Marine I used to be, when he sat bolt upright in his bed with a loud rumple of blankets and sheets. He was trembling and his face looked as if he was facing down enemy gunfire with a salad fork. I sprang up out of my chair and beat him to the balcony door. None of this dancing-on-railings business for you tonight, Alan. Denny Crane doesn't let best friends--that's what Shirley called you, my best friend--jump out windows, not on *his* watch!
He tried to push me out of the way and grabbed in vain at the door handles. I had to pin both his arms to his side to get him to calm down. Never wake a sleepwalker, a lot of people once said. So I spoke quietly, my voice gruff with having been asleep. "Alan, you're dreaming. It's okay. Denny's here to protect you."
Alan's chest, which had been rising and falling violently with his rapid breath, exhaled in almost a sob of relief. His head collapsed against my chest.
This is the part where a wave of yellow crests up and washes out my eyes. I rub them with my fingers and burrow further into the chair-and-a-half. I want so desperately to erase but yet something else in me holds on like a bulldog. Yellow is a mix of safe green denial and bright red, blindingly hot something else--
I didn't smell the clean, woodsy scent of his hair and dip my nose deeper to experience more.
He didn't put his arms around my waist, clutching at me like a security blanket.
I didn't lift one of my arms to his back and rub it soothingly with my hand, the way I knew he needed and to which he would respond.
He didn't lift his face, with its sleepwalking, empty eyes reflecting moonlight, upwards to reach questioningly for mine.
I didn't lean forward to kiss those sculpted, moon-polished lips.
They didn't taste of buttered popcorn and Colgate, which didn't make me like him more for some strange reason.
He didn't grab at me harder and kiss back, moving sluggishly in his sleep.
I didn't hold him tighter, with an absolute certainty that even in his sleep he knew he was with me and not some woman half his age.
He didn't grind against me like a puppy humping a babysitter's shoe, so adorable and harmless that nobody really minds.
I didn't obey my own body's long-missed call to arms, bumping against his thighs and savoring that now rare feeling of utter physical abandon.
He didn't lower his hands to grab my ass. I didn't reciprocate.
We didn't climax together in our pajamas, like a pair of teenagers. I wonder if, back on the balcony at the office, if this kind of thing was what Alan was remembering when he repeated after me: "Act like kids."
He didn't fall completely asleep against me after we came. I didn't scoop him up like a baby and tuck him back into bed.
My chair-and-a-half is both my safe-haven and my prison. Wouldn't poor Alan just whimper if he found out that he'd finally gotten into my pants but couldn't remember a minute of it? And damn my selectively aging brain; I bet my mad cow disease isn't going to take away *this* memory.
Dammit, I'm glad Alan doesn't know. Maybe it's selfish, but his constant pursuits make me feel like I've still... got it. And if he knew he'd had me, he might lose interest.
Why am I not disgusted with myself? Why didn't it feel wrong? It must have been wrong... but it felt right.