neutral_omens | (no subject)

Current Mood: awake

Entry tags:

brian,
wensleydale

(no subject)

Date: December 23, 2000
Status: Private (Brian, Wensleydale) [Complete]
Setting: Kitchens
Summary: Brian has the munchies.

Stupid brain, Brian thought crossly. Stupid insommything. Stupid temptin' refrigerator.

He poked his head around the kitchen door. Somebody'd left the light by the stove on again. He would find out who it was and drill the concept of energy conservation into their brains . . . after he got his pudding.

He slunk around the door, which, contrary to his expectations, did not squeak, and padded over to a shelf in the corner. At two in the morning, wretched, prepackaged pudding was the only option. Where did people keep icky pudding in this place?

"Pudding, pudding, pudding," he muttered. "Puuuuudding. Where are you?"

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During his evenings in the kitchen, Wensley never ran into more than the occasional mouse or two*. So, when he heard someone rifling though his pantry, muttering, he took the only logical course of action. Picking up his heaviest skillet, he inched his way to the corner, and, taking a deep breath, ran forward with a battle cry to meet his new foe.

*Whether or not he shrieked like a girl when meeting these intuders is up for debate.

Few things could distract a hungry Brian in his search for food. A blood-curdling scream, however, was one of those things. He spun around and saw the looming skillet.

"Ahfuckshitshit!" he shrieked, ducking behind the pantry. Pudding ghouls!

After a moment, he poked his head out again. Did pudding ghouls wield skillets? He didn't think so.

Luckily for Brian, Wensley recognized the string of swears the intruder uttered, and skidded to a halt, landing right on his arse.

"Brian?" he asked, peering at the young man cowering besides him. "What the hell are you doin' up at this time of night?"

Brian blinked. "Wens?" Not a ghoul, then. "Can't sleep. Need pudding. What're you doin' threatening me with skillets at this time of night, eh?"

"I..." for the umpteenth time when dealing with Brian, Wensley succumbed to sarcasm, realising that explaining wasn't worth the effort at this time of night. "No reason at all. Just felt you needed to be menaced a little bit, that's all." Lifting himself off the ground, he started towards the pantry. "What sort of pudding is your sleep-addled brain needing, then?"

Brian peered at Wensley suspiciously. "No, really, whatcha doin'? Can I eat it?" He grasped the pantry and pulled himself up, making various jars rattle.

"Pudding! Icky pudding. Icky old chocolate pudding. Please," he added. "Please with pudding on top."

"Not really, no. That is, unless you've discovered a fondness for dish soap that I don't know about." He placed the skillet on the counter, displaying his pruny dish-washing fingers before turning to his pantry, rummaging around for the last box of instant pudding.

"So, why is it that you ned pudding to sleep?"

"Er, no thanks. Dish soap isn't very delicious, Wens," Brian added severely. He hopped over to the table and leaned back in one of the chairs, contemplating his fingernails.*

"Dunno. It doesn't help me sleep, really. But I know there's a kitchen down here, so I got to eat, or else my stomach sulks. Anyway, I love kitchens." He squirmed happily. "They're all warm."

___________
*Dirty.

And Wensley had to smile at that, because how many other people had he found that enjoyed being in the kitchen? Not, many, unless there was food sitting out for the taking.

"The kitchen's my favorite place in the world; it always smells good," he replied, delivering the bowl of pudding into Brian's grubby hands.

Pleased at Wensley's response, Brian grinned back at him. "Yeah!" he said. "And people can do all kinds of amazin' stuff in the kitchen. Cooking, I mean."

He tasted the pudding and raised an eyebrow. "Hey, thanks, Wens. It's really good. Wish I could cook. I mean . . . instant stuff's one thing, I could maybe do that, but . . ." He shrugged, a bit embarassed. "Mum never let me in the kitchen. Dunno why," he added as he ignored his spoon and dug out a fingerful of pudding.

"I wonder why," he replied dryly, cringing a bit as pudding dripped off his companion's fingers to the floor, barely missing his filthy socks.

As Brian continued eating his pudding, Wensley felt the silence becoming oppressive. "How goes things in the garden?" he asked, trying to fill the void with words.

"Mums," he said seriously, "are weird."

He continued to eat in silence, thinking deeply. This whole conversation was odd. It used to be, with him and Wens -- Pep and Adam, too, but especially Wens -- that they could unfailingly find something to talk about, but now . . . it seemed strained. This was irritating.

Brian looked up. "Sorry? Oh." He shrugged. "'S'alright. Not much to do this time of year, really, unless there's a sudden freeze, which there hasn't been. Planted all the bulbs an' so on already." He glanced up, frowning in concern. "Hey. You okay, Wens?"

"Huh?" He looked up, then relaxed. "Oh. Yes, I'm fine. I'm just not used to talking much these days." He'd never been the biggest talker in the world, but after the Them had split up and joined the Adult World, he hadn't had much occasion to talk.

"Yeah. Me neither," Brian said. He poked his tongue into his cheek thoughtfully. "I suppose none of us are," he added after a moment. "It's been a while since we've been, you know . . . just the four of us."

"Yeah," he muttered, fidgiting a bit. Then, awkwardly, he stepped forward and hugged Brian, feeling a blush creep over his cheekbones. "I've missed you."

For a moment Brian was confused and stood in Wensleydale's embrace with his arms sort of hanging to the side. But then he grinned and hugged him back, tightly.

"I've missed you too, mate," he said into Wensley's shoulder. "I really have."

They stayed there for a moment, Wensley breathing in the Brian-scent of dirt and trees before extracting himself, collected on the outside but happier than he'd been for years inside. He had missed him, more than anyone else.

Wensley was warm and comfortable and neat, and Brian was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. Something twitched in his abdomen, which he chose to ignore in favour of giving his friend one final squeeze as they stepped apart. He felt really, really good.

A Wensleydale was a good thing to have around, he decided. No matter how mad things got, Wens made things a bit more sensible. He made a bloody good pudding, too, although the relevance of that thought was questionable.

Backing up a bit, he looked at the almost-empty bowl in Brian's hands and took a fingerful of pudding, tasting it.

"I make bloody good pudding," he mused aloud.

Brian laughed. "You," he said, "make godly pudding. Your pudding is the pudding of the gods. It is Olympian pudding. Kings and czars would give up their kingdoms and, er, czardoms for this pudding."

"And when you start babbling about kings and their land, that's my cue to send you up to bed before you start zombie-walking," he laughed, shaking his head. "Would you like an escort?"

Brian hesitated. That might not be a very good idea.

"No thanks," he said. "I can probably make it upstairs with only minor bruising," he added, trying to lighten his own mood a bit.

He turned and trotted out of the kitchen, pausing at the doorway only for a moment to wave and say a quiet "'Night".

He would be able to sleep now. He felt much better. He always did, after seeing Wensley.

"Goodnight," he replied to Brian's retreating form, waving foolishly. He'd enjoyed that. No one came to visit him in the kitchen, besides Adam. And Brian was different than Adam, Wensley thought, though he did not let his thoughts go any further than that.

Looking around his kitchen, he smiled for a moment, then placed the pudding bowl into the sink and walked out the door, turning off the lights on his way out. He thought he might be able to sleep tonight, after all.

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