McPhisto's Advocate
The Fly
This feels rather uncharacteristic for me... so here we are. 
I don't know if this will go any further; it was done very quickly, on the spur of the moment.
Disclaimer: This is fiction, I don't know any of the band. Intended for inoffensive entertainment purposes only.
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He's looking at me as I wake up.
Well, I was awake before I opened my eyes. Just lying here, enjoying the warmth, the feeling of contentment, closeness, safety. Feeling his warm body next to mine. His heart beating beneath my lax fingers. I felt him move, so I knew he was awake, watching me. Perhaps he knew I wasn't really asleep.
So, knowing what I would see, I open my eyes. Because I want to see it. The eyes that meet mine are a changeable blue-grey, and crinkles deepen at the corners as he sees me watching him back. The corners of his mouth turn down in that contradictory smile that I love. And the untidy shock of silver hair, half squashed from the pillow. He'll probably get it trimmed soon, but I like it like this.
I thought I knew every shade of those eyes, but this morning, they seem to be a different kind of blue. I think I know why, but I don't say anything.
I stretch, and use the movement as an excuse to trace my fingers over his face. He's not young – there are lines on that face; lines telling the story of his life, his cares and his joys. But I'm no spring chicken either, and my face tells its own story. Adam looked as if he was trying to read it, even though he knows a lot of it already.
And I know a lot of his, too. But not everything. No face, no one, is a wholly open book, and him less than most. That's all right. It goes both ways. And every now and then, we surprise one another. It would be boring, otherwise, and who wants boring?
I take one of his hands in mine, and examine it as if I've never seen it before. A strong hand, relaxed now as he watches me curiously. I trace the veins over the back of it, brush my fingertips against his, feeling the callouses from years of contact with metal bass strings. See the tiny hairs on the backs of his fingers. The jagged corner of the left thumbnail. The lines across his palm, another story. I lower his hand gently, placing it over my heart.
Still surprising after what, ten years? I feel so lucky, lying next to this man. I finally look away, and turn over to look at the clock. While I'm trying to focus across the room, Adam's arms wrap around me from behind. I feel a bristly jaw snug up against my neck, and I smile. Ten years since I was just some sister of an employee. Some woman who'd tagged along to some event, only a passing interest in the attendant rock stars. Since I'd had a long, in-depth conversation with an interesting silver-haired man who had, to my chagrin, turned out to be one of those rock stars. A long, in-depth conversation about why fame and celebrity was all bullshit, as I recall.
The time on the clock resolves, and I sigh. I have to go to work soon, and that means leaving this warm haven. I don't have to work, of course. But then, neither does he. I sometimes think he'd prefer me to be a kept woman, some traditional part of his personality wanting to provide for me, but I don't want that. And he's never said anything, after the first time.
The minutes drift past, and I mentally shorten my shower, plan the fastest route to work; reluctant to leave my cocoon. The man in bed with me doesn't seem very keen to let me go, either, but the pressure to get to work on time is gradually convincing me that I have to move.
I flip the bed covers off me, covering his head. He grunts and mutters, arms tightening around me. I chuckle, prying his hands away. "It's all right for you," I say, shrugging into a bathrobe, finally out of bed. "Some of us have real jobs."
A muffled laugh from under the blankets.
----------
I don't know if this will go any further; it was done very quickly, on the spur of the moment.
Disclaimer: This is fiction, I don't know any of the band. Intended for inoffensive entertainment purposes only.
---------------------
He's looking at me as I wake up.
Well, I was awake before I opened my eyes. Just lying here, enjoying the warmth, the feeling of contentment, closeness, safety. Feeling his warm body next to mine. His heart beating beneath my lax fingers. I felt him move, so I knew he was awake, watching me. Perhaps he knew I wasn't really asleep.
So, knowing what I would see, I open my eyes. Because I want to see it. The eyes that meet mine are a changeable blue-grey, and crinkles deepen at the corners as he sees me watching him back. The corners of his mouth turn down in that contradictory smile that I love. And the untidy shock of silver hair, half squashed from the pillow. He'll probably get it trimmed soon, but I like it like this.
I thought I knew every shade of those eyes, but this morning, they seem to be a different kind of blue. I think I know why, but I don't say anything.
I stretch, and use the movement as an excuse to trace my fingers over his face. He's not young – there are lines on that face; lines telling the story of his life, his cares and his joys. But I'm no spring chicken either, and my face tells its own story. Adam looked as if he was trying to read it, even though he knows a lot of it already.
And I know a lot of his, too. But not everything. No face, no one, is a wholly open book, and him less than most. That's all right. It goes both ways. And every now and then, we surprise one another. It would be boring, otherwise, and who wants boring?
I take one of his hands in mine, and examine it as if I've never seen it before. A strong hand, relaxed now as he watches me curiously. I trace the veins over the back of it, brush my fingertips against his, feeling the callouses from years of contact with metal bass strings. See the tiny hairs on the backs of his fingers. The jagged corner of the left thumbnail. The lines across his palm, another story. I lower his hand gently, placing it over my heart.
Still surprising after what, ten years? I feel so lucky, lying next to this man. I finally look away, and turn over to look at the clock. While I'm trying to focus across the room, Adam's arms wrap around me from behind. I feel a bristly jaw snug up against my neck, and I smile. Ten years since I was just some sister of an employee. Some woman who'd tagged along to some event, only a passing interest in the attendant rock stars. Since I'd had a long, in-depth conversation with an interesting silver-haired man who had, to my chagrin, turned out to be one of those rock stars. A long, in-depth conversation about why fame and celebrity was all bullshit, as I recall.
The time on the clock resolves, and I sigh. I have to go to work soon, and that means leaving this warm haven. I don't have to work, of course. But then, neither does he. I sometimes think he'd prefer me to be a kept woman, some traditional part of his personality wanting to provide for me, but I don't want that. And he's never said anything, after the first time.
The minutes drift past, and I mentally shorten my shower, plan the fastest route to work; reluctant to leave my cocoon. The man in bed with me doesn't seem very keen to let me go, either, but the pressure to get to work on time is gradually convincing me that I have to move.
I flip the bed covers off me, covering his head. He grunts and mutters, arms tightening around me. I chuckle, prying his hands away. "It's all right for you," I say, shrugging into a bathrobe, finally out of bed. "Some of us have real jobs."
A muffled laugh from under the blankets.
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sounds so romantic 
hi MA. Long time no see. Nice to have you back.
