Title: Beside the Midday Sun
Author: James Walkswithwind
Rating: G
Pairing: Wesley/Gunn
Series: Scene Shots
Archive: list archive, http://perian.slashcity.org/gila
Feedback: suwa
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made
Summary: a single shot scene.

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Beside the Midday Sun

This was perhaps the best part of his days. Curled up with a book on his knees, propped open so he could comfortably read whatever non-English scribbles were on the pages. Wes preferred reading in languages other than English - not because the English language lacked things found in other languages, though it often did. Not because it kept his mind sharp, and focuses, and the languages fresher in his mind when he practised them.

He liked reading in other languages for the same reason he chose to sit on this particular spot, to read. The couch was beside the far living room wall, far away from the television or the phone or the door. Sunlight would stream in over his shoulder and fill the room, making it seem warmer than it truly was. He could sit here and let the rest of the world fade away until there was nothing but historical treatises or tomes of spells or a fictional novel written in Turgani and only sounded as though it was full of important prophecies. He was fairly certain that no one realised what he had on his bookshelves - the demonic pulp fiction and mass market novels slipped in among the research and academic studies. Angel, or another Watcher-trained, would have been the only one to recognise the works, and Angel never browsed his bookcases, and no Watchers ever visited.

The choice of reading material was not precisely what he loved about sitting here, reading. Nor was it the sunlight, which he'd grown fonder of in his years in California. It wasn't even the way he could take his shoes off and prop his feet up on the couch cushions without feeling as though he were somehow appearing improperly informal, even in his own home, far away from disapproving parental eyes.

These were the best part of his days because as he sat, sideways on the couch, book propped on his knees and sunlight warming his shoulders, arms were wrapped around his middle, and his back was pressed against someone else's front, and legs were laying on either side of his own, and occasionally, very occasionally, someone's voice would whisper in his ear: "What the hell are you reading now, English?"

the end