vegarin (vegarin) wrote in brianandchris,
vegarin
vegarin
brianandchris

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A short Brian/Christina fic:

Hi, everyone.

To commemorate the launch of Brian/Christina community, I come bearing a short (but full-shipp'age) fic that might or might become full-fledged in the future. Hopefully, this will bring about some more fic soon?

Author: vega
Summary: "He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, not alone."
Spoiler/Pairing: For entire series. Brian. Christina. Warning - sappy.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. If I did, would I have cut them off and canceled the show?
Note: Edited and beta'ed by boonies, my only one and true love.




He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, not alone. The surroundings might be unfamiliar, but the situation certainly isn't. After all, Brian Peluso has mastered the art of pulling the fastest one-night-stand getaways that no hot-blooded male should do without.

Except, he realizes, maybe this isn't exactly familiar. He cannot remember the last time when he woke up with a woman in his arms and without feeling compelled to get as far away as possible from the bedrooms that weren't his and their owners who cared for him as much as he did for them -- which is to say, not very much.

This time, this moment, this is different, because he is awake, she isn't, and yet he is still here, holding her in. He can feel her warmth through his shirt, her cheek on his chest and her hair brushing against his shoulder. He slowly reaches out with his other hand. Her hair falls between his fingers, and he's afraid to examine this inexplicable knot that resides inside his chest, that pulses through his heart, afraid that if he names this something and faces that he is, in fact, ridiculously content, it'll slip through the crack. He breathes in. He stays still.

The faint light slipping between the window curtains hints at the approaching dawn and little by little reveals the bedroom for what it is. The briefcases and shoes on the floor, his and hers, the large book shelves almost unsteadily standing against the wall, the creaking oak coat hanger at the corner, the night table with a couple of crumbling books -- the room is full of artifacts that represent Christina Finn. It's inevitable that the images of other unfamiliar bedrooms he has been in overlap and juxtapose over what he sees now, but they do not compare. The other bedrooms, the countless other rooms, screamed elegance and sophistication with their thousand-thread bedspreads and trendy lamps that would cost his monthly salary. This cluttered bedroom has no Dior perfume or designer bedspread but has a sense of warmth that he associates with Chris.

And, he realizes with a crushing blow, just like he hasn't belonged to any of the high-brow bedrooms that he has frequented, he doesn't belong here, either. That had never mattered because he didn't give a damn, but this place, this room, and this... Now he wants to belong to this serene happiness, this abstract emotion that feels so frail because he doesn't deserve it.

But she fits in his arms, so achingly perfect, and he wants to earn this moment and stretch it onto the end of everything.

He breathes in. He stays still.

And he longs for her to wake up.


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