Disclaimers: These guys belong to the ones who came up with them.

Warnings: shonen-ai

Notes: I'm not actually doing an intentional series of GASP! HE'S IN MY BED fics. They both just crept up on me at two in the morning and wouldn't go away until I wrote them down.

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For the Weary

by Nightfall

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Maxwell can't stay on his side of the bed.

He can't stay *on* the bed. He rolls over as soon as he falls asleep and-- in his sleep, I appear to be expected to believe--climbs all over me. And then it's elbows in my ribs, fingers digging under my hipbones, a nose in my shoulder, a chin in my clavicle, no air for starving lungs, and hair ___ing everywhere.

He snores. And he drools on my collarbone. And even though he showers, he smells; he smells like a dizzy hairy guy in my space. And even when he's sleeping he can't shut up. And whoever he's dreaming about this week (so far it's been Noin, Schbeiker, two of Winner's sisters, the femme little bull terrier himself, my stalker queen, and a couple of soldiers whose names he doesn't know), I'm the one who gets groped. And once his face ended up aligned with mine and his kisses landed in my mouth. Not an unpleasant sensation, but his tongue tasted like raw meat.

He should find a girl, if he gets like this every night. I'm sure Schbeiker would oblige. I'm tired of having my chest pawed at for things that aren't there. I'm tired of getting grabbed and having to pretend to sleep through it because of *course* he notices a handful of *that* and wakes up. And why can't he use mint-flavored toothpaste, like the rest of the civilized cosmos?

I want to room with Barton again. Barton was nonintrusive. Or Winner, who would be respectful. Or Chang, who can believe other people don't exist, which would be fine with me because in reality I don't. Or Howard or Noin or the doctors, who would look at me like a pet android or an alien child and leave me the hell alone. Or anyone but Relena, really, and I'm so desperate for a full night's sleep that I only exempt her because I'd probably end up having to marry her. Nobody else would be expected to pilot under these conditions.

I know we're going to end up having sex. He'll grab and he won't wake up or let go until it's too late. Or I'll forget his sharp, cornery intrusions and fail not to notice the warmth of him and his dizzily soft skin and rough hands and the weight of his muscle and the subtle curve of his belly on mine. Or he'll say just the wrong thing in that lazy voice so low it rumbles your organs. Or, possible deities forbid, he'll realize what he does in his sleep and feel the need to make it up to me.

I want to room with Chang. At least when he kicks your ego in the teeth there's a good chance it's on purpose.

But if I stay too long at the computer, the wet spot ends up on his pillow.