A/N: A Goodnight Sweetheart drabble. I love this show, you should try to watch it. Review if you want.
Disclaimer: the characters are not mine, they belong to the writers. I am not recieving any money for writing this.
There is no such thing as pure pleasure; some anxiety always goes with it. Someone had told her that once. Maybe it was her Dad, or one of her Aunts. She couldn't remember, it was long ago, and had always stuck with her. Phoebe sighed and rolled over in bed, sliding on the worn out old sheets, staying under the eiderdown as much as possible, cuddling him, feeling warm and relatively safe. No bombs, no air raid sirens, no radio blaring bad news of death and destruction. No work today. No heat either, the electricity had gone off in the night- something must have been hit. But today she didn't care. She didn't care that it'd be unlikely they'd be able to have a hot meal, and that no doubt they'd be called down by the whoop of a siren to sit huddled in the cellar under the pub. She'd be with him. She didn't care that she had no stockings left- she wouldn't be leaving this bed if she could help it. And he loved her anyway even when her legs were painted with gravy browning. She lay in the dim, the black out curtains pulled down tightly and making the room almost as dark as night time. She smiled. It must be at least 9 am. On a Sunday. And he was all hers for the day, he'd promised. No secret missions. Just him, the man she loved more than anyone else in the world. The man who still had bright red lipstick marks underneath his ear. She smiled. They may say that there's always anxiety with pure pleasure, but right now, she didn't care.