AN: I was trying to make sure this rather literal hypothetical could take place during any point in the series, but a few paragraphs are slanted more towards seasons 4 and 5. A large, heartfelt thanks to the readers who reviewed my other one-shots. I very much appreciate it.
Could Maybe Might
She might be smiling up at him over the rim of her coffee cup. He could be rolling his eyes at her exasperatedly.
They could be in the Founding Fathers, or The Royal Diner, or the conference room on the platform of the Jeffersonian. They might be at his apartment, or hers, or at some out of the way coffee shop they spotted while driving to a scene.
It could be the third cup they'd shared, or the twenty seventh, or the hundredth. They might be in a hurry, or be taking their time, talking and laughing and trading subtext.
They might both be lingering over their mugs to extend their time together, or hurriedly gulping down the remains of their drinks to escape each other's presence. This could be a pit stop, or a relaxing break. Their coffee could be minutes old, or hours, and its temperature might reflect their moods.
It might taste horrible, or heavenly, or it might just be good enough that they can both drink it down without gagging. Hers might be too sweet, or flavored with cream instead of soymilk; he might heave a long sigh because they're out of real sugar, which means he has to drink his coffee black because Splenda gives him headaches. Neither of them would complain because they've both drunk much, much worse.
They could be talking about their latest case, or debating politics. He might be having trouble explaining football without the help of a visual aid; she could be lecturing him on the perils of unhealthy eating habits while he debates between some dessert or other- probably pie.
He could casually mention something that would cause a shadow to fall over her eyes, or she could, and one or both of them could reach out together or separately for the other's hand. His thumb could gently rub circles into the back of her hand while he waits in silence for her to decide to open up, or not, or she could ease his tension by spreading his hand out on the table and reciting the bones, tendons, ligaments of his hand out loud, fingertips gently tracing their positions over his skin.
It would end in their eyes connecting for a long moment, and she could begin babbling squint speak to fill the silence that she doesn't understand the pregnancy of, or he could smile and deflect, and ask about her family.
They could leave together, or separately; she could be angry, and hurt, he might feel she's a hopeless case. Maybe he's the one that's running away, maybe neither of them are. Maybe they're not ready. Maybe they're not ready to admit they're ready. Maybe he's frustrated, and losing patience, maybe she's on the cusp of realizing something wonderful.
No matter the scenario, it never ends like either of them want it to.