This is just a oneshot that spiralled out of control (the best kind) and so it's going to be updated in bursts. I'll tie it up by Monday, definitely. Since it was only s'posed to be a oneshot, the ending comes kind of quick. And it isn't edited. I'm well aware it's probably not my best work, but I'm sleep deprived right now, so just give a girl a break.

Some things will span over time, days and months and years, even decades. This just happened to be one of those things. /eleven years after graduation.

There was a whisper.

He rubbed at his face, rolling around and groaning. "Need sleep..." he murmured, snuggling his head under his pillow.

"Ash, wake up."

There it was again.

He made a sluggish half-pout and swatted at the air—and hit something.

Oh crap, he hadn't meant to do that.

His pillow came swooping for him—and jeez, for something that had aided man in the fight for comfort for centuries, it sure hurt when being wielded by an angry girlfriend.

"Wake up, you jerk!"

His eyes snapped open, knowing that lest he wanted to be castrated whilst in slumber, he'd better answer her urges. "What, Emma?"

"I want you to wake up."

He threw the covers off, half-hoping they hit her. "It's apparent."

He sat up, leaning himself against the headboard. She was blinking at him, her hands fiddling with her messy golden bedhead—was she selfconscious even in the middle of the night?—and frowning at him.

It was then, even in the darkness, that he noticed the faint shimmer of her eyes.

"Em," he said, opening his arms, pulling her onto the bed with him. She tucked her feet into his lap, pressing her face into his chest. He combed his hands through her hair, smoothing the tangles—but making sure not to hurt her. "Emma, what is it? Tell me. I'm sorry."

She pressed her fingers against his collarbone, making intricate patterns on his skin. "Why are you so mad?"

"I'm not. I'm sorry," he said again. "Zane's rubbing off on me."

At this she turned her face into his shirt and let out a muffled laugh. "True, true..."

He pressed his lips to her hair. "So, are you going to tell me? I could make you some eggs..."

She mumbled, barely audible, "Don't want eggs."

His eyes searched for the clock, but it wasn't in its usual place, atop their shared dresser. His eyes darted to the floor, roving—and soon he found it, upside down and discarded at the foot of her bed.

"Emma..." he whispered. "Why did you throw the clock away?"

She sniffed and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck.

"Emma, why?"

She shook her head against him. He wasn't one to push, but she was upset, and if he knew, he could help her—and that couldn't hurt, could it? "Emma."

She shoved away from him, biting her lip—it looked like she had been for a while, all the flesh on her bottom lip was raw. "No. I've changed my mind. I don't want to talk anymore."

She slid off the bed, sniffing, and went out the door, embraced by the honey light of the hallway leaking into the room.

He knew better than to go after her. They'd wind up in a yelling match—like they always did—and she'd clam up, storm out, sleep over at Cleo's and not speak to him for the next two weeks.

He sighed, scrounged around for his fallen pillow, and lay back into the covers. But he tossed and turned for a few minutes, then closed his eyes and laughed. There was no chance of further sleep for him, not tonight.

XXX

He drank his orange juice, but ignored the somewhat bitter taste, consumed by figuring out how to look at her without arousing suspicion. He could have been drinking ground lemon rind and he wouldn't have noticed.

She was sitting, deflated, against the couch, fiddling with the sash of her pale blue dressing gown. "Ash," she called out. He put down the glass and crossed over to her, sitting next to her because it was the only sitting place in the room and couldn't be held against him if he used it as an excuse to be near her.

"Yeah?" he said. He knew how he looked—ruffled hair, sagging eyes. Dry lips.

She, however, was a different story. She looked just as bright as ever, fresh as though she hadn't been up half—possibly more—the night. She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes, or any other part of her body, for that matter.

It was a bland smile, the one she put on when she was dealing with an angsting teen at work, or when she was in an uncomfortable situation with her parents. Also the one she used when she was mad at him. "Hey," she said, her eyebrows rising. "You know we're with Alan at eleven, don't you?"

He banged his palm into his forehead. At least that spurred a genuine smile from her. "Oh no, I totally forgot. Sorry."

"We're taking him to his soccer game—Cleo's going to go out with Rikki and Bella, or, more likely, sleep."

He saw this as a subtle nudge—and really, in all honesty, he deserved it. "Oh, no," he said, "You go out with the girls. I'll take Alan to his soccer game."

Her eyebrows shot up fast, too fast for her not to be expecting it. "Oh, really? That'd be great. Thanks sweetie," she leant over and pressed a kiss to cheek.

(And that was how he knew just how mad she was at him. Emma hated pet names. She always groaned whenever Zane called Rikki anything but her actual name, with the exclusion of "hey you.")

He frowned at her, for a small moment, before breaking into a full-fledged grin. "Sure thing. Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"

"No. No thank you. I'll just go to the room and—do some things. Maybe I'll get out Elliot's old toys for Alan..." and with that last vague thought, she hopped away from him and sped down the hallway.

Will probably be edited sometime in the faraway future, 'cause I'm too odd-duck to leave it this sucky for a huge period of time.