Bedtime Stories

by the.eye.does.not.SEE

2005. Ryan helps Claire put Joey to bed.

Title: Bedtime Stories (1/1)

Universe: Pre-The Following, 2005

Pairing: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy

Rating: PG

Summary: Ryan helps Claire put Joey to bed.

Author's Note: I've been meaning to post this for a long while now. It turned out a lot different than I had originally planned, which I hope means it's also better than what I had originally written. Please enjoy if you have a couple minutes.

...

When Ryan arrived at Claire's house that Friday evening, all the lights were dark except two: one on the back part first floor, and one, slightly dimmer, on the front part of the second. Ryan could tell just by a quick glance from his care as he drove up that the one on the first floor was the kitchen—he'd spent a good deal of time in there with her; he knew it like he knew his own kitchen—but he wasn't sure what room was lit up on the second floor. He didn't often go up there—except to her bedroom—and he could tell on sight that it wasn't her room. Her bedroom didn't face the street, like this room did. Hers faced the backyard, and the trees that ringed it, and sometimes he wondered if that had been an intentional decision on her part. Maybe she had planned out her home so as to have the most privacy as possible while in her own room. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought as he put the car in park—he was the one who had made it so that she had to hide in her own home—but he pushed it aside. He couldn't blame her for seeking out privacy, and, he had been told multiple times by multiple different people—though usually it was her saying this—he should stop blaming himself for the fact that she did that.

He shut off the car after he pulled up, locking it immediately after he got out only due to habit. There was no one here to steal or ransack his car, but city habits were hard to shake, even in the suburbs, and the act of locking it was almost muscle memory now. He stretched, trying and failing to work out the kinks in his back and neck from the long drive, and then jogged up the four short steps that led to her door. He tried the knob of the immense house's large wooden door, but it was locked. That didn't surprise him; she was a single parent and she had a young son—everything at her house was locked.

What did surprise him, though, was that his subsequent knock on her front door went unanswered. Usually she appeared at once to greet him when he came on weekends. A couple times, he had even driven up to find her already outside when he pulled up, waiting for him on the front step. But she was nowhere to be found tonight.

Frowning, Ryan knocked again, louder this time, and then loitered on her doorstep for a moment. But still, there was no answer. There wasn't even a sound from inside to let him know she was coming to the door. He would've rung the bell to alert her attention, but it had broken a couple of months ago and, to his knowledge, she hadn't yet gotten it fixed. Though he'd offered to call someone he trusted to repair it—she never allowed anyone she didn't know personally into her home—she'd brushed off his offer, and after that, he'd stopped trying. She had a bad history of her doorbells being abused by members of the press and thrill-seeking teenagers and infuriated, grief-stricken adults, many of which had besieged her old house and odd hours both night and day, usually while shouting at the top of their lungs, and he couldn't blame her for declining to fix the noisemaker. If she wanted peace and quiet, he would do anything to help her obtain it.

After a minute, there was still no answer from the other side of the door, and he was about to bend down and retrieve the spare key he'd helped her hide last year when the door swung open, and Claire's face appeared in the small void between the door and its frame.

"Hey there." Her face softened and warmed the moment she saw him, and he felt his do the same without even a thought. There was something about her—he hadn't yet been able to name it—but she just made him feel good. His body was aching from the road, and he could feel a headache coming on after all monotonous driving, and he was just plain tired—but somehow just looking at her made him feel a bit better.

"Hey." He flashed her a quick smile before peering around her shoulder and into the darkened house. "Can I come inside, or should I plan on sleeping in my car tonight?" he teased.

"Of course you can come in," she chuckled, opening the door wider and stepping back. "Sorry about that." She reached for his hand and tugged him over the welcome mat and into her home. She grabbed his side as he stepped over the threshold and lifted herself up a bit to press a quick kiss hello to his cheek before turning away to shut the door behind him and lock it.

She'd only just turned back around to face him when he'd stepped forward and pulled her close for a real kiss, on the lips this time. He heard her quick intake of air, and her surprise made him smile as he wrapped his arms around her and moved his mouth against hers. He loved being able to give her pleasant surprises, especially ones that involved their bodies merging into one.

She kissed him back for just a couple seconds before pulling away, an apology already falling out of her mouth before their lips had even finished parting. "I'm sorry," she said, and from the frown on her face, he knew she really meant it. Nonetheless, he wanted to tell her it wasn't necessary. There was no reason she should ever had to apologize to him for anything. "I just can't right now—I'm in the middle of putting Joey to bed and he's been pushing me on that recently and…" She sighed, and looked up at him with such regret that he wanted to pull her into his arms at once and apologize himself. "Would you mind if I disappeared for a bit?" she asked quietly, rubbing his shoulders soothingly with her palms before letting her hands slide down and find his. "Just for ten minutes or so," she added, squeezing his fingers in hers. A flicker of worry momentarily surfaced across her face. "Maybe twenty," she added reluctantly. "But hopefully ten."

Ryan got the message, and drew back. "Joey's still contesting bedtime?" he guessed.

"He's not contesting it, per se…" Claire fished around for the right explanation. "He's just learning to draw it out," she finally said. "He doesn't fight me, but he definitely wears me down. I think we went through five different stories last night. He's getting quicker with his requests. 'This one, Mommy,' 'That one, Mommy.' 'Just one more, Mommy. Only one more.'" She shook her head, twirling a finger around her ear to mime going crazy, but even her faked annoyance couldn't hide her real smile just waiting to burst beneath the surface. "He's getting smarter about it," she said again, the smile escaping at the edges of her mouth.

Seeing just the littlest hint of her pride and happiness in regards to her son made Ryan smile, too. She was always so worried when it came to Joey—worried for his future and his future temperament; worried that he had more of his father in him than his mother—and it was nice to see her smile about him for once instead of cry. It was nice to see her have a little hope.

"He is getting smarter, I remember," Ryan recalled. When he had been here the Sunday before last, Claire had disappeared for nearly forty minutes while trying to put Joey to bed. Ryan had almost gone upstairs to rescue her, but eventually she'd come back down, shaking her head with a tired but amused sigh. Before he could ask, she'd rattled off four different children's books' titles and said that Joey had asked her to read them all twice. With voices and everything.

"You'll be okay here?" Claire still hadn't let go of his hands, and she squeezed them tight now, though if it was in reassurance or worry, Ryan couldn't quite tell. "There's beer in the fridge if you want a drink, and you can bring your stuff in and leave it wherever you want. I'll just be a couple minutes," she said once more, rubbing the pads of her fingers soothingly against his skin. "I won't be long, I promise." She paused, and when she looked up at him, Ryan felt a change in her touch. Her hands were no longer so soft against his, and they clutched him a little tighter, a little closer. Eagerly anticipating what she was up to, he was already there to meet her halfway when she lifted herself up a couple inches to kiss him.

Maybe it was meant to be a goodbye kiss—something quick and chaste—but once her mouth met his, he couldn't let her go. And from the way she kissed him back and stepped closer and clutched at the back of his neck with her hands, he knew she didn't want to let go, either.

"I've missed you," he told her between kisses, as he stepped closer and pulled her against him. She was so warm and soft and supple in his arms, and he could feel her slim body press against and lean into his in all the right places as they drew each other closer. He could feel her breasts, her thighs; her hair was smooth and fine against his fingers as he reached a hand behind her neck to gather it in a gentle fist.

"I've missed you too," she whispered back when they broke for a moment. "I've missed you a lot." She kissed him again a couple times, and then bent forward, her nose touching his, letting her body lean more fully against his as they both caught their breath. "Two weeks was way too long for us to be apart," she added, still a little breathless. "Let's not do that again, okay?"

"Deal," he whispered back, closing his eyes and letting her words echo in his head. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of, or used to, hearing her say she wanted him—now, here, stay, more often, longer than last time, again please, come back as soon as you can! Sometimes he wondered if this all was a dream that he would, at some point, sadly be woken up from.

But he could feel her breath, warm as it passed by his lips, and her hands, gentle as they ran through the short ends of his hair, and he knew his mind wouldn't be able to conceive of such minute and blissful sensations. He bent his head closer to hers, letting their bodies support one another's, and dipped his chin forward just a bit to capture her lips once more with his. She let out a soft, pleased sigh as he kissed her—the quietest Ohh—and Ryan was sure he'd never heard a more beautiful sound in his life.

Then, slowly, she pulled back. There was an apology evident in her eyes before she even opened her mouth to explain, and Ryan wanted to tell her again not to be sorry. She didn't even have to explain—he knew she had responsibilities; she had her son to take care of before all else. He never intentionally meant to get in the way of that.

"Sorry," he said before she could, because he couldn't stand hearing her apologize to him, especially about something like this. He removed his hands around the back of her neck and took a sheepish half-step back. "I should probably let you go."

Claire nodded. "He's waiting for me upstairs," she murmured, but she didn't immediately make any attempt to walk away and go to him. She lingered here with Ryan, her hands finding his and twining their fingers together. "I promise we can continue this later," she told him, staring down at their joined hands. After a second, she looked up, and he caught a familiar, slightly mischievous smile turning up the edges of her mouth, as she added, "We can continue it wherever you like."

Without even meaning to, Ryan's eyes flickered over his own shoulder and back through the darkened hallway that he knew led to her brightly-lit kitchen. He could tell by the little half-smirk on her face when he looked back at her that she'd caught him, and knew his thoughts, but he didn't mind. It was no secret that he thought of their first time often, even though they'd had many repeat performances over the past month or so in a number of different locations. There wouldn't ever be anything like that first time; it had joined them in such a new and binding way, turning them into so much more than the friends they'd been before that night, that it could never hope to be recreated. He knew this, and because of it, he kept the memory fresh and alive in his mind. Now he got the feeling that maybe she did, too.

"Think about it, and I'll be back," she told him as she let go of his hands and stepped away. He let her go, watching as she walked towards the staircase at the far side of the room.

"I'll hold you to that," Ryan called after her.

"Good," she called back, keeping her voice loud enough so that he could hear it but quiet enough so that it didn't spread to other parts of the house. She grinned over her shoulder, catching his eye, "I just cleaned the kitchen this evening after dinner, so it appears you're in luck tonight, my friend."

Ryan shook his head, laughing to himself, but didn't bother replying. She disappeared after a second, up into the second floor, and he then found himself alone in her house.

He'd been here many times before, but still sometimes he found something that surprised him. It really was a beautiful home—large and spacious and as nice on the inside, with soft blues and grays and browns and greens, as it was on the outside, with carefully constructed red brick walls and nicely matching white siding. Even though she had a three-year-old and she worked full time, the place was almost always clean and put-together, and that never failed to impress Ryan.

As he wandered through, turning on a couple lights here and there, he thought back to when she'd moved in. She'd only brought three carfuls of things from her old house, choosing to sell the rest, mostly furniture and knick-knacks, to the highest bidder. She never talked with him much about it—they hadn't been as close then as they were now—but he knew without it having to be said that she'd made a lot of money getting rid of her old things. Her then-husband's trial had been at its height then—it was all anyone was talking about, or reporting about, or sometimes even thinking about—and she'd profited from it same as the others. It turned out that some people would pay almost as much money for things a serial killer had touched as others would for objects celebrities may have once held in their hands. She didn't feel good about it, she told him afterwards, but if she wanted to make a new home and a new life, she knew it had to be done. Out with the old, in with the new. And extra money always helped.

Over the course of the next few weeks and months she'd unpacked what had to be at least thirty boxes—some of which she brought from her old house, but many of which she'd ordered online. Some nights he came to help, coming over from his FBI-comped hotel in inner Richmond out to the suburbs to help her unpack rugs or dishes but usually, after about a half hour, he just ended up sitting somewhere with her and talking. She'd stopped coming to court by then, but he only updated her on the trial's progress if she asked. Sometimes she did—sometime she'd rather hear it from him than the papers or the news or those couple obstinate photographers outside that had somehow found her new address—but most times, they didn't talk about it. Most times, they just sat and relaxed in each other's company. Sometimes Joey slept in her arms, and they let his quiet little breathing be their conversation.

Ryan thought of that little boy now, upstairs with his mother, so different now than those few years ago when he'd been an infant. He could walk now, and talk, and almost eat by himself, and Claire was right—he was getting smarter every day. Sometimes, Ryan thought back and he couldn't believe how long it had been; he couldn't believe how old Joey had gotten; he couldn't believe how long he had known Claire.

Sometimes it felt like it had been a lifetime since they'd first met, other times, just a day.

As if somehow knowing his mind was thinking about her, he found that his feet had brought him to her kitchen. Ryan's eyes adjusted easily to the warm light in here; the spacious room was large, but the light here was soft, and filled the place comfortably instead of being glaring. He tried not to pay attention to the large island countertop in front of him, nor the polished wood floor beneath his feet, but his eyes seemed magnetized to both those places.

He could still recall with perfect clarity the moment he'd first kissed her, at her request, right over there by that counter. He could still recall the other activities that had followed that kiss with perfect clarity, too, but he pushed those memories away for now. It wouldn't do to get himself all worked up while she was tied up somewhere else with her son. He reminded himself that she'd promised later tonight, and that he had a whole weekend here, too, and that he should be patient, for a change.

Looking for a distraction, he headed to the fridge, and opened the door. She had a six-pack, fully stocked, sitting on the top left shelf, and when he pulled one bottle of the untouched cardboard case, he realized it was the same brand she'd had for him two weekends ago, the last time he'd been here. He knew she didn't drink beer—she didn't like the taste—and he realized as he took off the cap that she'd specifically gone out and bought this batch of bottles for him. It was a simple thing—really just a courtesy she would probably extend to anyone—but it still made him smile as he shut the refrigerator door and took a pull. They didn't have clothes at each other's places, not even toothbrushes for the mornings-after, but, he thought, maybe this was some sort of small step. His beer was at her place, and she had been the one to get it for him. That had to be a good thing, right? He made a mental note to buy her some nice wine if she ever had a chance to come up to visit him in the city. She liked red, mostly, though he knew she preferred white when the weather was warmer. He remembered hearing something on the news about next week being summer's last hurrah before autumn settled in, and he wondered which she would favor now.

He set his beer on the counter, stepping back to look around the room. It didn't look much changed from the last time he'd been here, but then, not much could change in two weeks, he supposed. Sometimes he forgot that it had only been just two weeks since he'd last seen her. It felt like so much longer, both when he was away and when he was here. He knew that by tonight, though, all the days and hours apart would disappear, and their short time together this weekend would seem endless, as it always did.

He took his beer and headed to the couch, making himself comfortable and preparing to wait. Though Claire had said she'd hoped it would only take ten minutes to put her son to bed, Ryan was leaning more towards the twenty, and he wouldn't be surprised if it was even longer. He didn't mind the wait. He was busy enough with a beer in one hand, and the TV's remote in the other.

For a few minutes, he flicked through the channels, keeping them at a low volume, expecting to land on something at least mildly entertaining for a half-hour, but nothing caught his eye. He shut it off, frowning a bit, and stood up. He decided to head out to the car and grab his things to give himself something to do.

He just had one bag—a small little duffle—with some pants and shirts and all the other little essentials for a short stay. Sometimes he brought a garment bag, too, with a suit or some other nice clothes hanging in it, if they were going out to dinner. They did that every once in a while, always heading to nice, quiet restaurants she liked, where they were guaranteed to have their privacy, but it seemed this weekend was an off weekend. She hadn't called during the week and asked him to pack anything extra and, honestly, he didn't mind. He knew that, even now, she still sometimes felt very uncomfortable going out in public, and he was happy to stay home and eat here if that's what she wanted to do. He actually preferred it that way.

Wanting to forego having to make a second trip down again for his things once they went to bed, Ryan decided once he came back inside to head straight upstairs to drop off his bag in her room. He started up the stairs, being careful to avoid that one creaky step near the top, and was about to turn right towards her bedroom when he stopped.

"'In the great green room there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon.'"

Ryan smiled to himself as he heard Claire's voice waft out from her son's bedroom down the left side of the hall. He stood still, letting her voice fill the hallway, and listened as she continued:

"And there were three little bears sitting on chairs
And two little kittens and a pair of mittens
And a little toy house and a young mouse
And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush
And a quiet old lady who was whispering 'Hush.'"

Ryan set down his bag by the top of the stairs, bending with it so it wouldn't make a sound as it hit the floor, and took a couple steps closer towards Joey's room, drawn by the sound of her voice.

"Goodnight, room," he heard Claire say. "Goodnight, moon."

Ryan smiled at the simple rhyme scheme that always made up children's stories and lullabies. He remembered hearing snippets of this particular story when he had stayed here a number of weekends ago. He'd waited downstairs then, but Claire's voice had carried through the silent house just as clearly then as it did now in this hallway. Her voice had risen and fallen with each line, so soft and so measured that he knew she'd read this book to Joey at least a hundred times—and that she was not just reading aloud to him, but reciting. Performing.

She was doing the same tonight.

"Goodnight, comb," she said, her voice falling to a lower octave and becoming much slower, as if to mimic sleep. "Goodnight, brush."

Ryan stopped just at the edge of Joey's door, being careful to stay out of sight so as not to surprise or interrupt either of them.

"Goodnight nobody," Claire read. "Goodnight mush. Goodnight to the old lady whispering—"

Joey jumped in, and they stage-whispered the word in unison, as if mocking the old lady in the story: "—Hush."

Claire continued with the final lines, but Ryan hardly heard her. Joey's voice was repeating over and over in his head; the boy's soft whisper, accompanied by his mother's, had brought a wider smile to Ryan's face than before and it hadn't yet gone away.

He wasn't usually privy to moments like these, and he felt fortunate to have experienced it, if only from afar. Though she had never explicitly said anything to him about it, there was a sort of never-spoken-of tradition between him and Claire that he was to make himself scarce when it was time for her to do mother-and-son things with Joey. Ryan was around many nights, yes, and he had plenty of meals with the both of them, but he didn't put Joey to bed or cut up his food or help him get dressed in the morning if he needed it.

Though he wouldn't have minded doing any of it, there was a certain boundary he knew he should keep behind when it came to their family—the family that he wasn't a part of. He wasn't Joey's father, and he knew he'd only be making trouble for Claire if he acted otherwise and got the boy confused. She'd even confessed to Ryan on multiple occasions just how worried and nervous she was to have that conversation with her son. But, thankfully, the Where's my dad? question hadn't yet come up. But they both knew it was only a matter of time.

"That's the end of the book," he heard Claire say, a deliberate note of authority hardening her story-time voice. Ryan could picture her closing the book resolutely, and he lingered, curious to see if Joey would fight her on it or if he was too tired tonight.

"One more," the boy requested immediately, and Ryan had to press his lips so he wouldn't laugh. He could picture Claire so clearly, biting back a weary sigh.

She was calm, though, when she put him off. "No, no, no. You've gotta go to sleep, baby. It's late."

Ryan glanced at his watch; it was late, nearly eight-forty. He felt a flash of guilt twist his smile into a frown. He really hadn't meant to hold her up before, downstairs.

"Again, Mommy," Joey begged. "Please. Pleaseeeee."

Ryan listened to Claire sigh heavily—another performance, though he knew this one came from the heart—and he smiled. He could picture the pleading look on the toddler's face as easily as he could picture the fed-up expression on Claire's, and he had an idea of who would win out in the end.

"How about I'll read it one more time," she relented, as Ryan had guessed she would. She tried to be a strict disciplinarian with her only son, but sometimes, she just couldn't resist giving him what he wanted. He couldn't blame her. It was hard to say no to a face like Joey's. "But then you have to sleep," Claire reminded her son sternly. "Do you understand, Joey? One more time—just one. And then that's it. Then it's lights out."

There was a quiet mumble that Ryan took to be Joey's reluctant agreement. Most likely the boy had been hoping for at least two or three more readings.

As Claire launched into the story again, and both she and Joey grew caught up in it once more, Ryan edged to the other side of the door. He wanted to catch a glimpse of them together, like this, just once. Maybe he was pushing past the "boyfriend" boundary, but it was just going to take a second, and hopefully she wouldn't even notice. Then he'd be back over the line and he'd stay there, where he belonged.

The first thing he noticed about Joey's room when he peeked inside was how bright it was, even at night and even with just his small bedside lamp for illumination. The walls were painted a vibrant baby blue, which contrasted nicely with the dark wood of his shelves and bed. The room was quite big for a child's room, but it was so filled with toys and books and games that it seemed to fit the little boy well.

Ryan's eyes drifted over to Joey's bed. The boy was mostly hidden under blankets, and curled on his side, facing his mother and watching her with rapt attention. He had one hand tucked against his face, and whenever she glanced down at the book, his thumb snuck its way into his mouth. Ryan watched, amused, as the boy timed it so that whenever she looked up, he'd stopped sucking his thumb. Once he was too slow, though, and when Claire caught him, she pulled his hand from his mouth and scolded him with a quiet, "Stop that right now."

Joey scowled at her, but did as he was told, shifting in bed to tuck both his arms under the covers. Ryan was thinking that he couldn't help but admire the boy's discipline, but then he noticed that Joey had pulled the covers up to his nose, and that he was probably using that to shield his thumb-sucking from view. It didn't take Claire long to catch on.

"Am I going to have to chop off your thumbs, huh?" she asked, setting aside the book and bending forward out of her chair to tickle his stomach, causing him to scream in glee and wrench his thumb from his mouth. "Is that what it's going to take to break this habit? Is it? Is that the only solution? Then no more thumbs for you; I'm taking them off." Joey's screeches turned to giggles as he laughed in that utterly joyous, carefree way only young children can. Ryan smiled at the sound, watching as the boy rolled onto his back to escape his mother and catch his breath. For a split second when his head turned, his eyes met Ryan's, and the man instinctively froze, frightened to have been caught somewhere he wasn't exactly supposed to be while watching something he wasn't exactly supposed to see.

But even from across the room, Ryan could see the boy's eyes light up in surprise—or was it, possibly, happiness?—and he knew he wasn't completely unwelcome. The boy lifted a tiny, skinny little arm in the air and waved it back and forth.

"Mom, Ryan's here!" Joey called out.

Claire turned around in her seat at once, but the surprise on her face quickly melted away to delight. "Hey," she called softly, looking him over. He could see the question in her eyes: What are you doing here? but thankfully she didn't ask it aloud. She just smiled over at him and wondered, "Did you come up to say goodnight?" To her son, Claire explained, "Ryan just got here from New York. Remember when I showed you where that was, up near the top of the map? He drove all the way."

"All the way?" Joey's eyes widened as if she'd said he'd driven from France. Or Mars.

"Yep, all the way," Ryan answered, his voice coming out a bit more tired than the usually upbeat tone he tried to implement when he talked with Claire's son. Just talking about the drive made him feel tired and achy. He knew the real exhaustion would hit him soon, once the initial high of being here in Virginia faded a little more, and he wasn't looking forward to it. "And it took all day, too." Unfortunately.

"Did you see lotsa car crashes?" Joey wanted to know as Ryan came closer.

"No, I didn't," Ryan answered, forcing back an inappropriate laugh at the inappropriate question. "I didn't see any car crashes. Sorry," he added when he saw Joey frown. "Maybe next time I'll have something to report."

Joey nodded at that, mollified, and fell silent as he settled back into his little bed. For a second, Ryan watched him, wondering what in the world that boy must think of him. How did Joey even conceive of him? What did he make of the strange man that appeared in his home on Friday nights and left late on Sunday afternoons? The man that his mother hugged and smiled at and paid so much attention to? Who was he to Joey? Was he anyone?

Thankfully there to interrupt his thoughts before they began to spiral, Claire said, "I was just finishing reading to him when you came in." She paused, and then cautiously met Ryan's eye as she asked, "Do you want to maybe sit and listen for a minute?"

Ryan had opened his mouth and was about to answer, but Joey spoke first. He directed his words at his mother: "I don't want you reading." He reached out with a tiny hand to try to pull the book from her grasp. "I want Ryan reading."

"Oh, no, honey—" Claire shook her head at once, and held the book fast in her hands. Ryan didn't miss the quick frown and the mouthed 'Sorry' she sent his way. "Baby, Ryan doesn't have time to do that right now. And you have to go to bed, remember? We're almost done; he's just going to sit here and listen."

"But Mom—" Joey tried to argue.

"I can read it, if you want," Ryan offered, not even sure why the words were coming out of his mouth, but not bothering to stop them anyway. He glanced over at Claire. "If it's okay with you," he added.

"No, it's fine," Claire answered at once. "It's fine, it's just…" She swallowed. Then she let go of the book, leaving it in her son's hands, got up out of her chair and came to stand next to him. "Ryan, are you sure you want to?" she asked in a whisper—as if they could have privacy when they were talking just a foot and a half away from her son.

Instead of answering, Ryan bent down to Joey's level and held out out his hand for the book, which the boy promptly passed on. Ryan was just going to sit on the floor, but Claire directed him to the wooden chair she'd just been occupying beside Joey's bed and so he sat there.

He opened the book, rifling through the pages and trying to find the spot where she had left off. The small volume was filled with dozens of detailed illustrations, and never having had looked at the book before, Ryan became lost in them for a moment as he tried to find the right page.

"Start at the start," Joey told him as he continued flipping back and forth.

Ryan glanced up. He found Joey laying down again much as he had been before, with his head tucked against his pillow and the covers drawn around his shoulders. The only difference was that his thumb was out of his mouth now and he was looking a bit more awake. Ryan felt a little guilty—it seemed his presence had woken up the boy just when Claire was starting to succeed in getting him to fall asleep.

"At the start?" he repeated, turning back to page one. The white page was blank but for a couple lines of bolded black text. Joey nodded, but Ryan glanced quickly at Claire to check. She nodded encouragingly down at him from where she was still standing, and then settled down to sit on the floor beside them.

"In the great green room," Ryan began quietly, "there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of—" His reading paused for just a second to turn the page, but it was long enough for Joey to jump in:

"—the cow jumping over the moon."

Ryan looked up, surprised to hear Joey joining in with him as he had with his mother. "And the cow jumping over the moon," he confirmed. He looked to the next page. "And there were three little bears sitting on chairs," Ryan continued, and turning the page, added, "and two little kittens, and a pair of mittens…" He read through all the rest, listing every line as the pages showcased one little detail after another.

When he got to the part about the old lady near the end, Joey said it with him again, just like he had with his mother before. Ryan began, "Goodnight to the old lady whispering—"

And Joey finished with him, "'—Hush.'"

Ryan glanced up, smiling, and hoping to catch Joey's eye this time, but the boy's eyes were shut. Ryan then continued more quietly in his telling, aware the child might be asleep, and was whispering by the time he finished the story:

"Goodnight, stars.
Goodnight, air.
Goodnight noises everywhere."

He had just shut the book and was carefully reaching out to set it on Joey's bedside table when his little voice broke the silence.

"Again," Joey murmured, his lips hardly moving, but the word clear enough. His eyes were fully closed now, and Ryan could see from the way his chest was rising and falling in a slow, measured rhythm that he was just a moment away from sleep.

But Ryan took the little book back and turned it to page one anyway.

"In the great green room, there was a telephone…" He kept reading, going over the lines once more, his mouth rhyming one noun with the next. "Goodnight, room. Goodnight, moon…" He kept reading, turning each page to the next sentence and following along with his eyes even though sometimes he knew what was coming next. "Goodnight, little house," he read. "Goodnight, mouse."

He reached out his hand to flip the page—onto the next Goodnight and Goodnight—but Claire's hand fell atop his and stopped him before he could.

"He's asleep," she whispered. "You don't have to keep going."

Ryan looked up, and, sure enough, Joey was asleep. A little smile flickered at the edges of Ryan's lips as he stared at the boy. He looked so completely peaceful: his face blank, his body curled comfortably beneath the blankets, his hands now clutching a small plush monkey to his face instead of his thumb, with his mouth hanging open wide as his head rested against his pillowcase.

"He's going to drool all over that pillow," Ryan predicted.

Claire nodded at his side, and laughed softly. "Believe me, I know. But it's better than him sucking his thumb all night, even though I do still have to switch out the pillowcase every day." She paused. "I probably shouldn't, though, right? Then he'll never learn."

Ryan shrugged. "Eh, what's he going to learn at three years old, anyway?"

Claire elbowed him, but he just smiled at her, and after a second, she smiled back. Ryan reached over to set the book on Joey's bedside table, which was cluttered with a pile of other books and a couple of toy action-figures and a small glass of water. When he drew back, his hand falling to his side, Claire took it in hers and pressed their palms together. She held his hand tight and close to her, but when he looked over at her for an explanation, she didn't say anything about it, nor did she meet his eye. A moment later, she asked him softly to turn off Joey's bedside light—the action plunging them into darkness—and then she just held Ryan's hand and stared at her son, and Ryan watched her, unable to stop wondering what was going through her head.

Was she happy? Sad? Was she thinking of him? Her son? Her ex-husband?

He wasn't about to break the silence and ask, but he wondered. For minutes—Ryan didn't risk pulling his hand from hers to check his watch and disturb her, so he didn't know how much time passed—they sat in silence like that. Joey slept peacefully before them, his little-boy breathing the only sound in the house. It was so quiet here, Ryan couldn't help but notice, so different from the city's constant stream of noise and people, and while usually he'd be uncomfortable surrounded by so much silence with only his thoughts to distract him, here he felt just fine with it.

It was nice to sit with her in silence like this, nice to just experience time with her beside him, no plan on the horizon, no decisions to make, no immediate worries to contend with. It was nice to just live, here, with her.

"Thank you." Claire's voice was barely a whisper, but in the silence, it still made Ryan jump a bit in his chair. He turned towards her.

"Thank you?" he asked, puzzled, thinking he must've missed the first part of the conversation while lost in his own mind.

Claire nodded, and squeezed his hand that she still held fast in hers. "Yes, thank you," she repeated, turning towards him. She bent her knees to her chest and wrapped her free arm around them as she continued to hold his in her other. "For tonight, for coming up to see him like you did." Her eyes flickered to her son's prone body for a moment, and lingered there. When she next spoke, it was in the softest murmur, and it made Ryan wonder if she meant for him to hear the words at all: "I think it was good for him, to have someone else here. Someone that isn't me." And then, even quieter, she whispered mournfully: "All he ever has is me."

Not sure if he was supposed to have heard any of that, Ryan said nothing, and nor did Claire ask for his opinion. For a couple more seconds they sat in silence, watching over her son as he slept.

But her words swam in his head, and he couldn't get rid of them. They became amplified and agonized in the silence, and he couldn't let her stew with them. It was no secret between them that she didn't see herself as a worthy parent for her son, and though he tried again and again to see things from her perspective, Ryan just couldn't imagine why she thought so low of herself. He had rarely ever met anyone else who took care of their child as attentively as Claire took care of Joey, and that was including families that had two parents. She was on her own, and yet she was still making the best of it for her son, somehow doing as good, if not better, than most two-parent families did for their kids.

"I don't think it's a bad thing that all he has you," Ryan began. He kept his eyes trained on the little boy in question as he spoke. "Tons of kids have two parents and they still turn out terrible. And I know a lot of people that have come from single-parent homes and they've turned out to be perfectly fine." He paused, staring at Joey as he slept before them. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that that boy would turn out to be a good kid, and eventually become a good man—and Ryan knew this because he knew Joey would have his mother to steer him, and that she would do everything in her power to set him on the right course. "You're a very good mother," he told Claire softly, finally turning away from her son to meet her eyes. They were wide, nervous, and desperate for reassurance. Desperate to believe what he was telling her. "I really don't think you need to worry about this as often as you do," he counseled her, leaning down a bit so their faces were level. "You're a good mother, and he's a good kid because of you—because of just you." He squeezed her hand. "I believe that he will be okay, Claire."

For a second, she just stared at him in silence, and he stared back, not knowing what to say or if he'd said something wrong. Boundaries, he reminded himself nervously. But in the end, she just reached over and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close as she whispered once more, in his ear this time, and sounding a little choked up, "Thank you, Ryan."

He forewent the obligatory You're welcome, and instead hugged her back, and turned his head towards her face to press a firm kiss to her temple.

When they pulled away, she was smiling at him, and all trace of her worry was gone. Seeing her happy—a luxury they were both still getting used to—made him smile back at once. For a moment they just stared at one another, time and place forgotten, until she reached forward with a free hand and cupped his cheek. His eyes fell half-closed at the touch: her palm was so warm against him, her touch so welcome after so many days apart. He wanted to tell her all that, he wanted to tell her again how much he'd missed her, but she spoke before he could.

"I'm so happy you're here with us," she whispered, not taking her eyes off his. For a second she said nothing more, did nothing more, and then her face broke open a little bit—in joy, now, not sorrow—and she beamed as she drew their faces close. Her mouth hovered before his for a just a second before closing the distance and bestowing upon him one of the softest, sweetest kisses he'd ever received—from her, or from anyone. It actually turned him speechless and made him feel brainless for a moment.

"So happy," she repeated, starting to pull back, but catching sight of his eyes as they opened, couldn't seem to resist kissing him once more. He kissed her back this time, as tenderly as he could, wanting her to feel the same warmth she had given him just a moment ago.

After their mouths broke, she traced her fingers against the lengths of his cheekbones and pressed her nose and forehead against his for a few seconds before reluctantly letting go, pulling back, and rising to her feet. She held out her hand to him as she stood, and he took it and got to his feet as well. He headed to the door while she hung back by her son's bedside for a moment to kiss his forehead and tuck him in, wishing him a good night and sweet dreams and warning him not to let the bedbugs bite.

Meeting outside Joey's closed bedroom door, they fell into one another's arms again, closer and more intimately now than they had a moment ago before their sleeping audience. For nearly a minute they stood there, relishing the feel of one another so close, not needing words. It had only been a two weeks since they'd seen each other, but it felt like two months, and sometimes more. The days that separated them from one another seemed to have begun to drag longer than usual these past couple weeks, and lately, Claire had begun toying with the idea of asking him if he wanted to start staying longer, and more often. But she didn't want to push that discussion on him now, not after he'd just gone out of his way with her son, not after he'd just been so kind to her and patient with her anxiety, so all she asked in the end was, "Are you tired from the drive?"

She stepped back a bit, gently breaking up their embrace, and let her hands slide from his shoulders down his chest. She did so slowly, carefully, as if she were checking him for injuries. Her right lingered, as it always did, over the small protrusion on the left side of his upper chest. The skin there, hidden for now beneath his shirt, was torn up and reconstructed—an amalgamation of old skin and new skin and recovered scar tissue. He'd told her as early as a year and a half ago that the scarring didn't irritate him anymore, that the pacemaker itself didn't even bother him, but she'd always been reluctant to believe him. It was latent guilt that made her worry, he knew that, but he just didn't know how to assuage it. Neither his, nor hers. "Do you want to lay down?" she pressed. "We can go to sleep if you're tired now. I don't mind, you know." She blinked at him, waiting for an answer, and when he didn't immediately reply, her expression quickly changed. "Or, if you're not tired," she began suggestively, recalling their earlier conversation, "we could still lay down somewhere…" She moved closer to him, drawing in a large breath and pressing her lifted chest to his. "Wherever you like, Ryan…"

He smiled at her offer, but when he took a moment to contemplate it, he realized he just didn't have it in him right now. It might've been because they had spent so much time with Joey, or because the drive from New York was finally getting to him, but he found he just wanted to go to sleep. "Maybe tomorrow?" he suggested, hoping she wouldn't be disappointed. That promise, after all, had gone both ways. "Is that okay?"

But she just smiled, and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. "Of course it's okay," she told him, and took his hand. Without a word, she led him away from her son's room and down the hall towards her own. "Come on," she called, picking up his bag from where he'd left it by the stairs with a free hand while pulling him along with the other, "time for you to go to bed, too."

Ryan shook his head, sighing as they reached the end of the hall and stepped into her room. "I share the same bedtime as a three-year-old," he muttered, shutting the door behind them. "How impressive."

Claire chuckled as she set down his bag on the bed and then made her way to a door on the right side of the room that led to an adjoining bathroom, to brush her teeth and wash her face. "Just after long drives," she comforted him, though he could swear she was still teasing him.

With a shake of his head, Ryan unzipped his little bag and grabbed a plain gray t-shirt to sleep in, leaving his underwear on as he stripped off the rest. When he was finished, he put the bag on the chair in the corner of the room, and then joined her in the bathroom for a moment brush his teeth and then, after she left, to relieve himself after the beer. He splashed some water on his face, too, to get some of the road-weariness off of him. He would've showered, like usual, but he was so tired now that he was half-worried he might fall asleep in the shower.

Claire was already in bed when he came out, and for a second when they saw each other, they just stayed still and smiled and stared. This happened often, and almost always on the first night he slept over after a week or two away. It was a privilege to sleep in the same bed together, they both agreed, and they relished every opportunity they got to take it in.

"Can you get the light?" she asked, tipping her head to the switch by the door. Ryan went and flicked it off, and then gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark before walking back to bed. He slipped in beside her, loving the feel of the cool sheets around him and her warm body beside him, feeling her as their skin brushed one another's a bit as they settled in. Instinctively, they turned towards one another, an action that had become a habit ever since they'd spent their first night together here over a month ago.

"How were your last couple weeks?" he asked, checking in as he usually did. The question was partly interrupted by a yawn on his part, but she got the gist.

"Boring," she answered, with an accompanying and apparently apt yawn of her own. "Long."

"Mine, too."

Claire smiled at him. "We'll have a good weekend, at least, though, won't we?"

Ryan nodded against his pillow. They always had a good weekend. He blinked slowly, trying to muster an audible answer as he yawned once more.

"Just go to sleep," she told him when she noticed his eyes were falling closed, despite his efforts to keep them open and carry on a conversation with her. "You're tired and it's getting a little late. You can sleep."

"I'm not—" He tried to speak, but was cut off by yet another yawn.

"See?" Claire said as he got it out. "Sleep."

Ryan shook his head, but his eyes had fallen closed again while he had yawned and now he was having trouble opening them back up. "I feel like a jerk," he muttered. "Falling asleep on you like this. I just got here. And it's been two weeks. It's not fair to you."

"Oh, stop." Claire rolled her eyes. "Come on, it's okay. You're tired; you've had a long day; I get it. There's no harm in it. It's not like we were in the middle of doing it and you got bored and passed out."

Ryan snorted, his eyes opening just for a second to meet hers. "Yeah, I don't think that will ever be happening, Claire."

She chuckled, "Better not."

Making an effort to keep his eyes open, he added, more seriously now, "I know you were looking forward to tonight, to us being together. I was, too." His apologetic eyes met hers as his hand found her pajama-clothed side beneath the covers and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry." He rubbed his thumb against the soft fabric of her tank top. "I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow, okay?"

He wanted her to hear him, to believe him, but she just shook her head. "There's nothing to make up for," she told him. "Tonight was perfect for me. Tonight was…" She seemed to weigh her words for a moment before finishing: "Tonight was important to me, and I'm glad you were here to be a part of it." She watched him for a reaction, but he didn't seem upset, and she let out the breath she'd been holding as quietly as she could. "Go on," she continued a second later, reaching a hand out to brush over the right side of his face, closing one of his eyes in the process. "Go to sleep. You're tired and I'm tired of this argument, because it's stupid and pointless." He tried to interrupt, but she ignored him. Turning her back to him, she settled further into bed, pulling one of hands to drape it over her side. It rested gently over her stomach before she took it in hers and pulled it up to her lips. "Goodnight," she told him, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

She felt a returning kiss on her shoulder a moment later, and she smiled, closing her eyes and waiting for him to come closer as he always did. It only took a second for his body to materialize right behind hers; every curve and dip matched, even the front of his knees to the back of hers. Though they separated during the night, they usually went to bed like this: their bodies wrapped around each other's, their lips offering kisses, their hands giving caresses.

"Goodnight," he said quietly, and then they lapsed into silence for a time.

At some point, maybe just a minute or so later, Claire wasn't sure, she heard his voice once more: "How did it go again?" his voice was sleepy, but still awake enough to make coherent sentences. "'Goodnight room, goodnight moon, goodnight…'" He couldn't remember the third line, or anything that came after it. There was something about bears, he thought. Or maybe it had just been chairs. He was getting too tired. The words were all running together. But he wanted to remember the rhyme.

"'Goodnight room, goodnight moon, goodnight cow jumping over the moon,'" Claire recited, smiling to herself. She knew the book by heart—she could probably even retell it in her sleep—and she liked the idea that he might be making his way to knowing it just as well, too.

"Mm," Ryan murmured, and she could feel his warm breath and his head nod against the back of her shoulder as he did so. She really liked that feeling. She really liked having him so close. "That's it; the cow."

"Then it goes, 'Goodnight light, and the red balloon. Goodnight bears, goodnight chairs, goodnight—'"

"Bears and chairs," he repeated, his voice perking up for a second as if making some realization, and then returning to its sleepy drawl. "Bears and chairs both…"

Claire nodded, though she doubted he could see or feel her. She could still feel his breath, warm against her shoulder. His exhales had grown a bit slower. "Do you remember the rest?" she asked. "Do you want me to keep going?" The only response she got was a noncommittal grunt, but she took it as a yes anyway.

She recited the rest, her voice growing continually softer as she went through each stanza, much the same way it did when she said it to Joey. By the time she got to the end, she'd grown so quiet, she wasn't even sure he could hear. But she knew he'd speak up if he couldn't, so she continued.

She held his hand close to her chest and leaned back gently against his warmth, staring at nothing but the darkness behind her eyelids as she murmured the last few lines:

"Goodnight stars
Goodnight air
Goodnight noises everywhere."

After she finished, she lay in silence, waiting for him to say something. Even when he said nothing, though, she didn't mind. She was happy enough that he'd asked her to remind him of the story, happy enough that he'd actually offered to read it to Joey. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, just to check on him, and quickly had to bite her lip to avoid laughing aloud when she realized he was asleep. "You really are a three-year-old," she whispered, shaking her head. Then she grinned, and leaned over to peck his cheek gently before adding, "But I think I'll keep you around anyway."

Turning back on her side and away from him once more, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. Some evenings she literally went without it, spending entire nights just staring at the ceiling or the wall, praying for relief, but she knew tonight wouldn't be like that. No matter what the day, or the situation, she always slept better when he was here to share her bed.

Feeling herself starting to drift, she pressed one last kiss to his hand, and wished him a goodnight for the final time tonight. Then she fell asleep, warmed and calmed, as always, by his solid presence beside her.

...

Author's Note: This was a bit OOC for Ryan, I know, but sometimes that's what fanfiction's for, right? Reviews would be lovely! I actually ended up having a lot of fun revising this one, and I would love to hear your guys' thoughts. :)