Author's Note: Special thanks to Thnx4theGum and GreysIsTheCatsPajamas. =]
This oneshot was brougth to you by: 1000 ways to die [Spike Tv], Manswers [Spike Tv], and Colors by Crossfade.
This was his least favorite part of the day. Well, it was really the night, but Bones always told him that a day was the time it took the earth to make one full rotation around its own axis. Whatever the definition, this was his least favorite time.
She lay there, quietly, on her side. He would lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. Eventually, the arm he rest behind his head would fall asleep, and he would slowly roll over and lay on of his arms over her, pulling her close.
The next ten minutes some of the best moments of his day. She would lie there, staring at the wall while he simply held her. Her foot would then start to move. Or her leg would itch. And she would get up and leave the room.
About an hour later, he would get up and get a glass of water. On his way back to the master bedroom, he would pass the guestroom and find her sleeping soundly on her side. Watching her dream, he would stand completely still, careful to not wake her.
The impulse to go to her and hold her was almost too much sometimes. He didn't know what she was going through. He didn't know how he could help her. But he wanted to try. He wanted to be close to her.
Eventually, he would go back to their bedroom, and slowly drift into a restless sleep.
In the morning, he would always wake up to find her at her dressing table in the corner, mostly dressed and ready.
In the morning, everything seemed easy, exactly as it should be.
But these moments, the ones just after making love. The ones just before his arm falls asleep. These were his least favorite moments.
This was her least favorite part of the day. Technically, it was night, as the sun had gone down, but as a day is defined by the time it takes the earth to make a single rotation around its own axis, it is still a day.
After their climax, she would roll over and face the wall, so her back was to him. While he would lay there, not moving, she would think. She would think about how awkward this is for her. How hard it is for her to be so open. How making love is so intimate that it's difficult for her to face him afterward. Afraid she'll say something that will hurt him, or that he'll hurt her, she simply rolls over and collects her thoughts.
Just about the point where she was considering rolling over and laying her head on his shoulder, he would roll over and wrap his arm around her.
Then the panic would set in.
Her breathing would accelerate. Her throat would feel like it was closing off. She would begin to sweat. Rationally, she knew that she was simply having a panic attack. There was nothing to worry about. It would pass.
But she felt trapped. Like the world was closing in. Like she couldn't move. She was terrified that she would wake up and he wouldn't be there.
Usually, her legs got restless first. Then her stomach would become queasy. Then she would start to itch.
She would slowly, and calmly, get out of bed and leave the room. Standing in the living room with the window open, she would breathe in that cool night air and remind herself that she was not trapped.
She was not alone.
He would not hurt her.
He would not leave her.
Once she had calmed down, she would start towards the bedroom, only to have the beginnings of a panic attack return. So instead, she would lay down in the guest room and go to sleep.
In the morning, she would rise with the sun and was usually dressed and ready by the time he opened his eyes.
In the morning, everything seemed easy, exactly as it should be.
But these moments, the ones just after making love. The ones just after his arm falls asleep. The ones just where the panic was at its greatest. These were her least favorite moments.
This was his least favorite part of the day.
Every morning, when the partners walked into the lab, or his office, Sweets could always tell something was off. When they first, finally, got together, it just seemed like they were getting used to a new routine.
But as time went on, it very clearly wasn't a coincidence of any kind. In fact, something was very clearly wrong.
In the morning, they would barely speak. They were "awkward, very awkward, awkward" as Angela would put it. However, there was nothing anyone could do. Because it happened every morning.
As the day went on, he would watch them slip back into their normal selves. The partners would bicker and laugh. And by the time everyone else left for the day, and the Thai food was ordered, they were back to normal. They were very clearly in love.
In the evening, he would always leave the lab and see them feeding each other take-out, or playfully bickering about something supremely inconsequential.
In the evening, everything seemed easy, exactly as it should be.
But these moments, the ones just after they entered the lab. The ones just before a case would pop up or work would truly begin. The ones where the awkwardness was at its worst. These were his least favorite moments.
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