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All the Pretty Little Moments

By Ryeloza

Two: Naptime

As Lynette cautiously eyed the mess of clutter that had accumulated downstairs over the past few days, she couldn't help but feel the most genuine, bone-weary despair most people associated with a tragedy or loss. The terrible conflict of action, a choice between sighing or crying or maybe just walking out of the door and never coming back, was more overwhelming than it should have been considering all she was facing was a couple of hours of cleaning. It wasn't something she thought she could admit to anyone—that the prospect of tackling a mess was too much for her to handle—but with the evidence staring her right in the face, it seemed impossible that her friends wouldn't take one look at the place tomorrow and realize that she, the former vice president of an advertising firm, had been bested by a little clutter.

The frightful thought did little to boost her enthusiasm for the work—the thought of showing such weakness was not nearly the motivation it should have been—but before she could do anything further to psych herself up, the door opened and Tom stepped into the house. Lynette was fairly certain that her mouth actually dropped open at the sight of him, the sob she'd been fighting for minutes now instantly getting thick and obnoxious in her throat, but she stood rooted to the spot, just staring, not quite believing her eyes.

"Hey," he said, barely batting an eye at the mess. In fact, he just dropped his suitcase and briefcase on the floor, tossing his coat somewhere in the direction of the couch, and walked toward her with a smile. She was too surprised to protest that in some small way, he'd just added to the chaos. "I'm home early," he added pointedly after she didn't return his greeting.

Her "I see that" was swallowed up as he leaned down to kiss her. He wasn't supposed to be home for two more days. She'd specifically drawn a heart on the calendar on the tenth, "Tom home 10am" scrawled underneath in her messy hand, and she couldn't quite grasp the idea that he was here, now, without any warning whatsoever.

When she finally managed to speak, it was only to voice the obvious, doing little to convey anything she was really feeling. "I wasn't expecting you."

Maybe it was a strange thing to say; he raised an eyebrow, but the smile didn't fade from his face. "What? Do you have another guy hiding in the laundry room?"

"That's not funny," she said, slapping his chest, still fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. "I'm just…"

"Excited? Thrilled? Wanton with desire?"

And even though his hands were low on her back, rubbing in tiny little circles that she knew meant that he'd like to jump her bones right in the middle of the kitchen, the only thing she could say was: "Exhausted."

"Oh," he said, deflating just a bit. "It's naptime, isn't it?"

"The kids are asleep, yeah."

"I meant your naptime."

Her laugh came out unbidden, dark and barking and incredulous, nearly that sob she'd been holding inside. "My naptime?"

"You're supposed to sleep when the kids do, remember?"

"I don't have time to sleep."

"Honey…"

She stepped back out of his grasp, resenting his chastisement no matter how well intentioned it might have been. Sleeping when the kids slept felt like was of those hilarious ironies she'd read in a book of humor years ago, an ideal that had fallen by the wayside somewhere around the time she'd ended up with three kids under the age of two and a husband who'd been traveling more often than he was home. The fact that he couldn't understand that naptime was now the only time she had even a moment to breathe—a moment to get anything done—was enough to make her want to scream.

Either he was getting too good at reading her body language, or else her reaction time was off, because before she could even open her mouth to lambast him, he put his hands on her shoulders, spun her around and marched her toward the stairs. "Okay," he said. "That's it. Let's go."

"What? Go where?"

He shook his head, as though it was obvious, and he pitied her for not realizing. "You need to sleep."

"The house is a mess!"

"I don't care."

"Tom!"

"If you're not going to take care of yourself, then I'm afraid you're just going to have to put up with me. Tell me the truth, when was the last time you actually caught up on your sleep?"

"January of '98?"

He laughed as he propelled her upstairs, and she wondered if he knew she wasn't really joking. "Yeah," he agreed. "That sounds about right."

"I'm really not that tired."

"Uh-huh."

"I have stuff to do."

Somehow they had reached their bedroom, and she turned as Tom reached out to open the door, facing him with pleading eyes. It was ridiculous—just ten minutes ago she'd been ready to run out the door rather than face cleaning the house—but she felt compelled to show him that she could handle this on her own. It was a matter of pride. Dignity.

"You are so stubborn."

Maybe that too.

"Look, babe," he said, gently ushering her into the room. "You're just going to have to accept that you're not going to win this one."

"No."

"Yes."

"But—"

"But you're going to let your fabulous and dedicated husband clean the house while you get some sleep?"

And despite how pathetic it felt, she had to admit that it was the best offer she'd had from anyone in much too long.

"Well…" Protest and acceptance both died on her lips as he tugged down the comforter and she dropped down on the bed. The second her head hit the pillow, her eyes shut against her will and she let out a deep breath that it felt like she'd been holding in for months.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she did need this.

Not that she was going to tell him.

His lips brushed against her temple as he actually tucked her into bed, but she couldn't even find the energy to smile gratefully. And maybe he wasn't going to straighten up as well as she would have or put everything exactly where it was supposed to go or do any more than order takeout for dinner, but it felt like a small price to pay for what he was doing.

"Someone has to take care of you, beautiful," he murmured, and somewhere already halfway to a dream, she thought that it might be true.