A/N: Hey everyone! We're pretty excited about this ficlet as it looks at a very important scene in the Stolen Kisses epi. Hope you like it, too! We know a couple of you wanted to see this missing scene in particular so we hope we've done it justice for ya! Oh, and we highly recommend you go to YouTube and listen along to the song as you read. Not only is it a beautiful melody but one we think fits perfectly with how Joey is feeling right now. As always, please do let us know what you think, whether you love or hate it. We want to know. And if you're shy, feel free to PM us offline – or, if you're more creative, send us smoke signals, Morse code, messenger pigeons… you get the picture, LOL! We just want to hear your thoughts, please. Thanks to all those who gave feedback/kudos last time.

**Make Room**

Can't Take It In by Imogen Heap

Can't close my eyes
They're wide awake
Every hair on my body
Has got a thing for this place
Oh empty my heart
I've got to make room for this feeling
So much bigger than me

It couldn't be any more beautiful
- I can't take it in

Weightless in love... unraveling
For all that's to come
And all that's ever been
We're back to the board
With every shade under the sun
Let's make it a good one

It couldn't be any more beautiful
- I can't take it in

**

"Snnnnkkkkkxxxx!…"

A particularly loud note in the Symphony of Sleepers being played out at my feet causes me to cringe. And I thought Pacey was a loud breather in the car! His soft exhales behind me are barely discernible compared to the racket coming from the floor.

I silently sigh, frustrated that I can't simply tune out the noise and go to sleep. I never had this much trouble with sleepovers at Dawson's. Even at the height of my crush, when you'd think I would stay awake for hours on end just to hear Dawson breathe, as soon as my head hit the pillow – bang – I went straight to sleep.

Right now I'm not even sleepy. But then again, how can I sleep when my mind is racing?

And I fully blame my current bed partner. This is entirely his fault!

Trust Pacey to irritate me even when I'm trying to sleep!

I roll my eyes as another thunderous snore echoes across the room, determining from the slight feminine lilt at the end that the owner is Andie. She must have a sinus infection or something because I don't remember her making this much noise when we slept over at Jen's. She seemed perfectly fine earlier but now her nose sounds stuffy and she's breathing loudly through her mouth. Every so often she gasps and sucks oxygen in as if to keep from drowning in phlegm.

Lovely.

Will doesn't seem to have the same nasal issues yet he is just as noisy. Despite his quiet demeanor, the boy tosses and turns and murmurs so much that you'd be forgiven for thinking he was awake.

At the thought of Will, my lips lift under their own volition as one particular image of a much younger, spotty-faced Will washes over me. The one where he and Pacey were pedaling round and round me on their bikes, trying to scare me by circling ever closer and closer. But I stood my ground on that bright, summer day; my head tossed back as I dared them with a slitted glare. Pacey kept up a steady stream of taunting until he realized I wasn't going to budge. Then he signaled Will to ride off with him rather than run over my toes.

My victory was tinged with relief. Another game of chicken with the master played and won.

It wasn't always so.

Pacey. Hmmm… He was a mass of contradictions even back then. He would defend me from abuse at the hands of other cretins on the playground as if he were the only one permitted to orchestrate or execute my torture. So it was no surprise I vacillated between wanting to kill him violently and merely offing him quietly in his sleep.

After Will's family moved to Raleigh, Pacey began to spend even more time at the Leery's, much to my dismay. I wonder how different things would have been if Will stayed? How the dynamics of our little group would have changed?

It feels like a lifetime ago now when the three of us slept over together after movie night. I didn't question it at the time, but Dawson never let Pacey sleep in the bed with us. He'd haul his sleeping bag out of the Orca, otherwise known as his closet, leaving Pacey to bunk on the floor grumbling about the Princess and the Pea - always pausing then to add brain, which never failed to crack him up. Dawson seemed oblivious to the burn and I snickered to myself at his clever way with an insult. And, if I'm honest, I was also just the tiniest bit thrilled at being the Princess in that scenario though I would never have relinquished my position as "one of the boys" at the time.

However, none of my fond memories included the sounds now emanating from one Dawson Leery. When the hell did he start snoring?! Seriously, come on! How does he not wake himself up? Our overnighters would have ceased much sooner if I'd had to listen to this din every Saturday night, that's for sure. From an audible exhale to the classic sound of sawing lumber, Dawson is covering the spectrum.

Annoyingly though, neither the cacophony nor these ruminations serve to distract me from the solid presence of Pacey behind me. His soft exhalations only indicate that he is completely conscious. I have no doubt if he'd slipped into dreamland, he'd be making just as much noise as the rest of our bunkmates.

I suddenly realize that, without thinking, somehow my breathing pattern has fallen in time with his and we are breathing as one. Startled, embarrassed as to whether he's noticed this as well, I immediately fake a sleepy cough and alter my rhythm.

Another thing I realize is that I'm incredibly hot. I shift slightly, barely moving to better allow the air from the room to cool my face and neck. This damn robe is too warm. I'm completely dressed in pajama pants and a cami beneath it. That's a lot more clothes than Pacey's seen me in on the beach every summer. Or in the hallway outside my bathroom, for that matter.

What was I thinking?

Even though it's rhetorical, the voice in my head provides me with an answer that has something to do with the look on Pacey's face that morning when his eyes finally met mine. And how I felt naked even wearing a towel.

Which is why I'm wearing everything I can get away with now.

Funny, though, how I still feel undressed even with all these layers. And how sometimes I can feel completely exposed when he gives me that look, as though seeking answers from me, answers I know I can't give.

Mentally shaking my head to clear my thoughts, it seems that even though I may feel naked, my body temperature is telling me otherwise. Not only am I cocooned in my terrycloth prison, Pacey is hot.

His body is like a furnace radiating heat against my back.

I played tug-of-war with the blanket but the victory is pointless because I'm definitely warm enough.

Did I know this about him?

I try to remember moments in the last few months when we touched.

Moments other than that one at the side of the road. The one where his mouth was like liquid fire.

Whose voice is that in my head anyway?

The hug at the end of the dock… in the car at Mayfield… boarding his boat for the first time… dancing at the Starlight… a thousand small touches, hip checks and shoulder bumps…

My memory is filled with those touches and his skin is always warm, so warm.

And there's a nervous itch inside me that longs to not only shed this robe but then roll over into his firm form seeking… what exactly?

Comfort?

Heat?

Answers?

But I don't, of course. I lie here rigid, afraid to move and touch him inadvertently.

Because once I do, I'll never stop.

Again, that voice! God, maybe I should have been the one to go to Mayfield instead of Andie.

I stop my breathing momentarily to focus on his. He's preternaturally still. I know he's awake. What in the world is he thinking?

I close my eyes against the dim shadows of the room moving and morphing into forbidding claws as the tree branches outside sway in the night breeze. I'm not afraid. After all, I'm in the same room with enough teenage angst to scare off any boogeyman. But the view on the back of my eyelids gives my thoughts the opportunity to wander at will without distraction.

What if…

Pacey and I weren't just friends?

What if…

Pacey and I kissed again?

What if…

Everything else in our world remained the same and we explored this… thing, this… well, I don't know what to call it. All I know is I've never felt this way before. About anyone. It's hard to describe what it is that seems to have flared up between us.

It's passionate.

It's thrilling.

It's terrifying.

I lick my lips and abandon myself to the memory of that kiss.

The one that has lain just below all conscious thought ever since it occurred.

The one that constantly invades my dreams.

Long fingers burrowing into my hair, soft lips exploring mine. His hot mouth pulsing with life, generously giving me everything then accepting what I offered in return with reverence and joy.

Twinges of electricthrills coil up from between my thighs, both shocking and exciting me, and I feel the hard nubs of my breasts press against the thin fabric of my cami. I squeeze my legs together, suppressing a hiss, almost embarrassed at the sensitivity there and will myself to stop remembering.

Enough! I scold myself.

The risk involved in indulging that lustful fantasy in my head - and in my life - seems too great.

Besides, Pacey seems to have recovered from his temporary lapse into insanity and, judging by the recent rancor in our relationship, we've returned to our regularly scheduled programming.

Right?

Although he didn't seem to mind when I slept on his shoulder in the car.

A different kind of heat blooms across my cheeks as I think back to our arrival here. I had startled awake and it took me a moment to get my bearings. Realizing that the cushion that had been comfortably supporting my weight since our lunch stop was just my friend – the one with whom I felt an unreasonable irritation – I sat up quickly to correct my untoward position. A thin, silver line of drool connected the corner of my mouth with Pacey's shirt sleeve. Yet his only acknowledgment was to silently hand me a napkin from the console, accompanied by – as was becoming a habit lately - one of those unfathomable looks. Unable to bear the intensity I wiped my mouth, effectively and totally separating from him and then scrambled out the door behind Will.

Since then our verbal volleys had indeed consisted of monosyllabic grunts and glances that swiftly slide away from each other.

If this was a sitcom, I'm sure this predicament would be fodder for hilarity. But this isn't a sitcom and, although Pacey didn't seem particularly bothered or thrilled by our sleeping arrangements, he did seem concerned by how I would react.

And he did try to fix it for me.

Maybe sleeping with me doesn't affect him the way it seems to be affecting me?

Maybe the kiss really was no big deal to him?

Maybe all my dithering anguish is for naught?

Or maybe I should just go to sleep and pray I don't, in a room filled with my friends, have that recurring dream that causes me to awaken panting with unfulfilled desire pounding through my veins.

Sleep seems far but I'm determined; and I have an idea.

Reaching back into the most treasured memory box of my mind, I picture the copy of Little Women that my mother always read to me at night. Worn binding, uneven page edges yellowed with age, she carefully held the book so I could see and began, "Chapter one. Playing Pilgrims. 'Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,' grumbled Jo, lying on the rug."

I continue to mentally recite the beloved words to myself allowing their familiar voices to lull me to sleep, taking me back to more certain times.

*~*

"Pacey, fix this!" her voice echoes through my mind as I blink at the ceiling.

Fix it? What did she expect me to do? Suggest she share a bed with Dawson? Er, no. Not gonna happen. Not on my watch. Never again, if I have anything to say about it.

Besides, I didn't want to fix it. I wanted to spend the night in bed with her, lying next to her - or even better – holding her, touching her, kissing her…

I lied to her. My butt would love to have something to do with her butt, regardless of how her butt felt about the matter.

Then again, that doesn't seem quite appropriate considering that the rest of our little group, including both our exes, lie scattered about the floor.

And then there's the small issue of several steps we've skipped in the mating game. Granted some might deem them small steps – but they seem kinda crucial.

Such as, it might be argued by some that it would be a good thing if we were actually in a romantic relationship. That established, we might go on a date or two. After that, perhaps a couple of make-out sessions on the True Love or the back of the cruiser, depending on the season. All of which could potentially put us further along the road to sharing a bed.

Yeah, we missed some sizeable steps there.

Not to mention that after Andie, I vowed not to make the mistake of jumping into the sack with my next girlfriend too soon.

And yet here we are.

Assuming all those steps had been taken, this was still not quite what I envisioned for our first time.

That first time tends to be a bit fuzzy in my mind, the details such as where and when quite flexible; but who and what are set in stone and have run the gamut of scenarios in my imagination. And they all feature miles of soft skin, thick chocolate hair and sweet plump lips, prone to sass but delicious when silenced – preferably where my lips are doing said silencing. Or my tongue. Again, I'm flexible.

Tender kisses and tangled tongues enflaming us to tentative touches until we're peeling off layers of clothing and…

I bite down hard on my lower lip as my body begins to respond to the path my thoughts have taken and I rein in my imagination and will myself to stand down. The very last thing I need is Joey Potter's delicate sensibilities offended by the Witter wares in all their glory.

Of course, I haven't seen anything but the back of her since we got in this bed so the chances of that seem slim. She's wearing her robe as if it's armor. Sheesh! I've seen her in less at the beach every summer. Or, more recently, in her hallway… where a droplet of water trickled down her neck and… right, okay, stopping that train of thought there because that's obviously not going to help my solider stand down, now is it?

I swiftly retreat to safer mental waters. Perhaps wearing armor to bed could be a habit stemming from her sleepovers at Dawson's? I know she used to sleep in her jeans or shorts; I always wondered at how uncomfortable that must be. The nights I stayed and she wasn't there, Dawson and I would strip to our boxers for bed. Neither of us did that though when she stayed over.

After I started to figure out the difference between boys and girls, I would sneak up onto my knees and peer at their sleeping forms to seek ammunition for my teasing arsenal by checking to see if they were touching.

But they never were.

She was curled up on her side with her back to him, much like she is right now, and Dawson curled up in the opposite direction, neither moving at all.

It's hard for me to imagine them as a couple; they seem so… fraternal. Not that I want to imagine it. Truthfully, even the thought itself makes me slightly nauseous.

I move slightly and listen to see if I can tell whether she's sleeping. I don't think so, as her breathing is very quiet. Not at all like it was in the car when she made all sorts of endearing sleep noises, including a soft snore or two. No, I'd venture to say she's just as wide awake as I am.

I wonder what she's thinking about?

On the other hand, I'm not sure I really want to know. What if she's thinking about reconnecting with Dawson on this trip down memory lane?

He didn't even know she'd broken up with AJ. Now that I've had time to think about it, I wish I hadn't told him. He didn't seem surprised, just… smug. As if it was a foregone conclusion that she'd never have a relationship that would last because she's destined to come back to him.

But what if she made a stopover at me? Would that be so bad?

My first attempt to defuse the bomb that is Dawson failed. Did failure stop Keanu Reeves? Did he just jump off the bus and let it blow up with Sandra Bullock on board?

No!

He kept trying. He didn't give up!

What if I went to Dawson and made my case? Follow through this time, unlike at our camping trip. He, of all people, should understand what it's like to fall for Joey Potter; surely, he'd understand? Defusing a bomb wasn't that complicated if you just understood how it was put together.

Of course, that bus wanted to be saved from the bomb.

The bus that is Joey seems to have filed away our kiss under "odd and unusual occurrences" of our junior year and seems determined to reestablish the status quo of the Three Musketeers as if it never happened. In fact, this bus is more like a fairground carousel, forever going round and round in circles instead of moving in a linear, forward direction.

I can't go back there though.

I won't.

I can't forget the feel of her lips on mine, the touch of her hair under my fingers, the smooth skin of her cheeks. I replay it in my mind over and over with the accompanying flip-flop of my stomach when I realized she was clutching at me and kissing me back, her mouth molten under mine.

No, I won't forget.

I don't want to.

I fold my arm behind my head, careful not to move too much and jostle the mattress. If she's sleeping I don't want to wake her; if she's awake I don't want her to kick my ass when she misinterprets any movement on my part.

So whether or not the bus cares about defusing the bomb, I need to take a crack at it one more time, I think. We've got all week here. We're on vacation. There's no stress. Surely they'll be an opportunity for me to at least let Dawson know that I've developed these feelings for Joey?

It's the right thing to do.

And once that's out in the open, maybe Joey and I can revisit those feelings from the side of the road and get a different outcome.

I congratulate myself on a well-laid plan to fix everything and finally drift off as I watch the rhythmic sway of the tree's shadows on the walls.

*~*

Bright morning light had erased those shadows by the time Pacey woke. He blinked for a moment until the memory of where and with whom he was came flooding back. Joey still lay with her back to him and he couldn't see that her eyes were wide open.

She had heard their companions quietly stumble out of the room toward the smell of coffee some time ago but was unwilling to relinquish her place next to Pacey as she was sure that they'd never be in this kind of situation again.

She wasn't even sure what she was waiting for. Did she imagine that they would lazily stretch and reach for each other, snuggling and kissing, their bodies pressed flush together?

Fat chance.

They had managed to keep from making any physical contact all night long; it was unlikely that there would any touching this morning.

And that pesky little issue of just being friends and not lovers sort of precluded those types of activities.

Curious, Pacey's weight shifted as he sat up and carefully peered over her. He wondered if she was awake and, if so, why exactly she was still in bed with him.

Heart pounding, Joey immediately closed her eyes when she felt the mattress dip as he moved. Once again, she could feel the heat from his body as it travelled the short distance between them, the sensation growing as he drew nearer.

Her blue terry cloth robe had slipped off one shoulder and he stifled the urge to run his fingertips over the bare skin. Holding his breath, he debated.

Startled then by Aunt Gwen's wakeup call, Pacey's arm accidentally brushed against her as he arched back in an exaggerated yawn.

A high-voltage surge from that small touch galvanized Joey to stir even as it riveted her attention and stole her breath.

Awkward looks and ducked heads were on the menu for morning greetings. In silence, Joey tightened the belt of her robe and made her way into the kitchen, mentally filing that vibrant feeling for later examination.

Pacey watched her back as she shuffled in front of him, resolved to put his plan into action soon - completely unaware that a mere brush of his arm had set off something more explosive than a bomb.

*~*