disclaimer: not mine.
A/N: just a crappy little oneshot because i was bored. i know it's been done before but...i was bored. review please.
He always hears the door open slowly whenever she comes in, as if the gradual movement of it makes it less obvious. For some reason she never phases through the barrier. It's strange considering her normal disregard for other people's conceptions of privacy. But then again, he doesn't exactly react like most people when startled out of sleep, so he can understand her caution. Not that it matters, he's always awake anyway.
She slides under the sheets next to him and buries her face into the crook of his neck and always whispers the same thing, "I missed you."
And he always turns to her and presses a long, gentle kiss onto her forehead, "I missed you, too." Something inside of him says that she'll keep coming back until his answer is something different. Something lied.
He slides his arms around her and she lets him pull her flush against him as he breathes in the scent of her hair, apples, and absorbs the heat from her body.
"You could stop missing me," she murmurs into his shoulder, her exhalation tickling the shell of his ear.
"I know," is the only answer he gives. He's aware of what it would take for them to be in the position to stop missing each other and it takes more than they have. Which isn't actually saying a lot. Because what they have has never been all that much.
He hopes she knows it too, in her own way. He's never felt the urge to ask. These moments are so rare with them, her willingness to come to him, why spoil them with questions that draw blood?
"Do you ever want to come back with me?" she wonders innocently and he sees his precious moment slither out the window in a gory lump. Her asking a question that not only causes bleeding but also treason.
"You know I do," he responds gruffly. "But I wont. I've made my bed..."
"And now we're both lying in it," she finishes for him hoarsely.
He pulls away from her and props himself up on one elbow, squinting slightly in an effort to see her more clearly in the murky twilight before switching on his bedside lamp. "Do you think I wanted this?"
She mimes his position, "I don't think you did anything to prevent it." She sounds bitter and he wonders what she has to be so jaded about. He shoves that thought aside, he can analyze her words later, after she's out of his bed and sight.
"Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?" he asks.
She simply sighs and shakes her head and reaches out to stroke his face, lingering longer on the stubble that's grow over his chin since the last time they were together. "Just kiss me, John," she says with resignation, like it's a responsibility she has, needs, to fulfill.
"No," is his curt response. "Not like this. You know the answer is always 'No.' Why do you keep asking?"
"Pyro..." she mutters with frustration and that's the last straw. He can take that her hair is too thick. He can dismiss that fact that she smells like apples and not clean cotton. He's able to ignore her unpainted nails even though she always kept them covered with a light coat of pink in an effort to keep from biting them. He can deal with those things, because after all, there's only so much a woman can do with one two year old faded picture. It's not what he wants but he takes it. Because it's pretty to look at and when something's pretty it's easy to ignore the details. But this is shattering.
"You know Kitty never called me 'Pyro.' " he says hollowly.
She stiffens with embarrassment and no small amount of irritation and her eyes take on a hint of yellow before returning to a green a shade or two too light for real authenticity. "My mistake," she replies as she slips out of the bed and makes for the door, "Next time it'll be perfect."
Next time it'll really be her, he always thinks as the last traces of apple fade from the room.