Author's Note: Not really sure how to categorize this one. Not angst or drama really, by far. But not humor either. Hmm. You decide.

"We are Legend" need to be read for this vignette? Sure, sure.

Timeline puts it when they're just starting out in their chosen residence. During WaL.


It's strange, he finds. Living in the same house as her. Living with her. He's still not used to it, but then, it's only been five days.

He'd finally gotten the generators up and working last night, and the payoff seems to come in the form of cleanliness as the sound of running water still reaches his ears from upstairs. She's showering, he assumes. His stomach growls loudly as he stands a little aimlessly in the kitchen, so he trudges barefoot over to the refrigerator in jeans and a t-shirt. He'd like one, too, but he wouldn't fault her for using up all the hot water. Maybe she can just give him a little massage instead. That is, if he can work up the courage to ask her.

They haven't really had time to hunt down any food, so any sustenance is pretty basic. He shoves a box of cereal under his arm from the counter and snatches an apple from the fridge, taking a large bite.

When he brushes trace evidence of juice from his chin, the back of his hand feels a little chaffed under the abuse the slight beard he's neglected to take care of provides. He frowns, but hears the water shut off upstairs. No sense in channeling Grizzly Adams if he doesn't have to. Discarding the cereal and half-eaten apple, he makes for the back hall and bounds up the stairs.

He knocks a little tentatively on the clean white door, little swirls of steam escaping under its frame. "Bones…?" he tries. "You decent?"

"Um… just a moment." He hears a few cabinets open and close, one drawer shut. "Yes."

Turning the knob, he draws open the door and steps into the wall of steam. When it clears, he stutters briefly at the sight—both physically and verbally. He really should have been more specific.

Almost all that he can see is damp, pale skin and tangled auburn hair slicked against her bare shoulders. The white towel does very little to hide much of anything.

He blinks and clears his throat, respectfully trying to avert his eyes. "Ah… sorry, I…"

She waits for him to respond, but immediately takes in the slight rigidness of his posture and reddening of his face. Her throat catches in realization, and she ducks her head. Suddenly acutely aware of the situation. "Oh. You meant… dressed."

Her blue eyes find him again, large and apologetic. He offers her a brief upturn of his lips in reassurance, but can't seem to hold it in place. His eyes stray, and he forces them away yet again. "Yeah, but… it's…" He's stammering again. Clearing his throat for a second time—and it doesn't help—he takes a cautious step forward. "It's fine. Um…" Carefully, he reaches around her to snatch up his razor and draws back quickly. Trying to ignore the way the back of his arm had grazed her shoulder. "Thanks."

She bows her head, crossing her arms over her chest and pulling the towel a little tighter. "You're welcome," she replies quietly, coloring slightly. She doesn't watch him leave.

It's strange, even awkward at times. But not entirely unpleasant.