AN: Posting fit to compensate for blockage of the writing form. Bits of this are supposed to be a bit stream-of-conscience-y. Enjoy!

Pair: Amanda & Simon

Set: Just post Season 2. No spoilers.


It's dark. It's late. He's asleep. She knows this for an absolute fact, because... well, she doesn't know how she knows, but she knows. She has a sense for it. Keep her own life together? That's not in her repertoire. Know beyond a shadow of a doubt if Simon Lloyd is asleep? That she can do.

The room is almost completely black, and if it wasn't for the fact that she's been lying awake for so long that her eyes have adjusted, she wouldn't be able to see a thing. But she can. Bits and pieces. She can make out the light fitting in the centre of the room, the edges of her bed, and the person lying beside her. The side of his face, the line of his body – shapes, no firm details. That's fine, though. She's pretty sure she knows most of him by heart.

He's within arm's reach, but not touching her – unfortunate any other night, but with her feeling so restless it's probably for the best. Her mind is racing with a million thoughts – a million questions, to be precise, and she's struggling to answer any of them. Her head is a mess with things like when did this happen?, how did this happen?, why him?, why now?, fuck-what-are-you-going-to-do?, I wonder if he...?, and, what if he doesn't?

It's not a good place to be, and there's too much for her to handle, so she's trying to work on one at a time. Right now she's toying with 'when did this happen?'

There was a shift somewhere, but she doesn't know when it was - doesn't know when she realised there'd been a shift, let alone when the shift was, but all that aside, there's been a shift and it's thrown her quite spectacularly. It's not that there wasn't supposed to be a shift, per se, it's just that... well it's not been long and nothing's well defined and he has a wife and she's a bit of a mess and they're friends and that's tricky and they work together and that's even trickier and in an ideal world she wanted things to be a bit further along and a bit better defined before she –

Before there was a shift.

As it stands she knows there's a huge potential for her to get hurt, for pain and for heartache and, Jesus Christ, hasn't she had enough of that in the past year? Then again – and maybe this possibility is more frightening – there's also the potential for something that's not pain. Maybe even happiness. Really, if the universe decides to smile on her, there's rather a high potential for rather a lot of happiness. She stares at the blackness of her bedroom and wonders what that would be like. She's definitely due, and sometimes, she reasons, things must go right, people must catch breaks, or else Hollywood would've been burnt to the ground by an angry mob consisting of the grown up versions of the little girls whose expectations of love {and hair} were systematically destroyed by chick-flicks and Walt Disney. Or something.

So she's due for something good - and he is good. And something has shifted, albeit prematurely.

She studies the darkness in the usually bright room; senses the presence of the man beside her – knowing, without looking, where each of his limbs falls, how much his chest expands with his breathing, how much his eyelids flutter when he's dreaming. There's a three-dimensional map in her mind of his body on the other side of her bed – much further away than he usually would be; maybe he somehow knew she'd need space tonight. Maybe it's as innate as the way she can sense him beside her. It's not the way she senses other people in her presence, not a general 'oh, So-And-So's beside me', it's detailed, accurate. Or maybe she's just overanalysing.

There's not a crack of light coming through her curtains. Nothing. Just blackness and his breathing: soothing and peaceful and lovely. If he opened his eyes now it would be too dark for him to see her, he'd be met with blackness; so he's safely shrouded in the cover of darkness. And he's asleep. She knows this for a fact. She has a sense of it – she feels it as strongly as she feels that niggling internal shift.

She whispers into the black around them, safe in the knowledge that he won't hear her, that he's asleep and he won't wake. It's only four words but they scare the hell out of her {goddamn internal shift}:

"Simon, I love you."


She closes her eyes.

It'll be okay.

He's still asleep.