A/N: I told myself I'd NEVER write one of these. And now I have.

ARRRGHHH! I WANT TO STOP WRITING CLICHÉS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyways. Setting is only slightly AU; pretend that Darien and Serena were friendly – maybe a little more than friendly – before they found out each other's identities and that we're in a future in which Sailor Stars didn't happen.

Serena's poem references (chosen purely for convenience) are to "Locks of Gold," which can be found on EightofSwords' page. Also be on the lookout for manga and anime references

Disclaimer: I don't own Sailor Moon.

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The Size of Her Socks

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The size of her socks still fascinates him.

They've been married for almost two years now, and in those twenty-one months, he's probably done the laundry a dozen times. It doesn't sound like many times, and it isn't, not because he's a lazy husband (he does far more household chores than Serena) but because they transform so often to deal with minor youma, giving all their clothes the equivalent of a dry-cleaning each time, and because Serena is so fond of the Luna Pen, that they never end up having much laundry to do.

This afternoon, he crouches in front of the dryer, bracing his shoulder against it as he leans inside to reach for a stray white sock. Still a little staticky, it folds to his fingers when he grasps it and pulls it out. It is white with a pink stripe around the cuff, like most of her socks, and it is small, so small that it fits in his hand, shorter than the length from his wrist to his fingertips.

As he crouches there, in front of the dryer, holding the little white sock, he finds himself thinking…

…of the second time they met, when she threw her shoe at him. He had stooped down to pick it up from the sidewalk and studied it (in the same way, perhaps, that Cinderella's prince had stared at her glass slipper when he found it, awed and slightly incredulous, thinking that surely no earthly girl had feet this small!) before she stomped over and snatched the shoe from his hand with an embarrassed blush. He had looked down at her foot as she stood in front of him, suspicious, half expecting to see that she'd chopped her toes off like one of Grimm's stepsisters, or at the very least, to watch her struggle to shove a clumsy, too-large foot into the child-sized Mary Janes. But he had only seen a pink-socked foot slip easily into the shiny black shoe, which was even a little loose until she fastened the clasps tightly around her ankle. Even though she'd been in middle school then, and he'd been in a lofty high school sophomore, he'd followed that ankle up a slender leg until meeting (with disappointment) the navy pleat of her skirt.

…of the time, not long after that second meeting, when he'd chanced to see, as she showed it to Motoki, the A+ that she'd received on a poem that she wrote for a literature assignment. She'd flushed when he had glimpsed it and stuffed it back into her bag before he could read more than one of the lines (something about being plucked, trailing roots). He hadn't uttered a single word of insult to her that day, too intrigued by that line, trying to fit it like a puzzle piece into what he knew about her life. When her friends had come in, Motoki had opened his mouth to tell them about her wonderful poem, and she had stepped back, sinking her heel onto a foot that she must have thought to be Motoki's. His own pained gasp had accomplished the objective anyway, cutting Motoki off. She had cast him a slightly apologetic but also highly panicked look that he had noticed only after he noticed how very small her foot was on top of his. It seemed vulnerable, as vulnerable as the panicked look on her face as she stared up over her shoulder at him, clearly certain that he was about to finish what Motoki had begun and tell her friends about the poem. He hadn't, he had only said, "Don't you have a math test to be studying for, Odango, instead of tripping over my feet," which had sparked a similar comments from Rei and scolding from the girls and Motoki and had taken everyone's attention entirely off of her poem.

…of his seventeenth birthday, when he'd gone to brood at the park, alone and too old and wishing that his life had gone a million different ways than it had. He'd sat on the neglected, rotting wooden dock half-hidden behind the rose gardens, half hoping to be found but aware that the only person who might look for him had a shift until nine. But the sun had just begun to set when panting and the sound of struggling in the bushes behind him reached his ears, and he turned just in time to see her tumble out of them, hair mussed, face flushed, and eyes bright. She hadn't said anything, just slid off her scratched Mary Janes and frilly socks, and settled beside him on the dock, skirt brushing his pant leg. He remembered watching her small pink feet, too small to reach the murky water in which he trailed his own bare feet, her toes dangling above it instead, until she scooted to the very edge of the dock. He'd grabbed her by her arm furthest from him, hand gripping her elbow and arm against her shoulder blades, and she had been very still and not looked at him. (He could recall wondering if the pounding he felt where the inside of his elbow pressed against her back was from her heartbeat or his own pulse.) Then a small foot had hooked under his own in the water, tugging it closer so that his foot was hugged by both of hers, suspended in that murky water.

…of the night, that heart-stopping, mouth-with-bile-filling night, when he arrived at the scene of a youma attack, vest and tuxedo shirt slick with sweat against his skin, and seen a youma cackling happily amidst the unconscious bodies, and seen that small, small red boot beneath the wreckage of a downed streetlight and an overturned car.

…and of that first morning, waking up with a ring around his finger and able to feel hers, cool on her warm finger where her hand lay curled on his chest. He had been able to see her small foot, peeking out from beneath the comforter, overwhelming him with the fresh-as-sunlight realization that the foot belonged to his wife –

"Darien?" Her voice comes from the kitchen, accompanied by the jangle of her keys landing on the table. Her heels click toward the laundry room, and Darien straightens, too eager to see that special glow that always lights her eyes when he does a household chore (she says it reminds her of a dream she had once) to remember that her sock is still in his hand.

She stops in the doorway of the laundry room, tugging at one of the curls that always wisps around her ears. Her eyes take a moment longer than usual to meet his, and when they do, her smile seems a shade apprehensive.

Before he can question her, her gaze slides to the sock, making him aware that he is still holding it. Her brows lift a little, as do the corners of her lips. She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorjamb and regarding him for a moment. Then she pushes herself away from it, stepping close to him, and winds an arm around his neck.

"Sweetheart," she says. Her temple moves against his jaw as she speaks. "What are you doing with my sock?"

He looks at the sock. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Realizes that there is really no answer that could be less strange than the truth. So he says honestly, "Admiring it."

Against his neck, her face creases in that adorable expression her face takes on when she is confused and trying to figure something out. He pulls away slightly to watch her face as she tugs at the sock at in his hand, an idle game of tug of war between his fingers and hers.

After a moment, she asks in a dry tone that she probably learned from him, "Should I be worried?"

"No," he says, aware still of a raw tension in her body. He pulls the sock from her grasp and puts it in his pocket. "I have something better to admire now."

He tightens his arm around her waist, leaning her backward. With his other hand he trails his fingertips down the thin fabric of her blouse, tracing down her waist to her leg. She giggles, squirming away from him, her arms sliding from around his neck to bat at his tickling fingers. She is nearly parallel to the floor now, and only his arm around her waist holds her up – until he sneakily, abruptly, lets go. She collapses into the laundry basket full of clean clothes.

Her giggles cut off abruptly,; she stares at up at him with an absolutely shocked expression, eyes wide and lips parted in an O. His grin widens, and as though the sight flips a switch, her shocked expression gives way to a spill of laughter. She kicks her legs, the ambition for revenge glinting in her eyes as she tries to scramble back to her feet, but he crouches down quickly, trapping her knees by planting his forearms on top of them.

She's still laughing at him, leaning forward with her bangs brushing his, her hands splayed on either side of him as she tries to push herself out of the laundry basket. "What are you up to, Shields?" she demands playfully.

His grin widens. "You'll see, Shields."

She rolls her eyes at him, but the bright smile on her face is as impossible to miss as the delight in his voice.

He settles back, Indian-style, on the floor and grabs one of her legs, setting her foot on his knees. He glances up to see again that adorable confused expression which, when she catches him watching her, becomes one of amused curiosity.

"Go on," she says, flapping her hand at him like an indulgent queen. Underneath the amusement and curiosity, though, he still sees the other emotion lurking.

He slips off the surprisingly modest pink suede pump that the Luna Pen dressed her in that morning and takes the sock from his pocket. He puts it on her foot.

Then he looks up at her, back down at the door, and back up at her. He sees realization dawning in her eyes, pushing out the other emotion, and he is so relieved to see it banished that the relief spills into his voice as particularly enthusiastic dramatic flair as he proclaims, "Why, it fits! Could it be that you are the fair maiden with whom I danced at the ball?"

She is laughing so hard that she is bent over double on her throne of clean clothes. He grins at her, one hand on her midriff, which seems for some reason warmer than usual, and the other on her ankle, running his thumb back and forth over the patch of skin above her sock.

At last the giggles die out, leaving a smile behind on her face. She tucks two stray curls behind her ears and just looks at him, smiling softly. "You're better than a fairy tale, you know."

He tucks another curl behind her ear. "You're just saying that because I did the laundry."

She considers this with a grin. "Maybe." Her eyes flick back up his, and his breath catches; they have suddenly become searching again, almost shifting back to raw…

He squeezes her foot. "Are you going to tell me what's up now?"

She looks down at his hand around her foot. It is as small in his hand as her sock was. She seems to be thinking.

"Are you going to tell me why you were admiring my sock?" she says slowly, raising a brow to place emphasis on 'admiring.'

He squeezes her foot again, confused but willing to play her game. He wants this uncertainty in her eyes to dissipate. "I was thinking about how small it was." He bumps her forehead with his. "Small sock for a small person."

His other hand is still on her waist. She places her hand over it and places the other on the back of his head, keeping his forehead against hers.

Her whisper brushes his lips. "We're going to need smaller socks for a smaller person."

For a moment, Darien is very still. His mind seems to swoop from his body from a moment, soaring somewhere far, far away above him.

When it returns, he is kissing her fiercely, his hands as tight on her hips as hers are in his hair, and he finds himself thinking about how, years from now, he will pull a small white sock from the dryer and remember this moment.

They've been married for almost two years now, and in those twenty-one months, he had become sure that it wasn't possible for him to be any happier.

He doesn't mind being wrong.

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