I wrote this a while ago, but for some reason never posted. Hope you enjoy, and please, let me know what you think. :)

They stood on the Lincoln Memorial steps. She fiddles with her cup of coffee as he takes a generous sip from his. He doesn't say anything, even though she knows he wants to. She broke the norm tonight; asked to take their coffees to go and take a walk. They ended up here, which seemed as perfect as any place.

Reason clouds, she decided. As she sought for reason in everything she did, she lost touch with what was important. She took his advice from a while ago, and put her heart into overdrive.

Over time, she has realised, rather hesitantly, that she does not know everything. But in this case, she knows that she has never been more scared than faced with the possibility of losing him. She knows that his hands feel good anywhere, on her back, clasped with hers, cupping her cheek. She knows his eyes say more than he means to let on. She knows that every one of his qualities she admires greatly and that she truly believes he makes her a better person. She knows he has excellent symmetrical features, and she knows that this is, by far, not the only reason she wanted to have a child with him.

So, when faced with categorising her feelings, she turns to her list, runs through it like a mix tape. It is comforting to know that they will never fit into a box. Like Sweets said, they shouldn't work. But they do. And when it comes down to it, when he leans forward and she feels his warm breath on her face, that's all that matters.

So she brought him here. Rather passively, though, being lead by her legs more than anything else. They stand, in a bubble of silence and she mulls over excuses and small talk and reasoning.

Suddenly he sighs, and she knows he's waiting for her. He knows something is up and he's waiting, ever patiently, for her. To step up, to open up, for the clouds to pass.

She turns to him slightly, receiving a much better view of his moonlit profile. He mimics her eagerly, but calm, as he can always make oxymorons work. He looks at her, questioning, but still waiting. She drops her coffee cup, now empty, and it rolls down a couple of steps before stopping, wanting to watch. She looks at him, tracking the lines on his face, wondering how many of them she caused. Her hand reaches out to smooth his lapel, before it finally resting on his shoulder.

She uses this to pull herself up and forward, to him, to his lips. He freezes, whatever he was expecting, waiting for, it wasn't this. But she persists, showing him all her wordless, uncategorised feelings. Opening herself up to whatever comes after.

He thaws quickly, and melts into her. Never pushing though, only taking what he gets. A hand lightly touches her side, making contact, touching base with reality.

It ends as quickly as it began, and her hand moves from his shoulder to her chest. He stares at her, incredulous, questioning, scared even.

"Thank you." She says, averting her eyes, cowering from his gaze, "I wanted to thank you for..." For being you, for being there, for everything.

"Bones." He sighs, and cups her cheek lightly to turn her face towards him, "What was that?"

In all honesty, she wants to run. Now she needs words, reasons and she has nothing. She goes through what she knows.

"I don't want to hurt you." Because nothing, nothing is truer than that. Her hand is still on his chest, on his heart, as though cemented there, as if she can't let go.

"Bones, nothing hurts me more than you being hurt." He's looking at her and she realises there is no where she could run, no way she could escape. He wouldn't let her. Because he knows, he knows too.

She has nothing to say. Everything that she can put into words has been said, what she would do for him, how much he means to her. That's what their friendship was all about. Is. But this, this surpasses everything she can say with speech.

What now? is an empty question, or rather, not one at all. She knows, they both do. Everything, denied or not, has always led up to this. This being a sunrise of sorts, rising up, dazzling them with its rays. She comes to use metaphors a lot, when there is nothing else that fits.

She's waiting for him to continue. After all, he knows how this works, he knows what's next.

He raises his thumb from her chin to her lip, brushing it softly. She has faith in him, illogical, unconditional, ridiculous faith. She moves her hand up to his neck; her finger falls upon his pulse. It's fast, racing and she wonders how he stays so strong and calm for her.

She closes her eyes and feels his lips on hers, his hand cupping her cheek, the other now making a more possessive mark on her side. Her arm winds around his neck, pulling him closer than he's even been before, moulding his body to hers, closing any gaps, any room for air or doubt or reason. This is reason enough.

They deepen in harmony, his hands now on her back, pushing her towards him. They are both worried of losing. Both making up for lost time.

They move into a tight hug, her head nestled into his neck, taking in his scent, his warmth. His arms tighten around her.

"We need..." she mumbles into his skin, not even sure he heard her. To talk this through, figure this out, to make this work.

"We will." He says simply, into her hair. And just like that he answers all her questions, qualms all her fears. This is now another thing she knows. They will.