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When Joy wakes up, it takes her five seconds to separate herself from the pleasant, cozy dream she had been having; ten seconds to feel as though she has control of her own body; and fifteen to consider that she should check what time it is.
With a start, she blinks away the veil of grogginess and rolls onto her side to squint at the clock across the room. Six-thirty on the dot, perfect.
Grinning, Joy pushes herself up. A content noise grumbles in the back of her throat as she stretches out her arms, already feeling the familiar buzz of energy beginning to spread through her. Riley usually gets up just after seven, which means that six-thirty is the perfect time for Joy to start readying herself for the day.
Her mind is already jogging ahead with preparations—what Riley is going to wear, what she will have for breakfast, who she’ll sit with at lunch—but, taking in a breath, Joy gives herself a minute to absorb the early morning lull. No other emotions hurrying about or half-awake arguments carried across rooms, not even any commotion from the islands outside of Headquarters. It almost feels too quiet sometimes—a vague emptiness that she takes upon herself to fill. Today, however, she has it in her to appreciate it.
When she finally brings herself to peel off the blanket, Joy swings her legs to the side of the bed, kicking her feet. Before she has the chance to stand, an arm snakes around her waist.
Joy turns back to the mound of blankets beside her with a smile. “Good morning.”
The blankets shift, revealing a mess of orange hair. Joy reaches out to run a hand through it fondly, her fingers dancing through the strands with familiarity. After a moment, Anxiety peeks out, eyes half-lidded. When her gaze lands on the clock, she groans, pulling the blankets to shelter her face once more.
“It’s too early,” comes the muffled complaint.
Joy raises a brow, leaning in.
“Well,”—she pulls back the sheets enough to meet Anxiety’s eyes—“not everyone is up ‘til two in the morning hammering away at work when she should be in bed with her girlfriend.”
“It was only until one last night.” Anxiety defends. She stifles a yawn against the pillow. “Maybe one-thirty.”
It is a big improvement from past months, pulling all-nighters—multiple, even—over trivial things. Nothing is trivial to her, it seems. Joy is beginning to learn how to appreciate that.
Humming amusedly, she settles back briefly. Like a shark sensing blood, Anxiety seizes the chance to pull her back into the plush confines of their bed. Then, as if to ensure her catch, she throws a leg over Joy’s, securing her against the mattress. Joy lets herself be pulled into the embrace, any possible irritation eclipsed by an appreciation of the intimacy, however brief.
A sudden coldness settles on the back of her thighs, and Joy gasps, attempting to squirm away from where Anxiety has planted her feet against them.
“You fiend,” she cries. “You just want me for my warmth!”
Anxiety lets out a tired giggle. “Maybe.”
Joy shoves her away playfully, but Anxiety holds on tighter, burying her face into her neck. She rolls her eyes, but allows herself to lay back against the pillow, a hand still running through Anxiety’s hair. Anxiety lets out a low hum in response, practically a purr. The sound finds its home deep in Joy’s chest, comfortingly familiar like the heat that follows a mouthful of tea. The two of them don’t get time like this often. They have a job with clear-cut responsibilities that don't offer the same flexibility as a typical nine-to-five. Joy would not trade it for the world—as it is, Riley is her world—but that doesn’t mean that she cannot appreciate the moments outside of it. Especially ones like these.
Anxiety toys with the collar of Joy’s shirt between her fingers. The slight downward tilt of her brows reflects a hesitance that Joy only catches because they are so close to one another.
After a beat of silence, she confesses, “I want you for more than just your warmth.”
It's a simple sentiment, comically obvious, but it makes Joy’s smile widen just to hear it laid out so plainly, to hear the “I want you” part of the statement at all. Her arms tighten around Anxiety, suddenly filled with an urge not to let go, even for a second.
“I know,” she replies. “And I want you for more than just the ice cubes you have for feet.”
Joy digs her fingers playfully into Anxiety's sides, receiving a squeal in return. She takes the chance to flip them over, straddling Anxiety's waist. Cupping her face in her hands, Joy presses a kiss to her cheek, then her nose. Finally, barely able to hold back her grin, she presses one to Anxiety’s lips. Anxiety pushes into it with fervor, both unreserved and tender. Fingers brush against Joy's shoulders, trailing up to run through the hair at the nape of her neck.
They pull apart, but do not stray from each other’s space. With only a hair’s breadth between them, they are still close enough to share breaths.
“I really should be getting up.” Joy says, although the prospect is seeming less and less appealing.
“Five more minutes?” Anxiety counters. Her hands settle atop Joy's, pressing into her embrace with an expression that is nothing short of pleading.
Joy bites the inside of her cheek. She knows that Anxiety wouldn’t push it if she said “no.” If she told her that it was an important day for Riley, or even just a day where Joy could not bring herself to lay idly in bed any longer, Anxiety would not keep her for any longer than that. But if she did— if Anxiety wanted to hold her hostage in bed forever, cold feet and all—Joy doesn’t think she could deny her. She doesn’t quite know what that says about herself.
Lips pursed, Joy pretends to consider it, as though she had not already given in the moment that Anxiety’s arm met her waist.
“Alright,” she concedes, “five more minutes.”
Anxiety grins with a tired giddiness, like she has won some kind of prize. The butterflies in Joy’s stomach flitter fondly at the notion. She plants another kiss to Anxiety’s lips, pulling the blanket over them in one quick motion.
If five minutes turns into twenty, then who can really blame her?