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the lights are off, all but one. all but the little lamp on bob's side table. he's curled up, leaning closer to the light than he probably realizes, reading.
you don't mean to scare him, don't mean to lurk until he notices. making him jump.
hair wet and slightly disheveled, dressed in one of your sweatshirts, the one he's been sporting for weeks, claiming no, swearing he hasn't seen it since it 'went missing'. the one you've been pretending not to notice he took. with his glasses down past the bridge of his nose, the way they tend to fall when he's too focused fix them.
bob just looks so domestic. you couldn't help but stare.
you push yourself off the door frame. when you're pulling yourself under the covers, next to him, you murmur,"i'm sorry, baby."
for being late, for startling him; you're not sure which you're apologizing for, but it's enough to dampen his flustered ramble. you couldn't say you caught a word of it, but if you had to, you could probably guess the highlights.
through his lashes, he looks up at you. and god, he's so pretty.
"it's fine."
you don't bother asking what bob's doing up. you know the answer.
he's complained for the last week about how late you've been coming back to your shared quarters. bob's not confrontational, and, even if he were, it's not a fight. he's not one to pick fruitless fights. bob knows better, knows you don't have much say in when you're dismissed for the day.
so he complains. tries to stay up until you get home, bob's always frustrated and testy the next day when he can't. and he rarely can. his routine is pretty rigid, he should've been asleep hours ago.
your hand finds his cheek, gently caressing the soft skin, pulling him back into the moment."you're sweet."
bob avoids your eyes despite the gentle, upward curve if his lips.
the hand on his face goes for bob's glasses, pulling them from his face. you lean over him a bit to put them on his stand. his hand follows yours, setting his book down, letting his fingers curl with yours.
you don't pull away, or sit up. just lean into him, curl up with him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. letting him take possession of your hand, slow and awkward, as most bits of affection are from him.
he's never sure of himself when he touches you, not confident what is and isn't appropriate. worried he's too forward. bob has never been good with people in that way, in general. and not just with touch, with conversation. bob's never been good at gauging where the line is, so he doesn't go near it. it's rare he bothers with relationships, he doesn't seek them out, figuring he can't cross a line he's not close to.
he much prefers to stick to himself, usually. there's exceptions, of course. there's phoenix. there's you.
then again, both of you sought him out.
ploddingly, you grab his hand. pulling it back from the nightstand, pressing your lips to the back of bob's hand.
and maybe it's the softness of the moment. maybe it's because it's late. maybe it's because you're more than tired. maybe the mood has you feeling a little raw. maybe it doesn't matter why at a quarter til midnight, curled up with your partner 'i love you' comes out as "i wanna marry you." maybe it just matters that it does.
and it will be a conversation later. bob doesn't like leaving anything to ambiguity. there was a detailed discussion about how your relationship would work, what your lives on base would look like when you got together, when you first got together.
undoubtedly, there will another about this, as well.
for now a simple "yeah, i'd like that," is all bob has to offer.