𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

BLANKETS

He was no longer a boy. He was a man.

A/N: Takes place prior to "Secret".

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April 1977

When she opened her eyes, the moon and the television were her only sources of light.

Diana brought her hand to her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes. She sat into silence, still drowsy, waiting as the room slowly came into focus.

The girls were curled up against one another on the floor, swaddled in the blankets they'd dragged from the bedroom sometime earlier in the night. The television was still on, volume low, dimly lit, playing the usual sign-off broadcast. The clock, large and tall, let out melodic ticks from across the room.

It felt late, later than it should be, but she didn't bother lifting her eyes to look at the time.

Instead, her mind focused on the weight pressed at her side. The whisper of gentle breathing reverberating in her ear. When she moved, hair prickled at her jawline, and the soft fabric of a linen shirt brushed against her arm.

It took her a moment to realize what had happened. She'd invited Michael over for dinner. After spending nearly two hours playing Candyland, they and the girls had settled in front of the TV to watch a movie, and somehow, they'd all dozed off.

She and Michael were now leaning against one another, her head lying on his shoulder while his tilted slightly atop hers.

The crook in her neck was killing her, but for some reason she couldn't move. She was frozen in place, suspended in time, stuck between whatever sphere of the world that was her living room and Michael's warm, still body.

It had been a while since she'd been so close to anyone. Anyone of the opposite sex, that is. The last time had been months ago before her divorce, when she'd been lonely and snuck her way into bed with Bob. That night had ended on an... interesting note, one that she realized she shouldn't be thinking about. Not when someone like Michael, someone she'd known ever since he'd been a child, was so close to her.

Move, Diane.

She tried. Yet, the only move she made was to lick her dry lips.

She glanced at the girls again. They were lying in the floor in the same position they'd been in moments before, Tracee's leg tossed over Rhonda's side, Rhonda lying on her stomach, and Chudney coiled between them both, her teddy bear pressed against her open mouth. All three were pretty much dead to the world.

Diana took her eyes away from her daughters, directing her gaze to Michael's sleeping form. She couldn't see his face, but could almost imagine it, saw it clearly within her mind's eye. His curly eyelashes, his glowing face. Despite the turmoil swirling in his life, she was sure he looked angelic, peaceful, just as he always did when he slept.

His hand was lying at her side, inches from hers. Open, palm up. She didn't take her eyes off his hand. She ran her thumb across the tips of her own fingers, one, two, then three. Pivoted her wrist until her hand had turned and moved forward, reaching to touch his. Again, she used her fingertips, running them along the soft padding of his palm.

She slowed her movements, listened.

Nothing.

His breathing was still gentle.

She sighed. Her breath came out soft, but shaky.

What she was doing was chancy, far too chancy.

Diana touched his hand again, this time caressing the junctions between his palm and fingers. Her brow wrinkled, her lips still parted from the sigh.

In fact, what was she doing? And how exactly was it "chancy"?

She shifted her head slowly. His head moved, gently falling against the top of the couch. The move wasn't enough to wake him. He only exhaled, his breath soft and faint.

Like she had guessed, he slept peacefully. The moon cast a dim glow on his face, illuminating his brown skin, the fine hairs of his brows, and the small pockmark on his cheek that had been present ever since she could remember. She could even make out the faint beginnings of a moustache and beard.

With the pain in her neck forgotten, she became lost in his features. The boy she remembered, the one that loved to paint, to swim and play practical jokes, was there somewhere beneath this new exterior—the exterior of a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and—she dared admit to herself—handsome.

His shoulders were nice and the curve of his jawline was attractive, but his lips were what distracted her the most. She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to look away, but all she did was open her eyes and stare again. There she was lying on the couch in the dark, shrouded by the warm, California night, watching him sleep. Her mind raced with many thoughts, some innocent, some illicit.

The clock ticked again. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

And with each tick, she realized she was moving closer. That her lips were beginning to creep to his as she felt a tingle in her shoulders and toes. A familiar stirring roiled in her stomach, something she knew she should be fighting, but a silent, more powerful part of herself had taken control.

Her fingers still worked at his hand, soft enough that Michael still didn't stir. She was close now, could feel the softness of his breathing against her lips. She fluttered her eyes closed, anticipating the touch, ready for whatever was to come.

Rhonda let out a whine in her sleep and turned, her leg flying.

Her foot was moving so quickly that when it hit Michael's shin, he jolted awake. His head and Diana's connected. They both let out audible yelps of pain, holding their heads as they jerked away from one another.

"Fuck, that hurt!" She clenched her teeth, hissing.

Michael winced. He mumbled a small "Ow". Seconds later, he lowered his hand, his brows still crinkled from the pain. "You okay?"

Diana glanced at him, nodding.

Michael's mouth had wrinkled into an apologetic frown, but his sleepy eyes sparkled with laughter.

"I'm sorry! I almost took both our heads off."

Diana forced herself to laugh. She turned, pressing her back against the couch. The pain in her head was starting to subside. Unlike her shame.

"Don't worry about it. Looks like it was a wake-up call we both needed!"

Especially you, Diane, she thought.

She watched as Michael reached down to rub his shin. His shirt wrinkled and folded along the contours of his shoulders. The broadness, again, made her chest give a gentle heave.

"You should go give your driver a call. It's past midnight and I'm sure your mother is worried sick." She surely didn't want Mrs. Jackson (or Mr. Jackson, god forbid) having a conniption.

Michael yawned, standing. "You're right." He stretched, standing on the tips of his toes. "I'll go give Bill a call. He's probably still awake."

He left, and it was only after watching him go did she realize she had been holding her breath. When she finally exhaled, it came out louder than intended.