Alone in the Dark

Posted on Mon Dec 15th, 2025 @ 3:06pm by Lieutenant Commander Bonnie "Bon-Bon" Durnell & Commander Dean House

3,055 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: Character Development
Location: Earth - Washington DC
Timeline: Pre-Lost in Space

Previously on Dancing..dancing..dancing;

“And Dean? Flirt with me again when I’m sober. Then I’ll know which parts were real.” The door clicked softly behind her, leaving the night open for whatever tomorrow chose to unfold. The porch light buzzed overhead, soft and golden, as they disappeared inside together.

"I will keep that in mind." Smiling softly, following her in. Flopping on the couch to bed down. Pushing the fedora over his face a little bit to block out any residual light. Dean gave a lasting yawn. "Good night John boy!" He grinned, not sure if she'd get the reference or not.

---

The house settled around her the way old places do, breathing in the night. Bonnie flicked off the living-room lamp with an unsteady sweep of her hand, plunging the space into a warm, familiar dimness. Dean’s snoring yawn of a “Good night, John Boy!” followed her up the stairs like a badly thrown paper airplane, amusing, aimless, and somehow comforting.

The hallway waited at the top, lined with the long-ago: her Mama in uniform; her Papa laughing at something out of frame; Bonnie herself missing teeth, clutching a lopsided science-fair ribbon; little moments trapped under glass. She moved slowly, the pleasant fog of alcohol softening every edge, letting her linger over the memories without cutting herself on them.

His artifacts were still scattered where he’d left them, wooden carvings, a cracked hoverball trophy, the old prayer beads he swore he didn’t use anymore. Each one tugged at her in its own small way. Her fingers brushed them absently as she passed, as if greeting ghosts.

Her childhood room felt untouched by time. A museum curated by someone who’d been terrified to move on. Bonnie shut the door behind her and leaned against it a beat too long, letting the silence settle over her like a shawl. She then peeled herself out of the dress from the dance, half-fumbling, half-laughing at the absurdity of the zipper, and let it puddle at her feet. She grabbed an old sleep shirt from the drawer, slipped it on, and crawled into the bed that had once felt vast and now felt too small for her grief.

Sleep came quickly but refused to be gentle. The dream began with her Papa sitting at the kitchen table, backlit by morning, reading glasses perched low on his nose. He looked up, smiling that shy, crooked smile he never admitted was shy at all. He reached for her hand as if to say something...

...but when her fingers brushed his, he faded like breath on a mirror.

Bonnie jolted upright. Her chest ached. The room was too quiet. The weight of the dream sat on her sternum like a stone. Tears came before she could decide whether to allow them, quiet, sudden, unstoppable. She pressed her palms to her eyes, curling forward as the sobs broke loose, raw enough to be honest.

One eye opened about an hour and a half into what one could call sleep to the sounds of weeping. What? There were only two of them there. Was Bonnie finally starting to let things sink in? Dean pushed the fedora aside, setting it on the coffee table. Standing up and following the sounds. Stopping at the bedroom door upstairs. Tapping his middle finger knuckle on the door a few quiet times, "Bonnie?"

Bonnie didn’t hear the first tap. The second one slipped through the sobs like a thread of sound she wasn’t ready for. By the third, she lifted her head, breath hitching as she tried to quiet herself and failed miserably.

She swallowed hard, wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, only succeeding in smearing tears across her cheeks. The room felt too large, too hollow, and his presence on the other side of the door felt like a small, steady lantern.

Her voice came out thin, almost childish. “You can… you can come in.” The invitation wavered, cracked, but it was genuine, an instinctive reaching toward warmth in the cold.

She curled her knees up, arms folded around them, tears still sliding without her permission. When he stepped inside, she didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to. The room was dim, the air thick with the remnants of her dream, and she was trembling in that quiet, grief-heavy way that always comes after waking from something you weren’t ready to lose again.

Dean tenatively moved into the room, closing the door behind him, though he didn't really need to. It was just them. Sitting down on the bed next to her. Putting on leg up on the matress so he could turn more in her direction.

He shouldn't have to say a single word for her to know she could glomp onto him and let it all out. All Dean gave in the moment was a nod and open arms.

She didn't hesitate to reach out and wrap her arms around him and his presence. Bonnie clung to him as if the world were shaking, her breath hitching in uneven little gulps. His shirt, warm from his skin and smelling faintly of cologne and the long day they’d shared, crumpled beneath her fists. She pressed her forehead into the curve of his neck, voice breaking around the words.

“It was like he was here with me.”

The confession wasn’t loud; it spilled out of her, soft and fractured, as if admitting it gave shape to the ache already caving in her ribs. She drew a tremulous breath, the kind that almost became another sob but didn’t quite make it. Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric at his back, grounding herself in him, in the moment, in anything that wasn’t the hollow space grief had carved open.

"Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. I don't know, but what I do know, and I want to believe is he was. I am particularly religious, contrary to what I show. He was there, he was telling you it is okay to let go." Probably wasn't the right time to get all biblical or was it? Maybe his words would comfort her.

Dean let her take in what she wanted as he held her. He knew exactly what she was going through, except he had it harder. There no comparison but there was, if that makes sense.

Her body trembled, exhaustion, alcohol fading, the sharp edges of memory all weaving together, and she leaned into him fully, trusting him to hold her steady while she unraveled.

The room felt small around them, still, except for the sound of her quiet crying, as though time itself had paused to let her mourn without rushing her forward.

She held on until the sobs ran out of strength, until the tears thinned to nothing, until even the trembling in her shoulders faded into a quiet, aching stillness. Time loosened its grip around them, just two people suspended in a moment that felt too tender to disturb.

Dean did whatever he could to keep her consoled, without using his words. Granted she didn't go and flip the script and hit him out of grief anger, if she had, he'd take it. Letting a long breath out. Wiping a tear away on his own shoulder.

At some point she became aware of the damp patch on his shirt, clinging cool against her cheek. A flicker of guilt rose, poor man hadn’t asked to be used as a handkerchief, but she didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not when the warmth of him, the steadying weight of his arms, made it possible to breathe without splintering.

A small, weary sigh slipped out of her as she eased back just enough to look at him. Her hands stayed on him, one curled at his shoulder, the other pressed lightly against his chest, soft, apologetic, grateful all at once.

Her voice came out hushed, raw at the edges, but sure.
“Sorry, um, about your shirt." She said embarrassed, before shifting tone. "I... should say thank you. For today. For staying. For not letting me fall apart alone.” She blinked, swollen eyes shimmering again but without tears, just emotion gathering like dew. “For everything.” The words carried weight, not dramatic weight, but the earnest, bone-deep kind that only rises after the storm has finally spent itself.

What ever she needed, he was there for her for it. It had nothing to do with his other feelings right now. Just her, her trying to start becoming whole again. Just like he had to years ago after his wife and unborn child. The same but not the same, except he got it. She didn't have to go through it alone like he did.

"I'm pretty sure that my shirt doesn't mind," Dean gave her a light smile. "You would have anyway, but you don't have to say thank you, Bonnie-kin. I would have done this again a thousand times." Dean gave a poke to her nose, "You know.. caring and all that stuff."

Half smiling, she didn’t give the moment a chance to breathe.

Whatever he had meant to say, whatever gentle reassurance or awkward deflection or earnest confession he might have been fumbling toward, never made it past the shape of his mouth. Her focus was on his lips, moving up and down, not the sounds forming words into the air. Her finger lifted, feather-light but certain, pressing against those lips, his lips. A quiet command. A plea. A boundary. An invitation. All at once.

Then something in her simply... tipped.

Her hand slid from his lips to the line of his jaw, her body leaning into the gravity she’d been resisting for hours... or longer, if she was honest with herself. The kiss she gave him wasn’t tentative or testing; it was an unfiltered surge, fierce and grateful and aching. A kiss pulled from a place where every emotion was raw and unshielded.

She poured warmth into it. She poured exhaustion into it. She poured relief, and fear, and the strange wild gratitude of not being alone in the dark. Her lips claimed his without the hesitation she carried in daylight, without the calculations of consequences or boundaries or what comes next.

She didn’t wait to feel the kiss returned.

Dean had for the longest time been pushing, going on years at this point wanting to be with her. Leaning his head against her hand. Eyes closing slightly. There was the lingering thought in the back of his head, when she kissed him, and pushed against his body, that it was a cry for a distraction.

She kissed him because in that moment her whole world had narrowed to the steady presence of him in her arms, and kissing him was the only truthful thing left she could do. Maybe it was a cry for distraction, but there was also no fighting what she had started.

At the same time, he knew her better than that, it didn't matter what happened Bonnie wouldn't initiate something like this us less she wanted to. She'd kick him in the balls and yell at him to get out.

Being as such, he knew it wasn't taking advantage of her situation. The kiss was heavily returned and arms curling more around her. Shifting their positions so she was on top, with her body against his chest. Not a word uttered.

Bonnie didn’t break the kiss, it was too warm, too needed, too impossibly tender after the cold weight of everything she’d carried that day. Her palms settled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath her fingertips, the reassurance of another living heartbeat grounding her.

When she drew back just enough to breathe, her forehead found his. Her breath was still uneven, clutched, but not from grief now. “You’re going to make this hard, Dean,” she whispered, not a protest, more a confession. Her voice carried that frayed edge of exhaustion and longing, the kind that slips out only when walls are already rubble.

His hands were resting at her hips, gentle, present without pulling. She felt the silent I’m here in the way he held her, not demanding, just offering. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, slow and uncertain. Her weight shifted slightly, her body settling more fully over his. “This, I can give you.”

She hooked her fingers under the hem of her nightshirt and tugged it upward, only to get briefly tangled in the fabric like some cosmic joke aimed squarely at her dignity. Dean’s low chuckle vibrated through the moment, and she emerged from the cotton trap with her hair mussed, her chest bare, and a glare that said not a word even as her cheeks warmed.

The shirt hit the floor in a careless flutter. Then she exhaled, let the last of her hesitation slip away, and slid back into his arms, choosing closeness over pride, and the warmth of his body over the teasing twist of the universe. Caution thrown to the wind, she returned to his lips embrace.

Sharing her heat with his. Mixing her passion with his longing. So far, it was just a kiss, yet felt so much more.

It was much more past a kiss at this point. Considering she just tossed her shirt on the floor. Putting them skin to skin now. Revitalizing the kiss even more now. There wasn't any open expedience to get the rest of their clothes off, but there was that want been the two of them at this point. They should both know where this was going. Dean gave her a light push so she'd sit up, cupping her breasts.

She paused at the electricity surging from where he lay his hands, her natural features fully engorged. Bonnie’s skin prickled under Dean’s touch, tiny goosebumps rising wherever his warmth brushed her, a sensation she hadn’t felt since her Academy days. Sapphire’s hands had always been cold; Dean’s ran hot, like he’d swallowed a star and hadn’t stopped glowing since.

He nudged her up just enough that she could sit astride him, his own manly features at full staff, the old double bed giving a resentful creak beneath their shifting weight. The room itself felt conspiratorial, lit only by the soft glow bleeding in from the hallway. It was still half shrine, half storage unit—the walls cluttered with her Papa’s old holo-plaques, mismatched crates shoved against one another, the scent of dust and cedar and a life she hadn’t fully unpacked.

“Welcome,” she whispered, “to the least romantic room in four quadrants. It’s a fire hazard,” she continued, only to gasp, startled, as his hands skimmed up her waist. She bit back a curse, feeling ridiculous for being startled by a touch she’d asked for, wanted, maybe even needed.

Her attempt at confidence warred with her natural awkwardness. She leaned in to kiss him again but misjudged the angle, bumping noses. "Owe." Bonnie groaned. The bed creaked its exasperation.

There he was with that stupid grin on his smug face, “Don’t,” she warned him.

Dean was partially at fault anyway, he was leaning in as well for more. Having paused at moment at the bump. "Well that was, us," meaning their track record together. There was an odd glance at the 'Don't,' then it dawned on him and about to say something.

She kissed him anyway, shutting him up effectively.

Clothes became obstacles solved with clumsy teamwork and half-suppressed giggles, their rhythm broken every time the bed voiced its opinion or one of them knocked into a crate. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t the sweeping holo-drama version of passion. It was real, goosebumps and breathless laughter, warmth shared skin-to-skin, and a closeness that felt dangerously sincere.

The scene softened, the details blurring into warmth and shadow. The room’s clutter faded away until only the two of them remained, a tangle of limbs, soft breaths turning heavy, and quiet murmurs that didn’t need translation. The world outside the door could have been ending again and neither would have noticed.

Much later, how much later neither could guess, the bed exhaled one last creak, and they collapsed together in a heap of exhausted, tangled comfort. Bonnie’s head rested on his chest, his arm slung around her back, their breaths slowly syncing as sleep pulled them under.

The moment... It was messy. It was imperfect. It was theirs alone.

And in the first gray stretch of morning, when sunlight pried at her eyelids, Bonnie felt it hit her all at once, what they’d done, what it meant, what it could mean. She slid out of his arms with slow, practiced care, pulling the sheet around her as if armor.

Her walls rose like reflex. Her heartbeat felt loud enough to rattle the clutter around her. By the time Dean stirred, Bonnie sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders square, eyes distant, already pretending none of it had happened even as her skin still remembered every warm place his hands had been.

He slept well, it was nice having someone against him again, in his arms. So his body had reacted accordingly in his sleep. At the time of waking he remember what went on. Dean had no qualms with what happened. He wasn't going to forget about it, he wasn't going to make it awkward, why would he?

They had been teasing around this for years. Was it maybe the most ideal time for it to happen? No.. not completely, but it did. It was there now. Evidently, she was already doing the exact opposite. Sitting up and resting a hand on her shoulder. "Bonnie."

“I’m okay,” she lied. The words came out steady enough, but her thoughts were anything but, regret stacking on regret, emotions colliding without order or mercy. She knew the reckoning was waiting for her, patient and inevitable. Just not now. Right now, she was drowning in the aftershocks and doing her best to keep her head above them.

TBC

 

RSS Feed