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A/N: Post-ep for 2x03 Lettergate. Originally posted on ff dot net.


One second he’s touching her face, running his thumb across her bottom lip, stopping her heart…and the next he’s turning green, collapsing into her body again.

 

“Liv, I don’t likeit,” he slurs, leaning into her, fisting the back of her sweater, “Dizzy.”

 

She closes her eyes and lets him lay against her breast, holds him there, trying to give him an anchor. “I know. You’re alright.”

 

“Makeit stop,” he begs, trying to bring her closer, “Please.”

 

He’s a big, soft mess tonight, and it breaks something inside her, something she hadn’t realized needed to be broken. It’s not lost on her that, out of his mind, he’s come to the place he feels most safe. She knows, because it’s what she’d wanted, too, when she’d felt like she was drifting away. She wanted her partner. She wanted him.

 

“I can’t,” she whispers, cradling his head, “You have to just get through it. But you’re safe, I promise.”

 

“Don’t make me go,” he sighs, turning his face into her, “Please don’t.”

 

She sighs, running through logistics and protocols and trying to pull up ‘Captain Benson’, trying to push ‘Olivia’ back down…but she can’t. With him, she just can’t, and she doesn’t want to.

 

It’s him.

 

“Okay,” she soothes, pressing her fingers into his back, “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”   

 


 

He ends up in her bed.

 

Without his shirt.

 

If tonight hadn’t been so fucking upsetting, she’d be laughing about it, because in what parallel universe…shit.

 

Ayanna had been able to explain the situation and send a couple of paramedics to her apartment. They’d drawn his blood, checked his vitals, proclaimed him to be very high, and left her with some Narcan, just in case, although they’re almost sure he’s not dosed with an opioid—it makes her sick, thinking about it, but he can’t be alone until he’s sober, and she doesn’t want anyone else watching his back, now.

 

She’s done with that, trusting him with other people.

 

She’d trusted him with his wife, and, well…

 

Not only is he in her bed, he’s lying on her.

 

Touching her.

 

Whenever she’s been within arm’s reach tonight, he’s touching her.

 

It’s like he’s making up for thirteen years in one night, and it’s so much.

 

He’s still now, finally asleep, with his head pillowed on her chest, one of his arms draped heavy and secure across her stomach. She closes her eyes and just feels him there, feels his deep belly breaths against her hip, the press of his cheek, the warmth of his skin under her hand where it rests on his back.

 

He’s here.

 

She has moments where it still doesn’t feel real.

 

None of it feels real; not the look of horror on his face under the glow of ambulance lights, not the circles under his eyes when he’d breathed out those words, not the warmth of his hand, not the same low murmur of his voice, the tone he still uses when it’s private and safe and just them—

 

—none of it feels real, except it is.

 

What we were to each other was never real… we got in the way of each other being who and where we needed to be…

 

He didn’t write it.

 

He didn’t fucking write it, and she can’t wrap her brain around what that means. Had Kathy been blind to them, so blind as to not see it? To not realize? Or, had she been trying to keep them apart? Had she been able to see it, had it been deliberate, writing the equivalent of a slap across the face? If he didn’t write it, if the only thing he wrote was—if everything he’s told her tonight is true, then—something snaps and releases inside of her, something that’s held her hostage for over twenty years.

 

She rubs at her forehead, breathing deeply.

 

It was real.

 

Of course, it was real.

 

It was real back then, and it’s real now.

 

Their connection, it’s tortured them, and saved their lives, over and over again. It makes them crackle and hiss when they get too close, it burns, with the sweetest pain she’s ever felt. It makes them tear into each other, because that’s the only way they’ve ever allowed themselves to release any of the energy they create.

 

Even now, she feels herself unconsciously reacting to him.

 

It’s slow and lazy, the way his body heat seeps into her. She’s had men in her arms before, and it didn’t feel like this.

 

She’s never been wet from the sheer press of a sleeping man against her. Not in her memory, and certainly not in the past decade, when it usually takes her longer to get in the mood, if she’s able to get there at all.

 

With him she’s always been…sensitive. She feels his presence around her, she feels his eyes on her, she can always fucking feel him.

 

The waves of arousal are comforting, just rippling in the background, making her feel heavy and calm. It’s not the same as having someone touch her, or kissing; it’s like her body is so relaxed, so safe, that everything’s deeply unlocked. All of the happy, good sensations float up to the top and flood her, tenderness morphs into something else, and just the shift of his arm as he breathes feels like a caress.

 

She lets her mind wander with curiosity, imagines in vivid detail having him slide over her, his fingers between her thighs, his tongue in her mouth…him.

 

It sends a powerful stab of want between her thighs, and she breathes, covering her eyes with a shaky hand.

 

It swirls in her belly; every jealous comment he’s ever made, every time he’s pulled her into his arms, desperate and sad and close, every time they’ve locked eyes and she’s felt that pull.

 

In a parallel universe, it will always be you and I.

 

It was real.

 

She wants him.

 

On some level, she’s always known this. But she’s never let herself confront it in such a real way, not until right now, while he’s in a drug-induced sleep, hanging onto her because she’s the only person he’d wanted tonight.

 

Fuck.

 

It’s bubbling inside of her, and she should slide out from underneath him, now that he’s asleep, she could leave him here, sleep on the couch. There are a lot of ‘shoulds’, here, but none of them feel possible, not when he’s nuzzling his cheek against her in sleep, not when it’s all getting so overwhelming she thinks she might actually—

 

She cups her hand against her core, over her clothes, and pushes down hard, once, twice—

 

Her breath catches when she comes with deep, throbbing pulses. It spreads out through her hips, down the tops of her thighs, makes her seep into her underwear and bite her lips to stifle her moans. It takes a long time and she can’t breathe, she can’t arch and shudder the way her body is begging her to, because he’s right here, and he’s asleep. She shivers and tries to hold still, keeping her hand there for pressure, riding it out, tears slipping down into her hair.

 

Jesus christ.

 

Finally…finally, her body starts to calm.

 

It’s the kind of orgasm she hasn’t had in years.

 

The kind that makes her bone tired and lethargic, and he’s still a warm, immovable, secure presence against her side. She starts to drift away almost instantly, one hand still resting on his back. Her other hand unconsciously moves to his forearm, resting there in a loose grip, anchoring him to her.

 

Tomorrow, she might yell at him.

 

Tomorrow, she thinks she’d like to yell at him.

 

Tomorrow, they might start to sift through things.

 

But she gives herself tonight, to hope again.


A/N: Thank you for reading!