AN: What is this? It's sort of Bensaro but it's really just a drunken conversation between two friends about their sunken ships. Based on an idea from a twitter thread that sort of grew into crackficcy goodness when it was no longer under public twitter scrutiny *clears throat*. Thank you to those who helped give me ideas (you know who you are). Please read and review! My self-esteem depends on it!

Blame it on the Alcohol

The screw twists into the cork and pulls away with a distinct pop. As your guest proceeds to do the honors and pour the second bottle of pinot noir, your eyes fixate on the oversized wine glass that's overextended its welcome on your coffee table. There's a faint ring on the wood, and you silently remind yourself to use a coaster next time. Luckily for you, your guest doesn't notice as he hands you a glass and leans back on the couch, his focus never straying from the gripping scene on Avenida Brasil.

It's a one-way phone call and the woman on screen is staring off into space like she's just been told the most devastating news. The audience doesn't know what's going on, but it doesn't stop the person beside you from gasping in complete surprise. Your head snaps sideways as you judge him harshly. "Was that really necessary?"

"Look at her eyes. She knows she's fucking her cousin."

And on that imagined bombshell, Nick reaches for the remote and rewinds back to the scene so he can prove to you that he knows what the hell he's talking about. You know he's reading way too much into a TV show, which he claims to hate but can't seem to quit; but you can't really criticize him because you're in the same boat. Just looking through your iMessage history, you'll see speech bubbles encasing lengthy rants about how everything in this show is ridiculous and stupid and addictive.

Now that your telenovela-watching friend is right here in the flesh, you don't have to wait for his messages to pop up in the most inopportune times (like, in the middle of a citywide CompStat meeting at 1-PP). It's nice to have the live commentary, even though you think his dissection of the characters and plotlines is more absurd than the show's writing.

It's honestly more entertaining than the show itself.

You glance sideways and smile as Nick continues on his rant. "Incest is gross, but can you really blame them? They had no idea their moms were fraternal twins separated at birth and forced to live in separate social classes."

There's a warmth fizzing in your chest as you realize it's been nine months since you've seen your old partner, but it's like he never left the city. He's relaxed in your apartment, taking off his shoes and rolling up his sleeves before crashing on your couch. He's still the same great Uncle Nick he's always been to Noah. Except maybe for that moment he cocked his head to the side and studied your child. "Something looks different. Liv, you sure you didn't take home the wrong kid from daycare?"

He was only joking, but it did feel good to chuck a plush shark at his head. When Nick was around, you didn't feel obligated to clean up the toys, or hide the load of laundry, or gussy up in front of the mirror. You could just throw on a cozy sweater and some faded leggings, pull your hair up into a messy bun, and watch soap operas with him.

No pressure.

You remember when you first learned Nick was visiting from LA. He sent you that selfie with the JFK terminal in the background. [Guess who's back!] He was only here for a few days on account of his mom's birthday, but you promised him you would find time to meet up. Just not on the day he arrived.

You had already made plans that evening with a man you met at one of those meetings at 1-PP. Of course, Nick being Nick, he interrogated you on the details of your plans; and you managed to keep your lips sealed. Until. Early into your date with a fellow lieutenant, he started sounding off on liberals and refugees over breadsticks and balsamic vinegar. You had already downed half a bottle of wine despite promising yourself to take it easy. You even drove your car to the restaurant as an insurance policy just to keep your drinking in check, but there was no way you were going to sit through that man's rant without some alcohol in you. Wanting to leave but not wanting to leave your car in the lot, you texted Nick and asked him to save you.

Part of you felt guilty for taking advantage of him when he was supposed to be on vacation, but you knew he would jump at the opportunity to play date-crasher. It was a win-win. And as expected, he came to the rescue like a loyal puppy dog. He met you outside the restaurant after you excused yourself and snuck out from the back door. You threw the keys at him and he got behind the wheel of your car, an impish smile cemented on his face as he waited on you to spill all the juicy details.

That little shit wouldn't start the car until you talked.

So you told him all about the disastrous date and all the other disastrous dates before that. You did leave out the story of how you narrowly avoided going steady with Lieutenant Tucker (or was he hostage negotiator Tucker now?). It was a lapse in judgment. You were vulnerable and in need of someone to remind you that they valued your life, so in your messed up mind you thought he cared when he was probably just doing his job. You wanted to thank him. So, yes, you did accept to have a few drinks with him and a steak dinner at a place where they took his credit card information just to make a reservation. You felt special. But it took you until dessert to figure out that you didn't have to sleep with him to thank him.

In your tipsy state, you told Nick about your string of bad luck in the dating department, leaving out the part about Tucker. You knew he was never going to let you live it down if he found out you hooked up with the enemy.

"I'm done." You removed your stilettos and massaged the arches of your feet. "No more dating for me."

"Nah, you can't give up just like that, Liv," he said as you crossed through the bridge into Manhattan. "You still got some game left in you."

You snorted. "I never had game to begin with."

"Lies."

"I have a three-year-old, a job that consumes my life, and more baggage than, I think, is humanly possible. No one would want to date me."

Nick's head reared back like your words were the most offensive thing he's ever heard. "You kiddin'? Guys – and I bet a lot of women – would line up to go out with you. See, you're looking at this the wrong way. You just got to set higher standards." You knew what he was saying since you've heard this spiel from him before. Nick had always been critical of the men you dated, but it wasn't because he was jealous or overprotective. Okay, maybe he was overprotective, but it was borne out of your sibling-like relationship, which he sort of imposed and you just sort of grew to accept. He said these things, not because he wanted to criticize your judgment, but because he thought you deserved more than what you settled for. He always made it a point to remind you that you were worth more than you gave yourself credit for. "You're a good catch, Liv."

The telenovela is still playing but the volume is much lower to accommodate for your tales of your failed attempts at balancing a personal life with your professional life. Nick tries to offer up advice, but admits the only time he ever really found a semblance of balance was when he put in for early retirement and moved to the West Coast. And even then, it didn't last very long because, while he was happy to be close to his kids, he quickly grew bored of unemployment and the one-man bachelor party.

That self-deprecating side of him rife with self-pity comes out on cue. He sulks against the backrest and heaves a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world. "I shouldn't even be dishing out relationship advice," he says, "I suck at them, too."

"Wait, aren't you dating that orthopedic surgeon you met at the PT's office?"

Nick rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head. "Nope. We broke up a couple of weeks ago."

"I'm sorry." You reach over to squeeze his arm; he places his hand over yours and shoots you a tired smile. "I thought things were going well between you two."

"Yeah, she was perfect…" Nick's California girlfriend was textbook perfect – the kind of perfect his ex-wife accused him of demanding in a wife. This woman was smart and beautiful, and according to Nick, she didn't send him mixed messages or start any drama. "But she was almost too perfect, you know? It was too boring."

"You broke up because of that? You idiot!"

He dodges the pillow you throw at him, and he glares back. "No. There were other things," he huffs, hugging the pillow close to his chest.

There's a gray cloud hovering above his head, and your suspicions are somewhat confirmed when he stares out at the skyline past your window. "Then what was it?" you ask, "Did it have anything to do with someone you left here in New York?"

Nick snaps out of his daze and narrows his eyes at you. "That breakup, me being single – it has nothing to do with Amanda."

You want to believe him for his sake, but you just can't. It's clear as day that your former partner still has unresolved feelings for the blonde detective. Whatever they were – you never really understood and you never really wanted to know – it seemed to matter to them more than they let on and more than they even anticipated. The summer of Nick's departure and Amanda's unforeseen pregnancy had affected them both in spite of their firm denials.

Nick grumbles about her, failing to acknowledge the irony when he says he's tired of thinking about her. "She has a kid and it's not mine. I get it. And thank fucking god," he cries out in exasperation. "She only had to say it fifty times in that stupid voicemail."

He's relieved because he doesn't have to shoulder the responsibility of caring for a third child and a third baby mama, but there's also an implicit disappointment, confusion, and – most of all – hurt.

"You should try talking to her," you suggest, remembering Nick being hopeful last August when he told you he and Amanda had finally had a real conversation and 'promised' to be friends. But with their history and the distance between them, that promise was essentially empty words that simply let bygones be bygones. "She looked like she wanted to say something when I mentioned you were back in town."

"Nah. She's got Jesse to look out for now. Even if we talked, nothing's going to change. Amanda's a mom now. She's going to only want the perfect dad for her kid, and they deserve that. I can't be what she – what they need me to be."

Another place, another time maybe Nick and Amanda would have worked out. It's a thought that often crosses your mind when you think about your own past relationships. Your mind gets so lost in all these questions, alternate scenarios, and what-ifs; and then you realize you haven't really been living.

"You ever think that maybe your relationship with the surgeon didn't work out because you missed what you had with Amanda?" The question cuts through his brooding silence. "You missed sneaking around, the complications, the drama, the recklessness of it all."

"It's kind of the same with you, isn't it?" Nick deflects, throwing it back in your face.

"What do you mean?"

"All these new people you've been dating; none of them ever get past a certain point because you're always comparing them to your dumbass ex-boyfriend."

"Brian?"

Nick nods. "You know I don't like the guy, but I still don't get why you two ended things when it seemed like you were just getting your life back together after – uh, you know." He can say it. He can say his name. And while it would have made your stomach turn, it wouldn't have rattled you the same way it used to. Nick is cautious in the way he treads through that part of your past, and you're suddenly reminded of the fact that Nick's been gone for a while. He might walk back into your apartment and know where you keep the corkscrew, but he's still going to have to slowly sink his feet in before he even attempts to ask about the heavy stuff. "But Brian was kind of just a placeholder for you though."

He can't go there. He can't say his name.

"It's always been Elliot, huh?"

You shake your head and brush it off. "You're drunk."

"True. But I'd be saying the the same thing if I were sober." Nick tilts his head to the side and gives you a serious look. "Things never worked with Brian because you never could love him the way you once loved someone else. Someone you were never even allowed to love… supposed to love."

"Shut up. You're letting telenovelas rot your brain."

You're done with this conversation. You know Nick means well but you really can't look at him right now without wanting to smack him upside the head. But you also don't want him to leave because you feel like you've just been exposed – vulnerable and in need of reassurance. Settling against his chest, you tuck your head under his chin as he wraps his arms around you.

This isn't the first time you two have cuddled. There's something comforting and comfortable in being wrapped around Nick's arms in a totally platonic way. You're craving that physical closeness and familiarity so you melt into the embrace, inhaling the warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave. It's not a yearning for sex; it's about companionship.

You're both aware that most adults don't have this kind of friendship, but you suppose special circumstances are afforded for two people who have seen each other and stood by each other at some of the lowest points of their lives.

You go back to talking about your most recent dates. You're justifying your choices as Nick's pointing out everything your dates are doing wrong – from failing to hold the door open to soapboxing the benefits of Crossfit. "Where do you find these assholes?"

"There was this one guy," you begin in between laughs. "Everything about the date was going so well. He was such a gentleman, even walked me to the door of my building. And then he kissed me goodnight."

Nick looks down and notes your grimace. "That bad, huh?"

"Ugh. He was terrible. It was sloppy… so much saliva." You stick your tongue as you feel your gag reflex come on. "He sucked on my bottom lip like a fish and wouldn't let go."

Nick's body rumbled beneath you as he breaks out in an oxygen-deficient bout of laughter. His head is thrown back and his eyes are sealed to keep the tears at bay. He tries to calm himself by biting down on his lip, but his cheeky smile keeps threatening to break through.

Then something really weird happens. You find yourself staring at his lips and wondering if Nick has the right to make fun of your date. You're wondering if he's a good kisser. You're wondering what it must feel like to be kissed by him.

Peering over your lashes, you see his eyes, like liquid dark chocolate circling around bottomless pools of black. You barely have a second to react before you feel his lips brush over yours. His fingers trail along your jaw, guiding you to submission.

You're drunk! You're drunk! You're drunk!

You keep yelling it in your head but your body can't seem to disengage from the liplock that has you feeling warm all over your body. He deepens the kiss, soft and tender giving way for urgent and heated. You keep giving what you're receiving, dipping your tongue in a lazy exploration of his kiss.

French kissing like two teenagers hiding under the bleachers, you keep making out but your conscience is screaming at you to lay down some ground rules. Yes, you've had a lot of red wine; but you're lucid enough to acknowledge that you're both just relieving stress and whatever (sexual) frustration you might have. You're not going to cross more lines than you've already crossed.

"No touching below the shoul-" you tell him as he slips his tongue into your mouth, sliding against yours before he pulls away to let you finish the word, "—ders"

He smirks playfully, nipping at your jaw then the pulse point below your ear. "Ok, but you're welcome to feel me up wherever you want. Go as low as you want to go."

"Nuh-uh," you say even though your body is craving for that sinful feeling of being filled to the hilt. God. Get a grip. Finding his mouth again, you kiss him like you're trying to quiet those tempting thoughts. Your fingers tangle into his dark locks, grown out since you'd last seen him. The stubble on his face grazes against your cheek, contrasting with the silk and softness of his lips. Without your body's own warning, you moan into the kiss and you can feel that bastard grin in triumph.

At some point, making out like teenagers isn't going to be enough and you start to feel Nick shift positions. The couch is too small for the two of you to lie sideways so he gets on top of you slightly, his forearms resting on either side of your head – above your shoulders like you asked. But even with the tiny bit of separation, you can still feel the hard-on behind his jeans press against your leggings. And when you feel that rush of liquid heat pool between your legs, you know you're in big trouble.

You break the kiss, breathing heavily as your gaze flickers down to see the noticeable bulge pressing down on you. "We should probably stop," you say between breaths, although you don't sound very convincing. "We can't go any further because there's no way I'm helping you with that."

"Don't worry about it," he says with a casual raise of his shoulder. "I'll take care of it in the bathroom."

Your jaw drops open and your nose scrunches up. It can't be the most attractive face you've pulled because Nick looks at you like he's already having second thoughts.

"What? It wouldn't be the first time," he admits with a naughty smirk, knowing full well what he's doing by grossing you out some more. "I did live here for about a week."

You clamp his lips together with your fingers. "Hands above the shoulders, don't say another word, and I'll let you kiss me."

"Gonna read me my Miranda Rights first or?" Nick gives you a lazy smile, kissing you with a slow, relaxed skill that has you melting against him.

You tug his bottom lip between your teeth and hiss, forcing him into something with more anger. It's needed, especially after that stunt he just pulled. Your bodies are flush, colliding and driving you down on the cushions. His fingers slide through your hair; his warm mouth sealing over yours and the kiss flooding through your veins like red wine after a long day. You cradle his skull, taking control as you ravage his mouth; your lips parting and tongue exploring like everything in him belongs to you.

It's dawn by the time your brain can process the next vivid memory. Your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, and when you open your eyes it all makes sense. The wine bottles on the coffee table, the stiff couch underneath you, the throw pillows on the floor. Images from the previous night flash before you like an old-school film reel and all you see are intensely dark eyes and an intoxicated man slipping in and out of Spanish between kisses.

Ruffling the knots on the back of your head, you glance down to see the sweater and leggings still on your body. But your lips feel bitten and plump. Your hand cups over your chest to find your bra is missing, but you can't seem to remember if you already had your bra off before Nick came over. You're comfortable around him, but were you always that comfortable?

"Unca Nick!" you hear your son's voice from the kitchen and your head perks up to look over the couch, seeing your son perched over the counter with Nick sitting in front of him on the stool. He's down to a thin white t-shirt and a pair of boxers with Scottish Terriers printed on them. Noah claps his hands in front of his face to steal his attention. "Airplane!"

Nick picks up a spoonful of Cheerios and makes buzzing engine noises as he leads it into your son's mouth. Noah opens his mouth but closes it quickly just as the spoon reaches his lips. His arms raise above his head and his eyes light up. "Mama awake! Morning kisses! Morning kisses!" He puckers his lips awaiting your tradition.

Nick looks over his shoulder and throws you a sheepish smile. "What about me? Do I get one?"

After joining the boys for breakfast and getting Noah dressed for his playgroup at nine, you walk out of the bedroom to find Nick throwing his button-down shirt over his shoulders. He's running his hands through his hair, searching around the cluttered living space to make sure he isn't leaving behind his wallet, cellphone and keys.

"So uh, Nick, about last night…"

He stops his erratic search at the sound of your voice. He stares at you wide-eyed before he clears his throat. "We both had a lot to drink."

You nod, standing at a distance where Noah can't hear your conversation but you're not far enough that you can't risk repeating the recklessness of last night. "We kind of just wanted to feel good for the moment and…"

"Blame it on the alcohol?" he offers, and although the thought of blaming your actions on alcohol bears a lot of heavy implications on your state of mind, you can't let him catch wind of that. It's Nick. If he sees something, he's going to do the right thing and it scares you to think what that might entail. He's only starting to get his life back together, and you don't want to be the one responsible for dragging him back to the mess – back to this town where nothing good ever happens.

"Yeah."

He smiles – that close-mouthed and nostalgic smile that tells you he's leaving. The hug he gives you is warm and comforting, but you don't feel anything more than platonic love and you're so thankful that last night's drunken make-out session didn't change a thing.

He pulls away but keeps his arms around your waist. "Promise me you'll set your standards a little higher. Maybe run your options by me before you go out with them."

You punch him lightly on the chest. "Go. Before I kick you out."

He kisses you on the cheek before he starts for the door.

"Hey, Nick. Stay out of trouble." He stops and turns around, his brow raised to wait for the rest of what you have to say. "Don't let go of a good thing just because you miss saving people."

His mouth twists into a frown, but then he chuckles lightly to play it off. "Sure thing, boss," he says with a (stupid) salute as he heads out the door.

Less than half an hour later, you're scooping up Noah and his giant bag of extra clothes and toys so you can take him to playgroup, when you get a new message on your phone. You pray to god it's not Dodds telling you you're needed at work. You're relieved when you realize it's just Nick, but that relief is scrapped the second you read the contents of the gray bubble.

[Liv, you sure all we did was kiss?]

You roll your eyes and type with one hand as you pull Noah's stroller from the back of the coat closet. [Let's just forget it ever happened, ok?]

These plastic buggies always confuse the hell out of you and you don't know how Lucy can set them up in less than fifteen seconds, when it takes you fifteen years. Noah will be looking at colleges by the time you can get this thing standing.

[I didn't feel you up?]

"For fuck's sake," you mutter.

"Fo' fuck's sake," Noah repeats with a giggle. "Mama, like the giant? Fee fi fo fuck's sake!"

[What part of 'forget it ever happened' did you not understand?]

"Noah, no. Please don't say that. That's not a nice word."

The little boy crawls out of your hold and runs away. He stomps his feet and swings his arms, trying to appear like the menacing giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. "Fee fi fo fuck's sake!"

"Noah, stop!"

[I'm staring at my hands and I swear I have this weird kinesthetic memory of me groping your boobs]
[And I'm sooo grossed out right now]
[*ten crying emojis*]

[You're a dead man, Nick Amaro]