Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They are the property of David Chase and HBO. I'm not making any money off of this. This is just for my own amusement.

For Jennifer Melfi, Tuesday had become the most anti-climactic day of the week. Once, she had had a reason to anticipate Tuesday, even to look forward to it, but that had been some time ago. Now Tuesdays were bleak and the time slot she had kept reserved for the past eight years was spent alone in her office completing dull paperwork. She turned away from the neglected folders that stared accusingly at her from her desktop and looked to the calendar. Noting the date, she remembered why it was that she had felt so out of sorts all day. This particular Tuesday marked two months since she had dismissed her patient.

Anthony Soprano. Jennifer looked around her office and was powerless to stop the deluge of memories. Anthony Soprano cracking jokes, Anthony Soprano breaking down, Anthony Soprano raging, flipping her coffee table and shattering it into a million bits on the floor. Anthony…backing her up into her desk, cradling her face in both his hands, kissing her and almost, almost succeeding in tearing down the wall that she had built to separate herself from him. What had he said that day, before he had kissed her? "This is the place where we've been most honest with each other, and that's the way I always liked it."

Jennifer shook her head. She had not been honest with Anthony Soprano. If she had, she might not have been sitting in her office, unhappy, with nothing but files and paperwork to keep her company. On some level, she felt that it had been unfair of her to withhold her feelings from him. Everything that he had shared with her, every part of him that only she had ever seen, and not once in eight years had she even allowed herself to say those three simple words to him. Yes, that had been terrible of her, but not nearly as terrible as what she had ultimately done to him, the day that she, disturbed and disgusted by the implications of what therapy had done for him and also overcome by her emotions, had acted rashly and unprofessionally, terminating him as a patient.

She sat back in her chair, crossed her legs, and simply remembered, not that day or the day that she had resisted his kiss, but another day from eight years ago, not long after he had come to her office for his first session. It seemed so far away now, that time when he had confessed his romantic feelings for her. She, skeptical, analytical, and more than a bit scared of his words, had quickly and rationally dismissed him. "We understand each other," he had said as he left her office, "You don't love me."

"Oh, but Anthony," Jennifer thought, sighing at the memory, "I did. I still do. If only you knew…"

She refused to think of that now, refused to pine. Jennifer Melfi did not pine for anyone, much less over a criminal like Tony Soprano. She banished all thoughts of him from her mind and returned to her paperwork.

"You're really foolish," she silently chastised herself as she wrote out an evaluation of one of her other patients. Foolish for harboring these feelings to begin with, for ever having allowed herself to forget who he was and what he did long enough to fall for him, foolish for allowing herself to reflect on him now that he was gone from her life.

Jennifer only ceased in her paperwork hours later, when her empty stomach began to call attention to itself. She looked up at the clock to find that it was almost five, almost time to close up and leave. She didn't want to go home. What would she do there? She wasn't an avid television viewer, and her brain was too tired and slow tonight to focus on a book. Her friends were all like her, workaholics who would be too busy to offer themselves as a distraction. Jennifer knew exactly what she would do if she went home now. She would lie around the house and think some more. It had been this way ever since she had closed the door on him two months ago. As hard as she tried not to think of him, Tony Soprano was never far from her thoughts, and once he got into her head, it was damn difficult to force him out.

Hesitantly, she packed her briefcase, then grabbed it and her purse and began to head out. She opened the door to her waiting room and gasped at the figure that greeted her.

"Anthony," she said, a bit too sharply, her voice edged with panic, though she couldn't figure out why. He stood in her doorway looking not at all menacing. In fact, he reminded Jennifer of an awkward pubescent boy in his first suit, avoiding eye contact and shuffling his considerable bulk from one foot to the other. Her patented psychiatrist's skill in reading body language told her that he was nervous as hell. So why was her heart racing and why did her palms begin to sweat at the sight of him?

"Damn; I didn't mean to scare ya," he apologized, "Look, I'm sorry. I...I know you never wanted to see me again and...I shouldn't be here. I'll just…I…fuck!"

With that, he turned and headed for the door.

"Anthony!"

He paused, turned around, and she went to him, placing her hand on his arm.

"Why are you here?" Jennifer asked. He didn't answer. His eyes were riveted on her fingers where they curled around the fabric of his sport coat.

"Never mind why. Fuck it; I'll leave you alone." Her fingers tightened on his arm when he made a move to turn and go.

"No," she said, "Stay."

He looked at her then, and his raised eyebrows told her she had made a mistake. She had made that sound like less of an order and more of a plea.

"I mean…obviously there's a reason you came. It would be pointless for you to have come out here and not gotten to speak to me."

He hesitated, looked around the room and then back at her before he spoke. "I had another panic attack," he said, then swore under his breath. "Outta nowhere. Collapsed right in front of my family the other night at dinner. I tried not to come back and bother you, but it made me feel so outta control..."

Jennifer sighed. As much as she wanted to kick him out and forget about him, she knew that she could do neither. Not again, not this time. There was vulnerability in his voice, pain in his eyes, and there was something inside telling her that if she sent him away now, she would regret it forever. But if she let him stay, how long would it be before she'd come to regret that, too?

"Come into my office," she said, "We'll talk."

She led him into the room where so many of her memories of him had been made. He sat in his customary chair, and as she lowered herself into hers, she realized that he still looked uncomfortable, on edge.

"What seems to be the problem?" asked Jennifer. He shook his head, let out a small, bitter laugh.

"I shouldn't have come," he repeated, "Should've gone to a different doctor. I know this, but you're the only one who can help me."

"What is it, Anthony? Is there something wrong with your family, or something with…work?" She almost tripped over the last word.

"No…" he said, "No, it's personal."

"Well then what?" Jennifer stared at the clock, annoyed with his hedging, "Something with your children? Your wife?"

"No, it's not my wife. It's…you."

"Anthony," she said, truly exasperated now. She rose angrily from her chair, stalked to the door with every intention of asking him to leave now and this time, never to come back.

"I'm sorry," he said. It was not a true apology, and something within Jennifer shook as she detected the rage boiling beneath the surface of his words. "You think I want to be here, practically throwing myself at your fuckin' feet? If I had any choice in this…"

"If you had a choice," she interrupted, sounding more hostile than she intended to.

"Damn it, I fucking miss you. I miss you like hell. I don't just miss coming here or having someone to talk to. It's you. I been miserable since you dropped me; all I can think about is you. I can't help it. I can't stop it. I love you."

Jennifer's hands shook. A flush rose up in her face. She didn't ever allow herself this extreme level of agitation in front of her patients. But who the hell was she kidding? Tony Soprano was not just another patient. Their relationship hadn't been truly and strictly professional for years and she knew it, had known it for a long time. She hadn't helped him for eight years simply because it was her job, and she certainly wasn't here with him now because she felt it was her duty. She had continued to see him because he, both as a man and as a symbol of the forbidden, violent aspect of civilized culture, fascinated her, captivated her…attracted her. She had been living vicariously through him for years and loving every minute of it, loving him, as he had sat there in her office describing things that would have sent her scurrying in terror before she had become enthralled with him. Her rejection of him, her dismissal of him, had been results of the battle between her ideas about what was "right" and her feelings for him. As she stood there, staring into his face, processing his words, she could no longer be sure that her morality would win out.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head.

"No?" asked Soprano, "No, what?"

"We can't do this. I won't do this." The emotion in her voice betrayed her, and he was up from his chair, pouncing on her like a predator in two seconds flat.

"Bullshit you won't," he said, looking her hard in the face, searching her eyes, "You feel it, too. You want me as bad as I want you."

"I do not want you. I don't love you."

"That's a goddamn lie!" he yelled so loudly that she was sure people on the other side of the building had heard him. She jumped as his hand slammed violently into the door behind her. Much as his anger frightened her, she felt another emotion rising up within her to war with that fear. Excitement, attraction. The fact that she was turned on by the prospect of him losing his temper scared her even more than his rage.

"You have to go now, Anthony," she said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

"I'm not goin' anywhere!"

Finally, she turned her eyes to him, reading the anger on his face, and the desperation seething beneath it.

"Please just go," she whispered.

"Why do you have to make this so damn difficult for the both of us? This is gonna happen; why can't you just let it?" he asked.

Jennifer realized that he was right. The tempest that was currently raging between them had been brewing for almost a decade, and she had known all along that the storm clouds were massing. This was going to happen and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her tired, conflicted mind spun with this realization, her body sagged against the door, a moment of weakness of which Tony took full advantage. He pressed himself against her, pinned her to the door, leaned in and cupped her cheek in his hand.

"Let me love you, Jennifer," he said.

Her name falling from his mouth was what did it for her, along with the heat of him flooding her. She raised her face up, and in that moment Tony Soprano knew that he had won. Her lips were his prize, and he bent down eagerly to claim them. When he had kissed her the one time before, she had been stiff and cold as marble. This was a real kiss. Her mouth was warm and yielding beneath his, opening like a flower when he traced her bottom lip with his tongue. He eagerly explored her, tasting sweetness as her tongue rose to meet his.

Jennifer felt her body going fluid as the kiss continued on and on into oblivion. She wound her arms around him to support herself, for her knees had melted beneath her. Hazily, like a sensation remembered from a dream, she felt her legs moving. She was being steered backwards, then gently pushed down onto something solid and cushioned. His mouth left hers and she silently mourned the loss. She rested her head on his shoulder, dizzy and panting. He had taken her breath away, literally. Nobody, ever, had done that to her before, not with just a kiss.

She opened her eyes and realized that they were now sitting on her couch, and a quick survey showed her that not only was his sport coat missing, but so was her blazer. She had never been involved with a man who could have her clothes off before she even noticed anything.

She said his name, her voice low, raspy with lust.

"Shh…" His breath was warm on her ear, and then his lips brushed her cheek, skimming down her jaw before coming to rest on her neck. She gasped as he kissed the sensitive skin there, electrifying her entire body, while his hands moved to her back, stroking through the fabric of her shirt while his mouth drove her mad and his body pressed urgently on hers, pushing her down until she felt the couch beneath her and him above.

"No," she curled her fingers in his thinning hair to stop him, and when he looked up at her, he was like someone in a trance, "Not that…not here…"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because this is my office," she replied, "This is where I see my patients…"

"I want you so bad…" he said.

"I know." She kissed his cheek and then put her hands on his chest, gently pushing him up and off of her. "I want you, too. Just not here."

"Where then? When?" he asked. Jennifer mulled the question over in her mind. She could come up with only one option, although it really wasn't something she had ever thought she'd do. Why not, though, now? She was already in way too deep with this man. Maybe she always had been, right from the very beginning.

"Tonight," she said, "My house. I'll cook for you, if you'd like."

Tony shook his head. "Nah, you're not gonna cook for me. I'll take you to dinner." He named a rather exclusive, expensive restaurant and said he'd make reservations for 8 o'clock.

"Anthony," she protested, "You don't have to…"

"Yes," he interrupted, "I do, and I want to." He took one of her hands in his and kissed the back of it. "We're gonna do this right. I don't want you to have the wrong impression of what I'm trying to do here, with you. I want you to know how much you mean to me."

Jennifer smiled and squeezed his hand. "Eight then," she said, "I'll be there."