Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

by zshep

The internal struggle of Lauren Lewis upon meeting Bo a decade later.

"Well, well. Look who's here."

"Great," I mutter without even looking up.

I don't have to. I know who it is the moment she walks in. Maybe it's the pity and slight amusement in Tamsin's voice, or maybe it's the connection we've always had. Tamsin chatters away as I feel myself getting drawn in by a familiarity that has long been left unstirred. My breath unwittingly catches as my eyes are immediately drawn to a pair of chocolate brown orbs. Despite the twenty-something people separating us, the clichéd electricity that passes between us was palpable and for the briefest of moments, I remember how I love - loved - her.

But that moment ends as soon as I catch her hanging off his arm, I must have made a face alongside the myriad of neglected feelings that suddenly overwhelmed me. The effect she has on me after all this time is ridiculous and if I wasn't the one being affected, I'd have asked to study this curiosity. For the sake of science, of course.

"Everything okay?" Tamsin touches my arm. She notices that I haven't been listening and I give an apologetic smile.

"Yeah, everything's fine," I nod and finish my drink, standing and smoothing my heather-grey slacks.

My eyes wander, trying to map the fastest route out of this over-decorated ballroom; only to find the brunette lingering at the entrance, greeting the guests alongside the wolf shifter. The only way out is in, and further in is the bar itself. My plans of staying sober just leapt right out the window.

"This isn't funny," a sigh of annoyance escapes my lips as I give Tamsin a hard shove.

The valkyrie had acquired the eerie ability to know my thoughts over the years.

"You know," she pauses from her chuckling. "You don't have to talk to her, there are plenty of other people here tonight."

"I'd much sooner face a dozen ogres."

This only serves to make her laugh harder, "Uh-oh, Doctor Grumpypants is in. I presume that more drinks are in order?"

She earns another shove and rolls her eyes at me. I stop her as she reaches over to take my glass for a refill, my gaze catching the brunette setting her sights on us and closing in.

"I'll go, I need something stronger."

The blonde raises an eyebrow but seems to understand, "Don't drink the bar dry, or I'm going to personally kick your ass."

I chortle as I make a beeline for the bar, trying to avoid as many people as possible. Still everyone's eyes are on me, I don't need to look around or have fae abilities to know that. Whether it's fear or contempt, I don't know and frankly, neither do I care. Maybe I got braver over the last decade, or being part-lynx is feeding my audacity.

I've learnt how to drown out the whispers, but one or two words still seep through my defences. The gathered fae mutter amongst themselves, churning the cogs of the rumour mill further; others actually give me small smiles, silently thanking me for my contribution to fae history.

In the last ten years, I had perfected the solution I had used on Evony Fleurette Marquis, the Morrigan at that time, adjusting and varying the length of time from fifteen minutes to a more permanent basis. Her name and past misdeeds are what is left of her legacy after word spread that she had been turned from one of the most feared fae to a mere human. What most of them didn't know then was that I had been testing the reverse on myself. Since there were no obvious volunteers, I continued to self-administer, using the madman Issac Taft's discarded research to create a solution that could make me fae.

And I had succeeded, just two months ago, which was when my fae patients started noticing the physiological changes to my body before even I did. I have no idea how the secret got around, but it did. Soon the Council of Elders caught wind and called for a meeting to either condemn or commemorate me. To make a long story short, this event is mainly held in my honour as the Council, along with the respective faction leaders and other important fae decided that my solution would do more help than harm.

The past decade hasn't been easy - between searching for Kenzi while working on my research and helping out with strange fae cases, bringing up a reborn valkyrie was definitely not one of my fortes. But in a way, I'm grateful. The relationship between Tamsin and I was tentative and awkward at first, especially when she pushed the boundaries of privacy when I was still with Bo, pestering us for pancakes or cupcakes for every meal. Bo said it was how she related to Kenzi, it was how she kept her memory alive. But now, the two of us would grab pancakes every Saturday, continuing a tradition until we could find Kenzi again.

Tamsin has become my best friend and my unofficial guardian because no one is foolish enough to mess with a valkyrie armed with jabs of potent de-faeing solution. In return, I just have to bake a fresh batch of cupcakes every other week. It's a good deal.

"Hit me with everything you got," I tell the bartender when I finally reach the bar, occupying the seat right in front of him.

I finish the drink and immediately signal for two more, telling the bartender to keep them coming. Stupid fae metabolism absorbs and uses up everything so fast I have to drink thrice as much just to feel the slightest effect. My fingers trace the ridges on the highball glass as my mind slips into nostalgia mode.

That first night when she was testing her abilities, we were in a bar similar to this one almost fifteen years ago. How she was so young and needed some direction, how I was so naive and in need of attention; how she took me for granted, how I gave in to her so easily; how she managed to shatter my heart into a million more pieces each time - but honestly, call me stupid or insane, I would do it all over again even if I had the choice.

We were good together, at least when we were together. We were the typical annoying couple that completed each other's sentences, who would sneak glances at each other, who made other people nauseous. We loved each other. But like all good things, two years into Kenzi's disappearance, two bottles of wine and a stupid argument that blew up in both our faces, Bo left my apartment and never came back. I didn't look for her either, I wanted for her to learn her lesson. Though we had seen each other throughout the eight years - albeit rarely - I never asked what was going on in her life, or how she was doing, and she never returned the favour. Lines were drawn easier that way.

I guess it's mostly my fault, having always been the one giving in to her. There was always the reliance on me to be the adult in the relationship, I had spoilt her, shouldering the blame for most things. All I wanted was for her to grow up and realize that not everything can be perfectly aligned, not all the time anyway.

When she spoke about how she wanted to travel the world with me, how could I believe her when she wasn't even around for the smaller things? When she told me that she had chosen me but I broke her heart, did she think I would have believed her after the whole stint with Rainer? Even then, I had let it all go and tried again, only to have her flip the tables around to say that I'm inattentive just because I was busy working on the fae solution. Granted, it might not have been the best reaction but as our voices rose, our thoughts were less coherent and I may or may not have indirectly told her to go running back to Dyson.

And of course she's here, and exactly according to plan: with Dyson. The wolf shifter is now the successor to the Light throne and as his mate, she is honour-bound to be the poster-girl for his campaigns. I don't hate the guy - well, not that I've ever had, it was more of a case of bruised ego whenever she would go running back to him. It's been a sort of friendly rivalry for the past few years. I still don't like his face, something about it just rubs me the wrong way and makes me want to scratch him when I punch the smirk off his gruffy mug.

A loud noise draws the attention away from my thoughts and a typical, familiar scene unfolds: another poor human getting publicly chastised and humiliated for dropping a tray of hor d'oeuvres. But of course, who else but Bo Dennis comes to the human's rescue, stalking towards the older fae, gesturing and poking until he backs down and the human scurries away with a grateful look. Watching from a distance, I want to roll my eyes. I can put a face on and lie to the world that her selfless acts are tacky as hell and this one is probably done in the name of the shifter's campaigns but my heart leapt a little, nonetheless, at the heroism she displayed.

Again, our eyes meet. And I'm frozen until the bartender asks if I want another drink. Breaking the eye contact, I order another glass and quickly drain it before the insane, well-mannered part of me decides to be too friendly with an ex and her mate.

Thankfully I'm saved from making any sort of decision as Ray Michaels calls out to me. I force a smile at the balding man hopping up onto the bar stool. He is a sweet old British man who had more than five centuries of medical knowledge contained in his skull, an ex-general of the Royal Navy, and one of the Council that rallied support for my research.

"How are you this evening, sir?" I greet him as I motion for the bartender to bring him a drink.

"For the last time, Dr. Lewis: do not call me 'sir'!" the wrinkly man chuckles. "It makes me feel old."

"Out of habit, sir," I point to his lapels where his many accolades are pinned. "You do have a minimum of half a millenia on me."

He raises his eyebrows and for a moment, I'm scared he might tear me apart with his fae abilities. But his face softens and we share a laugh - and a sigh of relief for myself personally - and the tone of the conversation slips into a more business-like one as I'm introduced to the people backing my project. Before I know it, I'm pulled from my comfortable bar stool and walked around to shake hands with people I barely knew. I nod and smile, making full use of my well-schooled mask of faux-attention.

"... and the Thornwoods," Ray introduces.

Wait, the Thornwoods?

As in Dyson Thornwood?

My mind quickly arrived at the only possibility. So they had gotten engaged, something so unlike the Bo Dennis I knew. I had heard the rumours, and probably felt the sting then but I've gotten used to it. I mean after all, I'm to thank for their… reunion.

My attempt to hide my gaping at how she looks in her blood red dress, her dark curls tied up in an elegant ponytail fails miserably. My cheeks are flushed and my parched throat is begging for more liquid courage. This is different, but still extremely attractive. Her confidence emanates, making my breath hitch just from that poise and swagger when she walks over. She is still the epitome of sensual beauty with a dash of danger.

Needless to say, my brain is jolted and I blink in confusion and discomfort, both of which Ray mistakens as disbelief. He is laughing it off as he excitedly waves over the two people I've been desperately avoiding the whole night. Despite my valiant attempt to escape, strong arms pull me back and into a hug. I'm immediately overpowered with the fusion of his atypical wet-dog smell and his oh-so-manly cologne.

"Lauren!" Dyson bellows with his wolfish grin, letting me go. "Good to see you!"

"And you, Dyson," I smile back, patting him on the arm before nodding at the brunette. "Bo."

"What, no hug for me?" she asks with a grin of her own, a challenging twinkle clear in her eyes.

Alcohol never co-operates, a lesson that should've been long learnt. But yet here I am in an expensive pantsuit, about to hug my ex, and the effects of the scotch hits me. Whether it was the swimming vision, the incoordination of my legs, or the sudden bravado, it happens all at once as I fall - literally - into her embrace. A small "oof" escapes her lips when I land a little too hard and I feel her grinning. I'm about to burst out in laughter as well, at how awkward this moment could be until I heard her speak.

"I've missed you."

So soft. So quiet. So tantalizing. Just moving the air beside my ear ever so slightly; just intoned with the longing we have both held on to; just promising the unspoken pleasures whenever we were together.

But of course, I falter and tense up. She senses it and gently releases me. I look into her eyes and try to discern what she meant. While her presence is never an enigma for me to solve, her thoughts have always been. Many guessing games have ended up in fights as she expected me to read her mind and I expected the same.

And this is the first time I look at her properly in years. Her beautiful eyes are still as bright and attentive but the dark circles surrounding them are slightly alarming. She looks tired and worn, as though her many sleepless nights have finally caught up to her. There is a small scar hidden behind her well-sculpted eyebrows that she has tried hard to conceal with makeup, and there is another under her lip. Medically, this is both worrying and interesting - she isn't healing properly, which is odd for a succubus.

My gaze must have lingered longer than intended, I couldn't help it, that raw magnetism that drew me to her in the first place is happening all over again. But she notices and I stop, suddenly finding my shoes infinitely more interesting. I call to the bartender to bring a few more rounds and quickly drain one glass dry before turning back to the conversation.

"My favourite newlyweds! I'm sorry I missed it, but how was the wedding?"

My chest tightens and my breath catches in my throat.

They didn't just get engaged. They got married.

My ears begin to ring and my vision blurs. My mouth falls open a little and the only thing I can hear now is the pounding of my heart. I catch her eyes widening, as though she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I can't be here right now. I try to look around and spot Tamsin at the other end of the room, a good place - a place nearer to the entrance and further away from Bo Dennis. The blonde looks back at me, and shoots me a puzzled look. No, I can't make it there either. I get up muttering some lame excuse I can't remember, earning Bo's eager protests, and make my way quickly to the ladies.

Before I even make it to the toilet stall, the sour taste of my stomach bile had already reached my mouth. The effects of both the alcohol and the overwhelming information gave new light to two things: first, the smoothness of scotch does not occur when regurgitating it and second, I'm still hopelessly in love with the damn succubus.

This is great, I now have the honour of watching their lives unfold beautifully for the rest of my long fae life but I'm not allowed to be sad because she's happy. What delusional part allowed me to think they were only engaged? What part of my neuroticism allowed me to believe that she would have waited for me? I retch some more as I think of their wedding, their happiness, their home. I'm the cause of all that. And, of course, my own devastation.

It could have been mine.

I had the chance. Hell, I was given the chance over and over. But did I take it? No, not once.

So why did I let my pride get in the way of saying sorry? Why did I insist on being a child and waiting on her to make the first move? Why did I lack the courage to tell her how I felt? Why did I not let her know how important she was to me? Why did I not tell her that this serum that made me fae, was my gift to her so that she would never feel the ache of being alone after my cripplingly short human lifespan had met its expiration date?

Why?

I pull myself off the marble floor of the polished washroom and stagger out into the washing area. The cool water refreshes me for but a moment. My knuckles are white as I grip the sides of the porcelain sink. My eyes focus on the water swirling, blissfully ignorant, into the dark hole. As I'm about to look up to assess my appearance, the door swings open and I'm all ready to have a drunken yelling match with whoever dared disturb me.

"Hey Doc, you look like a mess," Tamsin grins as she leans against the door, effectively stopping anyone else from coming in.

I roll my eyes and turn to the mirror. But she's right, I am a mess. My white shirt is stained with specks of caramel, a reminder of my failed sobriety. My hair looks like a hurricane blew through, stray curls poking out at odd angles. My makeup is completely ruined, dark eyeliner streak my cheeks. My eyes were swollen and red. When had I been crying?

"So… you heard."

I turn to stare at her when the realization hits me full in the face.

"What! You knew?" I glare at her.

Her mouth opens and closes a few times as though testing words as she looks down. She hems and haws a little as she starts, "Shit. I'm sorry. I thought you found out earlier but you just didn't... react. I don't know, I just didn't want you to be, you know, this."

I let out a sigh and try to salvage whatever is left on my face, dabbing gently and silently mourning the loss of the few hard hours of work I had put into dressing up.

"I uh... I hid the invitation."

"What?" I glare at her again. "Tamsin, what the hell?"

"I'm sorry but I'm not sorry," the valkyrie folds her arms. "It would've come down to this anyway, you should know that. He's always going to want her, like how you will."

I want to chuckle but I'm so mad at her for not even giving me a choice to make. I could only let out a heavy sigh. Even the valkyrie knew me better than I knew myself. The truth hit home closer than I expected as tears threaten to overflow again. Have I been that oblivious to my feelings or have I just become amazing at hiding them, storing them at the back of my head while busying myself in the forefront? Either of them could be true but I just didn't want to think or over-think anything right now.

"Are you hiding anymore things from me?"

"No! Scout's honour!" she holds up three fingers.

"So you came here to torment me further or to take me home?"

"Uh… I kinda came in here to check on you and now that you're not dead or trying to off yourself, I'll be home later, heading to the range with some old friends."

I look at her and consider playing the desperate stay-with-me-I'm-all-alone card. I honestly can't be alone right now, drunk and emotional is not a state I'm good at. But she really needs a night off before starting on the new Chimera case. The very least I could do as a friend is not ruin another person's night.

"All right, have fun," I conceed. "Not too late!"

"Okay, mom," she rolls her eyes, dragging out the syllables. The door closes behind her with a soft creak. But the door opens again as she sticks her head in, asking, "You sure you gonna be okay?"

I look skyward, slightly amused that she cares so much. Tamsin gets the hint and leaves the washroom. My fingers ran through my hair as I try to keep my emotions in check. I just have to go out there and pretend that I'm all right and I had just gotten a little too much to drink, then use the new case as an excuse so I can go home to a bottle of red, some Rachael Yamagata, and an empty bed. One more deep breath and I'm ready to go. Just one more.

The door creaks open.

"Tamsin, I already told you I - Oh, it's you."

There she is, sweeping in like a beautifully devastating tornado. She quirks her eyebrows at me and I know she can tell that I've been crying. She doesn't say anything, just wetting her hands in the sink before moves towards me. She is now impossibly close - close enough that I can smell the champagne on her breath; close enough that I can tell her eyes are flaring a slight electric blue; close enough that the pounding of my heart could definitely be heard; close enough that I could just simply lean in and just kiss those irresistible lips.

"B-Bo?" I ask, my voice unintentionally husky. A part of me doesn't know what she's doing, another part just doesn't care.

"Soap," she simply nods at the dispenser behind me, uttering the single syllable.

My wishful thinking and wild imagination pulls to an immediate halt. My nervous system kicks back in and I remember to breathe. Damn my new biology, my body isn't completely used to being this aroused, especially in the last few seconds when I was seemingly cornered by a particular brunette.

"Oh," a sheepish grin appears on my face as I move out of the way. "Sorry."

She resumes her position at the sink and I just gawk at her like I had when we first met. My god, she's beautiful.

"Congratulations," I mutter, taking a crack at the deafening silence that suddenly crept up on us.

"Hmm?"

"I said, congratulations."

She's still frowning.

"Your wedding," I remind her.

"Oh. Thank you," she gives me her polite smile.

"I bet it was beautiful, I'm sorry I wasn't there."

No, I wasn't. Now I'm thankful Tamsin hid the bloody invitation. I couldn't even make it through a 10-minute chat with Dyson and her or a cordial conversation in the toilet, it would have been pure hell suffering through the wedding as they said their vows and made doe eyes at each other.

She scrubs her hands, fast and hard as though trying to clean off some stain only visible to her. The smile she has doesn't reach her eyes as she stares intently at her hands.

"Did you have the white roses you always wanted? And that cream dress?"

"No."

"What? Too girly for Dyson?" I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

She huffs then shakes her head and scrubs even more furiously.

"What about that purple dress? It looked great on you."

"No."

I suck in a deep breath, mostly in frustration. My anger begins to bubble, all my disgruntled thoughts and unattended feelings are resurfacing again. The 47.55% of lynx in me overpowers my logic as I blurt the words, "Look, I'm trying here. I'm trying to be happy for you. The least you can do is give me more than a single-word reply."

A growl from her makes me notice the electric blues her eyes have become.

"No, you look here. I waited, Lauren. I fucking waited for you! I said we were in this together, and I meant it. So no, I didn't get the white roses or the purple dress because that was the life I wanted with you, the life I imagined with you. I wanted the picket fence, the cats and dogs and whatever other animals, the kids and the whole deal but only with you! But you just walked out on me, something you promised you'd never do. You told me to go back to Dyson - "

"And what a good girl you are!" a mirthless chuckle escapes my lips. "Getting back and marrying him! Glad you finally learnt to listen. What is this? Revenge?"

Oh my god, I moan inwardly. I need to shut up, stat. This is turning into a catty nightmare. Her brows furrow, her mouth agape as though she can't believe what I just said. I couldn't either.

"At least he loves me enough to not walk away."

"And he does that how? By stopping you from feeding? Yeah, I noticed your scars. What? Did he give them to you too?"

Shut up.

But no, my mouth continues to rattle on. "And if I recall correctly, you're the one who walked out of my apartment, Bo. I stayed, I waited."

Shut up. Shut up. Shut. Up. I'm chanting the two words to myself now. Our fragile friendship had consisted of mostly ignoring each other when we had to cooperate but it worked. Now this is going to make it irreparable. Lauren Lewis, just shut the hell up.

"What happens in my… marriage is my fucking problem, not yours."

He hit her. He actually hit her. I asked the question on a childish whim to frustrate her as much as possible in hopes she would lash out at me. But, damn it! Goddamn Dyson! His noble act has been a stunt all along, his white knight armour is simply painted cardboard. The shifter is going to get a hell of a cat fight later. But for now, I needed some answers.

"You still married him?!" I ask, incredulous.

"He loves me."

"What the hell, Bo! I love you too! But I would never hit you just to get you to… what?"

Oh my god. Please let me shut up. Geek-outs or not, blurting this is not the way I had hoped to tell her I am still in love with her. She looks just as surprised as I am when her eyes widen before resuming her little scowl again.

"No, you'd just leave me to wonder when you'd come back to me, when you'd decide that being together actually meant sticking with me through all the shit, when you'd - "

"I wanted you to take responsibility, Bo! Relationships aren't just a one-way road where one party keeps giving and giving. How many times have you completely wrecked me, yet I kept letting you back in? How many times have I ignored the fact that you can't fully be mine just because I was human? How - "

"Fuck that! I never cared, Lauren! I never cared that you were just human. I would have found a way - we would have found a way! I have always loved you for you. You are always more than that to me. You… You're the first person I've ever loved."

"But you still chose him."

"I chose you, for fuck's sake! I chose you, but you broke my heart. Again."

Memories came rushing back at the echo of those words. We are yelling but I don't care. Let the world hear. These words should have been said a long time ago and as scarring as it is, it's oddly therapeutic. My cheeks are wet again and her eyes are glistening with tears. My heart aches, a round with a dozen ogres couldn't have been worse than this. Had I broken her as many times as she had broken me? I know the count of my mistakes are less but are they equally unforgivable? She has always had abandonment issues and as a doctor, I knew that and I should have known better. I never had any illusions about how difficult life would have been with her, but I loved her then as I love her now - as is - with all her flaws and imperfections.

"I did it for you," the words leave my mouth weakly, softly, completely out of my control.

"What?"

Was I really going to admit to things now, after all this time? Oh no, here come the words.

"The drug that made me fae. That was for you."

"What?" she repeats, confusion marrs her features.

"I didn't want you to be alone. I didn't want you to hurt when I died. I didn't want you to feel all the pain someone as beautiful as you should never feel," I pause and look right at those dark brown orbs. "And... for selfish reasons, I didn't want Dyson to ever have you. You… You're mine, Bo, just as I'm yours."

She looks dumbstruck and I had nothing else to say. I feel a little bad. The impact of my words is something I have yet to consider but looking at how badly I messed up what was supposed to be a friendly conversation, I convince myself that the choices are pretty much limited. I've said all I wanted from before and now the ball is in her court. We just stand there and stare at each other. The first person to speak, loses - or at least that's the game I'm playing in my head.

My alcohol-addled mind is trying hard to catch up to the situation, analysing each and every outcome possible. My heart is working twice as hard to settle my emotions and stave off my impending hangover. My body is about to give in to the carnal desires I've kept under wraps for so long.

Maybe I couldn't take the high road then, maybe I should take it now, in this odd moment of clarity. Maybe it's better for it all to unravel now than to keep all of this kept bottled inside. If this was my one chance at release, I'm hoping that everything could be out in the open.

"One more question, and I promise I'll leave," I say, as loud as my parched throat allowed.

She looks up from the sink expectantly.

"What did you mean?"

"What?"

"Just now. When you said you missed me. What did you mean?"

"What?"

"God, Bo, do I have to repeat everything twice?"

She stares daggers at me but it's now her turn to be at a loss for words. She turns away to stare at her own reflection, her heavy breathing penetrates the growing silence. My eyes are on her, examining her every move - how her eyebrow twitches that little bit when she's thinking; how her tongue traces her front teeth when she's concentrating; how her expressive chocolate hues absently focus somewhere when she's trying to find the words. And I wonder if Dyson even realizes just how lucky he is.

She bites her lower lip, her unintentional sensuality oozing out of her every pore. I steady my breath as I wait for her answer. I'm sure minutes have gone by and I know she's just buying time but as time wears on, my patience and resolve wears even thinner.

No, not yet.

I begin an internal countdown: two more minutes before I end this madness forever. I shouldn't have to suffer for her indecisiveness, it's been more than ten years for god's sake. If she's not willing to give an answer, I'll take it as it is - an unanswered question that would always linger between us, that is, if we ever saw each other again. If she does, I… I don't know what I want to hear.

One-hundred and fifteen. One-hundred and fourteen. One hundred and thirteen.

A flashback of her pressing me against the bathroom stall in the diner around the corner causes a pulse of lust to flow through me. I gulp and lick my lips, my throat suddenly feeling very dry. She turns to face me suddenly and I realise why - goddamn her ability to read auras. I fight to calm my nerves and she turns away, staring at the mirror again as though trying to elicit some meaning from it.

One hundred and seven. One hundred and six. One hundred and five.

Another flashback: this time it's our first year anniversary. She presents me with a simple black band that fits perfectly on my finger. Her note crafted specially to convey all that her voice could not. My hot tears stain the cream-coloured parchment as I read:

This ring is my promise, my oath of my love for you. I love you, until the moment I die. If there is life after death, I'll love you even then.

Ysabeau

Eighty-seven.

Oh god, my heart clenches as the mere memory almost brings me to my knees. But I stand motionless, afraid to move, afraid to shatter this fragile illusion that she could possibly love me still.

Eighty-four. Eighty-three. Eighty-two.

The eight years of her gone had left a gaping hole in me. Something I haven't even been willing to acknowledge. This is what Trick had warned us about: the dangers of loving someone so wholly and fully that it consumes your being. Moments apart feel like death looming over, the soul wearing thinner with every split second, accompanied by the foul echos of broken cries of lonely nights and averted stares of awkward tension. But it would feel like no time had passed at all, the moment the heart is restarted, jolted back into meaning.

I may have broken my addiction to her, cold-turkey the first time, but seeing her, feeling her, touching her tonight - there's no going back for me. I surrender. I surrender myself, fighting this has chipped away at my being for far too long.

Sixty-two. Sixty-one. Sixty.

She's still staring, but now her eyes dart between her own reflection and me. For crying out loud, what am I expecting? Hell, I don't even know if she still loves me or wants me at all. Sure, she has mentioned that she has always loved me, but am I content with just that? Does she want me to play third wheel? And if push comes to shove, am I actually willing?

Fifty-seven. Fifty-six. Fifty-five.

I'm willing. The moment I admit that, albeit internally, I felt a little dirty and cheap. But I'm more than willing, just as long as I get to have her.

Forty-four. Forty-three. Forty-two.

Does she even know I'm counting? Counting down to the literal end of our relationship? Does she even give a damn? Or am I the fool who still held on to the belief that this is merely one of the many obstacles in the Bo and Lauren journey? Have I been grasping at an inevitable end, a question I already knew the answer to?

Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

I take it back.

No. I'm not willing. I'm not willing to sacrifice all this to watch her go home to Dyson at the end of every day.

No, I want her.

I want her to come home to me. I want to put the book she falls asleep reading with on the nightstand and turn the light off on her bedside. I want to pull the duvet over us and hold her hand while the tensions of the day fade to ether as I drift off. I want to watch the morning rays of sun dance lightly across her delicate features, then witness the cringing and groaning as she turns to snuggle deeper into the fortress of blankets we've built in the night. I want to make coffee and pancakes for her in the morning as she describes her latest dream, and pack sandwiches for lunch when she's on a case.

I refuse to come in second to anything or anyone.

Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

Maybe I should be the one taking action this time. It's only right, and a touch poetic, if I'm to be the one to walk back into her arms, after eight years of being gone.

Seven. Six. Five.

This is ridiculous. I can't possibly be entertaining the idea that she still wants me if she has taken this long.

Three.

Two.

One.

No.

Nothing.

I still for a moment, somehow holding on to some sort of demented hope. I inwardly chastise myself, the cruelty of false hope burns at me, reminding me why the idea of it is never good.

Yet my heart begs for some form of reconciliation, screaming for her to say something - anything. All that is needed are some mere words to breathe life back into this dead relationship.

I search her eyes but no, nothing. Not this time, I guess. She is not tongue-tied, I can see it now, she just doesn't want to speak.

As unwilling as I am to admit defeat, I'd like to think that I knew how to gracefully retreat with enough dignity. I need to leave. Have I truly manipulated myself into thinking that this love, no matter how tainted, is the epic love of my life? Actually, in truth, it is. But even epic loves could be separated and missed. I guess I just didn't hear the blaring whistle of foreshadowing and signs.

My brain and my legs take more time than usual to work in tandem but I take the first step to get past her, to get to the door, to get out of her life. I can't rationalize the numbness away so I let it linger, each step making it harder to breathe yet peculiarly liberating.

She turns to face me as the sound of my boots click against the marble. She holds my gaze as my limbs cooperate, working hard towards the exit. I'm halfway there before her hand shoots out to grab me, stopping my progress. I hold my breath as the intensity in her eyes almost burns a hole through my heart.

We stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder and I can't help but think this is the perfect picture of how we always are - standing together, always together but never in the same direction. Her eyes are glistening from her unshed tears, her unspoken words, her underlying emotions.

She opens her mouth, as if to speak but I shake my head gently, holding a finger to her soft lips. I resist the urge to shiver as the contact brought back the endless days we would spend in bed, only ever leaving for toilet breaks and hydration. I shake my head again, this time for my benefit.

She sees it in my eyes, or at least I hope she does. I tell her silently that this cannot go on. As much as I love the bittersweet clenching of my heart and the fluttery aftermath whenever we touch, this cannot go on. As much as I know how good we could be together and the beautiful life we could have had, this cannot go on. As much as I want us and that I love her, this cannot go on.

My gaze drops to the floor as I feel like I'm making the greatest mistake of my life. Deep breathing does nothing to calm my frayed nerves, neither does the prospect of my future. How does one say goodbye forever to the love of their life? Is there even an appropriate way?

"Lauren," my name leaves her lips in a ragged breath, full of emotion.

I'm so tempted to stay, and just kiss away all her pain. It would be simple, a peck on her cheek to let her know that I still love her and all would be well; my cold hand resting against her burning cheek to tell her that I'm still going to be here whenever she needs me. But I know now that this is the end of the journey we had started together. The absolute end.

Words now refuse to cooperate as I'm half-blinded by the wetness in my eyes. I want to say something, something profound, something great, something memorable so she can remember me by something other than the pathetic, bitchy mess she had to face earlier.

But I don't. I smile and reach for the handle.