A/N: This is an immediate post-2x05 fic, so spoilers for that episode. This was partly inspired by the interview that Olivia Munn gave about how she didn't want Don to touch her at all during that episode, for him to respect her space. It all sort of went from there I guess? A fair warning though, this did end up being way fluffier than I had intended it to be. Whoops.

Don chases after Sloan, catching up to her just as she presses the 'down' button for the elevator. She's still reeling, he can tell, simmering with adrenaline and anger and god knows what else. Her hand clutches her Blackberry so tightly that her knuckles are white, and he's just about to worry that she may chunk it against the wall, but the elevator dings and they both step in, silent.

The only noise made in the ride down is the sound of her exhalations, which are heavy and calculated. He wants to ask her if she's all right, if she feels better after doing that. But he knows she isn't and she doesn't.

He doesn't bother saying anything until they exit the elevator, and her phone buzzes. She stops dead in her tracks, she knows exactly who it is and what he wants to say to her. Don expects her (wants her) to just keep on walking, to ignore it, but no, she digs around her bag for it and before she can hit the answer button, Don snatches it out of her hand.

"Listen, asshole, if you try calling her one more time I have no problem going right back up there and breaking your nose again," he says, practically snarling because now he's fucking angry and the fact that this guy had the gall to-

"What the hell, Don?!" The voice is too feminine and too fucking English and Don immediately wants to crawl into a hole and live there forever.

Sloan thankfully sees the color drain out of his face and snatches the phone right back. "Kenzie, I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now."

Don can still hear Mackenzie's worried voice through the phone before Sloan hangs up on her. He looks properly at her then, sees the lines on her forehead and her darkened, dilated eyes. He isn't quite sure she's still in the rage phase.

"What do you want to do?" He asks, and looking back it was a stupid question to begin with, but he couldn't think of anything better to say.

Her eyes meet his own and they're on fire. "I'd really love to go back up there and wring his neck till I see the life drain out of his eyes, but unfortunately that's illegal."

"Very much illegal, Sloan."

Her shoulders slouch, almost in defeat but Don hopes it's a release. They're still standing in the lobby of AIG.

"You want me to get you a cab?" He suggests, lightly touching her elbow, moving her out of the building. He's only a little bit terrified that she might actually run back up there and commit murder.

She sighs. "I can't go home."

Don rolls his eyes, running a hand through his dark hair. "Please for the love of god do not tell me-"

"I've got paparazzi outside my building, yeah," she says curtly, her arms crossed.

Fuck.

Don takes her home with him after the 10 o'clock show. The cab ride is short and quiet. She sits as far away from him as possible, and he makes himself think that it's not on purpose. He can see her face reflected on the glass of the window. She's staring out onto the streets, into the city, and yet her eyes aren't moving.

It makes him heartsick. Sloan makes him heartsick. He looks at her and knows she should be put on the highest fucking pedestal by every man she's with because she's so smart and so beautiful and so perfect. He knows she deserves to be loved, really, truly loved.

He thinks about if he could give that to her. Months ago, he had finally admitted to himself that he had fallen in love with her. It scared him how fast it happened, how one day she was Sloan standing in front of him telling him that she was single because he had never asked her out and it absolutely shocked him, and then all of the sudden his heart fluttered every single time he watched her cross the bullpen into her office.

The cab pulls up to his building, and he leads her up to his apartment in maddeningly complete silence. He needed for her to say something. He couldn't say anything, because it would be stupid or uncalled for or just plain unfeeling.

He didn't want to be the bad guy in this situation.

Handing her an ancient t-shirt and a gray pair of sweats from his bottom drawer, he points her in the direction of his bathroom. "You can, uh, change in there," he stammers.

"Thanks," is all she murmurs.

When she exits, he has already changed into his own pajamas. "You can take the bed. I have to work on some things for a bit," he explains.

She merely nods in response, and begins to pull down the sheets on his side of the bed and crawls in. He notices how small and cute she is, swamped in his t-shirt, and he has to remember to turn around and think of non-Sloan things and actually get some damn work done.

He settles himself on the couch, laptop turned on and bright in front of him on the coffee table. He glances at the most recent AP press releases, and knows it's a lost cause. It's hardly past midnight and his eyes are tired and straining, and he lays his head on the throw pillow (Maggie bought it for him, and he scoffs at the thought), intending to shut his eyes only for a few moments.

Don wakes to a firm squeeze on his upper arm. He groans, and for a second, he thinks it's morning and Maggie is there shaking him awake. No one's woken him up in a long time.

"Don." His name comes out as a whisper, and he realizes in his bleary, please-stop-I've-just-woken-up state, that it's Sloan. Sloan is in his apartment. Sloan is standing in front of him, in her huge glasses and his t-shirt and yep, that's about it.

He hasn't bothered moving yet, so her bare legs are still about the only thing he can focus on, until her hand grasps his arm yet again.

"God, Sloan, what time is it and why the hell are you not wearing pants?" He groans, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He really didn't want it to be morning yet.

"It's 2:37 in the morning and it's nearly eighty degrees in here," she replies plainly, her voice still slight. He sits up finally, hand running through his hair.

"I can't sleep, Don."

Her tiny voice breaks his heart into a million miniscule pieces because this is Sloan and she's hurting and there's really nothing he could do about it other than to just be nice. That's all he can do, because if he crosses any other sort of line he'd be taking advantage of her and that is not what he wants to do in the slightest. He doesn't want to compromise anything that may or may not happen in the future. The far, far off future.

He looks at her, and notices that there's a soft, blue light pouring from his room behind her. She's got the damn TV on, he thinks, no wonder she can't sleep.

"Sloan-"

She smiles slightly and it's enough to interrupt him, and she looks down towards her hands. "I just, um, will you just stay with me? Please?"

Don gulps, and knows that if this had been in any other situation this would mean a completely different thing. But no, Sloan leads him into his own bedroom, and he can't help but to look at where his t-shirt ends on her body, at the place where her legs meet her ass and it's quite possibly the most attractive sight he's ever seen. His heart is hammering against his chest and all he can do is remind himself that he's not a sixteen year old boy and yes, he can definitely sleep in a bed with a grown woman and just sleep.

It's totally possible. He just has to keep reminding himself.

They crawl into bed together, and he's on the side that Maggie slept in for so long. It feels almost foreign to him. Sloan switches the television off, and suddenly, they're encompassed by complete stillness.

"No one's going to take me seriously, anymore, Don," she murmurs as she turns to face him.

He sighs. "No, no, everyone's going to forget about it in a few weeks." He hopes that's enough to quell her thoughts.

Yet he can feel her tense next to him. "That's bullshit, Don, and you know it. People are going to turn on the TV and see Elliot or Will and think about how they're such great guys, upstanding people—"

Don laughs, "I hardly think anyone thinks that about Will."

She slaps his shoulder in response. "Clearly a million and a half viewers do, asshole. And then they'll see me and think, "Oh, there's the hot one that had the nude photos leaked, I wonder if those are on the internet?" and they'll stop watching because no one is going to listen to what I have to say anymore, Don. It doesn't matter that I have fifteen years of expertise on this subject and I have two fucking PhDs. People will throw all that under the bus because there are six fucking topless photos of me online. I am not someone they think they should listen to anymore because I fucked up."

She's breathing heavily again, and in her tirade she has shifted close enough to him that their shoulders are touching. Don has to think carefully of what he's going to say because he can feel her gaze bearing down on him.

"Rage phase is over, Don. I think… I think I'm just sad. I'm sad now."

"Sloan…" he starts, but nothing comes out. He doesn't feel qualified to talk about this, and he thinks this conversation would be better suited with Mackenzie just because he'll never understand what it's like to be objectified and scrutinized just because she's a woman. She was objectified and scrutinized even before the photos were released, because apparently there's no such thing as a beautiful and ridiculously intelligent woman.

Suddenly, he feels her hand grab ahold of his own beneath the sheets, only for a moment. "You don't have to say anything. I understand."

It's quiet between them for several minutes. Sloan is growing restless, though. He can tell because she shifts some part of her body every ten seconds and it's about to drive him insane.

"Why won't you touch me, Don?" she asks, and it's almost naïve in nature.

He finally turns to look at her. It's dark, but he can make out her face against the pillow. "Do you want me to?"

"Yeah," she whispers, and he can tell her voice is starting to break. "Just hold me."

He doesn't even hesitate before gathering her in his arms, wrapping her in an embrace with her head tucked beneath her chin. He notices how perfect she is against him, how small she is in comparison. Her hand finds its place on his chest as she nuzzles against him nearly imperceptibly.

Don suspects she'll be gone in the morning. It's Saturday now, and he'll sleep in and he guesses that when he wakes up there's about a good seventy-five percent chance she'll be gone.

But she isn't, even though he wakes up at eleven-thirty. She had rolled away from him, but there she is, hair mussed, eyes still bleary with sleep, and a smirk on her face. It surprises him. Neither of them change into actual clothes all day, they make breakfast together (and Don finds out she's a terrible cook, which strangely doesn't surprise him in the least), and they sit on the couch all day watching trash TV. By the end of the night she's stretched out on his couch, legs across his lap and he desperately wants this to happen every night.

He sees that same sleepy face the next morning, and she says she's going home that day (promises, actually), but instead drifts off on his couch that night. When he picks her up and carries her to his bed, he hears her murmur his name against his chest and it sets his heart alight. When he joins her she instinctively snuggles up against him and fuck why has it taken so long for this to happen?

Without warning, Sloan's voice cuts through the air. "Don, this is just a suggestion, but right now would be a great time to ask me to be your girlfriend."

God, her forwardness was something he still had to get used to.

"Um, now? I don't…okay. Why?"

He feels her smile against his t-shirt. "Because you're a good person."

At work the next morning, they walk through the bullpen hand-in-hand.