A/N: Many thanks to piratewench78 for beta-reading this fic, which was inspired by her terrific story, "I Need You." Thanks also to Caitlyn Rose, whose wonderful fic "Regret" got me thinking about trying something in second person. I hope it worked - enjoy!
You wake up when you hear the bathroom door closing down the hall. You sit up, listening for sounds of sick, but you hear only the toilet flushing and then the water running.
The light in the hallway goes on and then off, and you lie back down. A moment later your bedroom door is opening. You shut your eyes as he walks around the bed and eases the covers back. You feel a rush of cold air on your skin and then hear him moan softly under his breath as he catches sight of you, naked under the sheets.
You feel the weight of him next to you on the mattress, as he slips in and brings the covers back up around him.
You wait for his touch but it does not come. After a long moment, his breathing deepens, regular now, and you roll over quietly and see that he is stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, asleep.
You should have stopped him at your bedroom door, turned him around and marched him back to the couch, where you'd offered to let him crash when he had shown up hours earlier, wasted beyond words. You should wake him up now and tell him to leave, tell him the deal was only that he could sleep it off, out in your living room, so he wouldn't get behind the wheel drunk. You should kick him out of your bed and send him packing immediately.
You are not together any more, he is still drinking, and this cannot keep happening.
But among the many things you miss the most is exactly this: His body, stretched out next to you in your bed, his presence exuding the comfort and familiarity that you crave night after night. Teddy rarely sleeps here, and when he does, he snores. You desperately miss knowing that you can turn over and seek comfort in Deacon's warmth anytime during the night.
So you let him stay, promising yourself that you will absolutely make him leave in the morning, no question about it. You turn your back to him again and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.
The next time you open your eyes, dawn is beating back the gloom around your windows. His body is pressed against your back, his arm is around you and his mouth is nuzzling your neck. His hand is stroking your breasts softly, remembering all the right places to touch. It feels unconscious, like muscle memory, when you let yourself melt back into his embrace and hear him moan, feel him getting hard, pushing himself up against you with small movements of his hips, already making you wet.
You should push him away, tell him to get out of your bed and go home. You should lie, and say that you do not want him now, that you do not want him ever again.
You should warn him not to get too close, and let him know that you are not on the pill anymore, that Teddy always uses a condom. He should be told that you are in the middle of your cycle and your diaphragm is fitted snugly in its pink plastic case in the nightstand drawer.
But this is the time of the month when you get hot just thinking about him, when you touch yourself and relive what it feels like when his mouth is on you, or his hands are moving over you or he is inside of you. This is the time of the month when you shut your eyes tightly when you're with Teddy and think about him, about how he can make you scream.
And so, instead of pushing him away, you push your ass back against him, matching your small thrusts to his own. And you reach around and slip your hand under the waistband of his boxers and help him slide them off. He inserts his knee between your legs, opening you up, and you are breathing hard suddenly, turning your face to meet his. You are kissing him, and taking his tongue when he pushes it into your mouth.
"Deacon, we can't … we shouldn't …" you murmur between kisses, but yours is a weak, false protest and both of you know it. He does not reply, only reaches down and runs his fingers over you, moaning again when he feels how wet he has made you already.
You meet his hand and entwine your fingers with his, then you reach for him and pull the length of him over you, making him wet and slick, sliding your hand down and hearing him groan as he feels your soft touch.
You should stop this now, before it is too late. You should move away from him and be safe. If you cannot make yourself turn him away, you should at least get up and go to the bathroom and put in the damned diaphragm.
But you cannot break this moment; you cannot shatter this waking dream. Both of you are addicted to this, to making each other high just from skin contact, and it has been so long – so very long.
You cannot stop now.
You lift your leg and hook it back around his hip to give him room, to let him know that you want him, that you are ready for him. And he can read you like a book - he has always been able to, since that first time, so many years ago. He moves deftly, groaning hard as he enters you from behind and fills you up, pushing in all the way until he is buried deep.
He feels so familiar, and so wonderful, as he holds you tightly and thrusts hard into you, moaning and panting until he goes rigid and shudders deeply, and you can feel him coming inside of you.
And it is so wonderful and so right, this perfect moment. All thought of good and bad, of should and shouldn't, of pills and diaphragms and the rest of the real world is long gone - and it is only you and Deacon, together again, as you are meant to be.
His face is buried in your hair and you turn your head, reaching for him and running your fingers over his jaw.
"I love you, Ray," he says quietly. "I love you so much."
"I love you, too."
"Did you …?"
"No…"
He takes a deep breath and kisses your shoulder, then pulls out and reaches his hand down again, dipping his fingers into you, finding you so wet and so receptive to his touch. You moan and turn toward him, rolling onto your back and putting your arms around him, kissing him deeply as he rubs across you with his fingers, faster and faster, and pushes two of them inside of you.
You are whimpering by now, shaking in his arms, quickly losing control. He holds you tightly, kissing you as your hips buck upwards to meet his fingers.
"I'm gonna come …"
"Go ahead, darlin'. I wanna feel you come," he murmurs against your mouth, and that does it. You are moaning and convulsing around his hand as waves of pleasure wash over you and he moans along with you, turned on all over again.
Finally, you go limp and turn away from him, nestling into his arms as he spoons you and sweeps your hair away so that he can rest his head just behind yours, sharing your pillow.
"Was that okay?" he says, softly.
"Mmmm…" is all you can manage, by way of an answer.
"Do you know how sweet you are?"
"God, Deacon. Do you know how much I've missed this? Missed you?"
"Yeah, I know. A lot."
"Yeah. A lot."
You close your eyes, praying that somehow time will stand still and you will never have to get up from this bed and leave him, that you will never have to confront the morning, and push him away, and tell him this is over – that it is long over and that you cannot keep doing this with him.
You pray that you will never have to say goodbye.
And somehow, though it is not logical, though it is not even possible, though it cannot be – somehow, just as you drift back to sleep in his arms for the first time in ages – you realize you feel … different. Like something has changed.
You have only a vague awareness of this feeling at first, but it gets stronger day by day.
It is still there when he goes straight from your bed into another days-long binge on booze and pills, his worst yet. And it is there when he crawls back to your door afterwards and you tell him no, he cannot come in this time, and you call Coleman, frantic, when he comes in anyway and trashes your place in his rage. It is still there when Cole drags him, kicking and fighting, back into rehab, through the revolving door that you know will someday lead to a dead end.
The feeling only gets stronger, even when Coleman asks you to cut another check and tells you that Deacon has blacked out so many times lately that he doesn't remember coming to your apartment – not at all.
And it is there when you see Teddy again, and you forget to tell him how you and Deacon made love one day at dawn.
The feeling grows and grows.
Until, weeks later, when you lift the test stick to eye level and find the plus sign waiting there for you - you are not surprised at all.
THE END