A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know I should really be working on One and Done, but this…just sorta…wanted to be written. More angst, of course, which seems to be quickly becoming my specialty despite the fact that I absolutely love fluff. Maybe I should actually try a hand at one of those 1, 2, 3…AWWW stories one of these days. And, as always, if I owned these characters I wouldn't be writing fanfics—I'd be doing stuff on the show.

I can't keep doing this to myself.

Sure, we've had our moments. We solve cases. I bring her coffee. I enjoy working with her despite any complications, but what if I'm asking too much?

We encountered the very real possibility death three times this week. Though that's more than average, staring death in the face on even a less than regular basis tends to make one re-evaluate things. This week was no different, and for the first time in months, I nearly let something slip that shouldn't even be entertaining in my head.

Sometimes, I forget that she's with someone else. When we're out in the field or even just at the precinct building theory, it's easy to put her relationship aside and pretend for just a moment that one day she'll be coming home to me. I want to be that guy she talked about in the quarantine tent. I want to jump in with her, hang on for dear life, and never let go. I want to be able to reach for her hand and hold it when we're not about to die. I want to feel her skin and body against mine. I want the press of her lips. I want her scent on my clothing even hours later. I want her to be mine.

But she's not, and she never will be. She's got him, the Doctor Without Borders who chose to stay in New York for her instead of going to Haiti. On some level, I'm happy to see her happy, but I can't say it doesn't hurt to see them together—to imagine them together. In times like this, I really hate being a writer. Of course, if I were writing this, it wouldn't be like this, and it most certainly wouldn't feel like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.

When I thought that bomb was going to go off right in front of us, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her goodbye. I wanted to kiss her one last time. But I couldn't, not when I met her eyes and saw the gratitude and everything else she must have been trying to communicate in that one look. We were going to die. What did I have to lose? I grabbed those wires and I yanked as hard as I could. I was rewarded with her familiar scent as she threw her arms around me. We'd survived. At least, this time we did.

Sharing drinks and recounting the tale later made it all worth it, and when I turned to her, I nearly did it again. I can't even remember now what I was going to suggest—drinks, a movie, maybe both. It all flew out the window the moment I saw him walking toward us and I realized I'd forgotten yet again that she already has someone. My edited version of how to end the night was feeble and obviously left her confused, but I had to get out of there. I fought to keep my mind as blank as possible until the elevator doors closed to a scene I refused to witness, but now it's racing.

I love her.

By now, I've downed a fifth of scotch in addition to the beer from the precinct, and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. I pour myself another glass, but I know it won't really end the pain of knowing that I'll never get to be anything more than a partner or a friend.

So that begs the question—why do I keep doing this to myself? There are no literary reasons. Yes, being with her makes me feel alive—and it's not just for the near-death experiences. Spending time with her is better than getting none at all, but is it really worth it when it means watching her be happy with someone else?

No, it isn't. Not really. Not when that knowledge makes me do things like this. I down yet another glass in one gulp, knowing I'll regret it in the morning, but at this point, I really could care less.

I can't do this anymore. Tomorrow, I'm going to walk into that precinct, and I'm going to tell her exactly that. I'm not going to make her choose. I could never do that to her. I'm just going to make it easy. I'll be out of the picture, and she can be happy. Even if it means I won't be. Even if I'll always wonder what it would be like. Even if that "what if" will always hang above my head.

Before I know it, the scotch is gone, and I'm far too drunk at this point to even think about getting another bottle. I don't even attempt a trip to the bedroom, and instead opt for the couch, immediately falling asleep. I know I'll dream of her tonight. I always do, and even though tomorrow will change everything, I know my fantasies won't—at least, not anytime soon.

Good, bad, ugly? Let me know what you think with a review! I'll just get back to writing One and Done now…