It had taken them a little more than ten minutes, in the end, to come up with a plan and he had to admit he was impressed with Amanda Rollins; she could have pulled out from the case, her sergeant had wanted her out when things had gotten too heated and the lines had started to appear to blurred, but she didn't. She had called him, she had told him that she wanted to finish the job.

"Tonight?" He had asked and his mind had already started forming plans, strategies – and underneath it all he had felt relief at the idea of finally finishing the job, of putting that shitty undercover job behind his shoulders once and for all. Two years of playing Declan O'Rourke, of trying to connect the dots, knowing that gambling was just the tip of the iceberg, and eventually it took them a few minutes to find a way to finish the job.

"You will have to trust me." He had told her – and she had. She had played her part perfectly; she had relied on him – and he hadn't missed the look of genuine confusion and hurt on her face (with a side of "what the fuck? Are you crazy?") on Amanda's face when he had pistol whipped her thus officially putting an end to the assignment.

For a moment, there, she had really been scared – and now that things were finally quieting down, at the ass crack of dawn, he couldn't help going back to that moment, right before he had arrested Sondra and Anton Nadari; he couldn't help thinking about the confusion on her face and the fear (did she think that he had double crossed her?). It was ludicrous to think about that. He didn't do that. He would have gone crazy a long time before if he had ever wallowed in self doubts, in remorse. He had regrets, of course. Lord knew whether he did, but he did not, could not afford the luxury to stop and examine every questionable thing he had done. It was the job - it was what it was, he had accepted that a long time before.

Thinking about how confused Rollins had looked, how scared, only showed that he had been under for far too long. And yet he kept throwing sideway glances at the woman as he drove her home. Why had he offered to drive her home after the long night they had had, was something he really didn't want to think about. And bullshitting himself when he wasn't under was something he usually didn't do.

When one lived a life ripe with lies and deceits for a living, one had to be completely, brutally honest in their real life. It was how he kept sane. The truth was that he couldn't let go of the look on Amanda's face while she was on the floor. It was as simple as that, really. Amanda was holding an icepack against the side of her face – she had been a real trooper so far; but it was clear she was about to crash and he didn't want to…

To what…exactly? He didn't want her to think that he might be the kind of man who got off on hitting women? That he was an asshole?

"You didn't have to drive me home, lieutenant." Amanda said, breaking the silence in the car. It wasn't even a particularly awkward silence. They were both too tired and it wasn't over, yet; there was still IAB to deal with.

"I know." Declan replied. "You did a good job there, detective Rollins."

He met her eyes when she turned her head to look at him. She shrugged her shoulders and said, "At least I will go down with a bang!"

She smiled and Declan broke eye contact, choosing to focus on the road. Better not to look at her, better focusing on simple things. On things he could actually accomplish.

"You are not going anywhere, detective. Not if I can help it." Amanda didn't reply. He didn't talk either. He could tell her to trust him, but she was sporting a bruise on her cheekbone as proof of her trust in him and their plan.

He didn't tell her anything. He supposed he would have to show her that she could trust him. That he was on her side. He had been from the beginning.

In a perfect world Declan Murphy would have bounced back from that dark place in his mind with just a good night's sleep. He would have had sex with a blonde woman he just couldn't get out of his head (and not for lack of trying), he would have kissed her goodbye the morning after and things would have been fine. He didn't live in a perfect world.

He was not bouncing back. He was crawling his way out of that dark hole inside of him, but at least he felt almost human when he finally opened his eyes. He also had an armful of blonde detective wrapped in his arms (and he would never, ever understand, even much later, how did they sleep so comfortably on that couch.), his neck was killing him and he was starting to think that making the right call the night before had been a terribly bad idea.

He was not a saint, far from it, as the past few months had irrevocably proved, but – having sex with Amanda the night before would have been a mistake, one they would both regret later. He had felt so raw, so close to going to pieces, that not having sex had been an act of self preservation. He also knew, felt, that it would have been wrong for Amanda as well. She was right, it wouldn't have been a pity fuck, but it would have felt like one. And if what he wanted was just some sex, he could have gotten it anywhere. If what he wanted was to just get off and bask in the chemicals of post orgasm bliss he would have picked a random stranger in a bar – it would have been far less dangerous than seeking out Amanda.

Yet – he hadn't let her go. He had seen the confusion, the doubts, the many questions crossing her features, and – he had known that he couldn't let her go, so he didn't. And perhaps he had made things worse for him, because he had fallen asleep smiling. He had remembered what it was like to fall asleep with someone in his arms, someone whom he trusted, cared for.

He had forgotten the sheer intimacy of feeling someone's heartbeat under his palm, of cold feet against his shins, of hair tickling his nose, of limbs entangled. He had forgotten what peacefulness was really like. And that was scary, because as soon as Amanda woke up he would have to leave, go back to the job, because things were moving fast, and he could actually save hundreds of lives, he could save those girls –

Baby blue eyes, long blonde hair, fair skin. She was just a kid. Just a kid. She was scared out of her mind, high as a kite. She was thin, she must have run away from home – and he had to leave that room. He had to go away, because he knew what was going to happen in a few seconds – and he could turn a blind eye and pretend he couldn't taste bile in his throat only if he wasn't in the same room with that girl.

One life versus a hundred, thousands. Months of hard work – and he could save that girl, he could. He could come up with a plan, with a way out for that girl. He could pretend he wanted to break her himself, he could make her rest and sleep the drugs off. And he could make it convincing. The girl was too young, though; she was not reliable, she would fuck up and he could not let that happen. He wasn't sure he had ever hated his job or himself more.

Amanda shifted, bringing Declan back to the present, to that living room, away from his life under. He clenched his jaws. He had sacrificed a girl for the greater good, he had made a questionable choice. He had to live with it and get it together. Apparently, though, his body had other ideas, because when Amanda shifted again in her sleep, his arms automatically wrapped tighter around her. And that was before, hours before they found out about the blizzard outside.

He would think, later, that he had been still drowsy with sleep, that there were perfect excuses as to why he hadn't noticed the changes in the weather. But the truth was that he was too busy falling asleep again holding a woman that, for all intents and purposes, he should stay away from. And he didn't care.

"Rollins, you're with me!" Declan said.

Amanda blinked her eyes, surprised by lieutenant Murphy's request. Somehow she had expected him to go undercover with Liv at the gallery. She hadn't expected him to want her with him. If working undercover with lieutenant Murphy had been hard, having him as her C. O. was – difficult, sometimes. It looked like he was constantly testing her, sniping at her. Not that she didn't deserve that, considering the way they had met, but she had thought that lieutenant Murphy trusted her, that he had been sincere in wanting her to have a second chance.

"Is there a problem, Rollins?" He asked.

"No, sir. Not at all." She replied.

He was trusting her enough to want her with him at the gallery, that would have to suffice.

She just had to play the part while he did his thing, which kind of became her mantra when she saw him in the squad room, dressed for the part, before leaving. She was not unaware of that undercurrent between them; she had noticed it while undercover, but things had been too hectic and crazy and dangerous to dwell on that attraction that was there, despite everything, between. Ignoring it had been easier when he had become her boss, because despite what he had told her about having a blind spot for men in position of power (if only he truly knew how much she had paid for that), and despite the fact that Murphy was a good man, that he was not Charles Patton, she truly didn't want to risk making the same mistakes twice.

But – he did not only was dressed for the part, he had become the man he would play at the gallery: his posture and his movements were different, all confidence and slick elegance that spoke of money and power, and the look he gave her when he saw her felt different, somehow. Damn it! What was her problem? She tried to rationalize it.

She saw how he masked the appraising look he had first given her with blank professionalism (because they were cops, and that creep at the gallery fantasized about torturing and killing young kids and he needed to be stopped.) and she did the same. And it didn't matter that she liked what she saw when she glimpsed their reflected image in the mirror.

It didn't even matter that working undercover, even for a short stint, with lieutenant Murphy was easy, that she felt like a better cop when working with him (whether they were in an art gallery or in an abandoned warehouse looking for Liv and Amelia.)

It didn't matter.

Whatever there was between them, whatever weird mutual and unspoken attraction had developed between them it was better to just pretend it wasn't there.

She was a pro at that.

"Amanda…" Declan's voice tore through the haze of possibly the deepest sleep she had had for years.

Amanda made a sound, realizing that she had used Declan's shoulder as a pillow and that his skin was warm. Very, very warm. She opened her eyes, waiting for the inevitable freak out to hit her, full force, for her body to move – but it didn't happen.

She rested her chin on the man's shoulder and smiled.

"Hey." She said.

That was weird. She was supposed to feel panic, she was supposed to do something – either about the fact that she had spent the night tangled in her former's boss arms, without having sex with him (because Declan was honorable and had decided that his life's mission was to save her from herself.) or because she was still in the man's arms and she felt like she could spend the day like that.

Which was not normal. Not for her.

"I didn't want to wake you up –" He said, "but it's getting late. Aren't you working today?"

"Week end off." She replied.

Declan looked confused for a moment, before he asked, "What day is it?"

"Saturday." She said. And it hurt to think that Declan had lost the count of the days. Just – how bad things were for him, really?

Declan must have noticed – or he had seriously amazing skills in reading her – because she felt him tense.

"I should probably go." He said. He made no attempt to move, though and Amanda felt like she had skipped something, maybe the part where she freaked out or he made up excuses, because she could only smile when she said, "You stayed."

Declan smiled, and Amanda thought that she liked to see him smile – she hadn't had many chances to see him smile since she had known him, which was too bad, because he had a beautiful smile, it made him look younger, it made him look like a different man.

He hesitated for a moment before brushing away a lock of hair from her face with his fingers, and once again she felt like she had skipped some important part – she felt like things were supposed to feel more complicated, like she wasn't supposed to feel so content.

Declan did not reply to her, but she hadn't really expected him to for some reason. He had stayed. She had not woken up alone, wondering whether the man was okay. And he was still there, looking at her with an inquisitive look in his blue eyes.

"I honestly thought – " She sighed, "I don't know what I thought, Declan."

"That I would leave before you woke up, apparently." The man replied, he was still smiling, but she recognized the way he was looking at her: he was reading her, probably like an open book, and she thought that the fact that it didn't make her uneasy was just another item to add up to the pile of things that weren't supposed to make sense but they did when she was with that man.

She shrugged and realized only a second too late that she had placed a kiss on the side of his neck. She didn't do it on purpose or to tease a reaction out of him. It had just felt natural – and it still did, and she decided to give up on trying to make sense of things, it was too early, she was too content, too mellow with a good night's sleep to.

Declan didn't seem to mind either, if possible (and it felt like everything was, right at that moment), he held her even tighter at him, his fingers slipped underneath her shirt and that was like a jolt of electricity.

It wasn't the first time Declan touched her (and with hindsight she realized that she should have wondered why, despite having ripped her shirt open, his touch had been so gentle.), but that wasn't the past, that wasn't an assignment, that was them, on her couch, wrapped into each other's arms as if it was second nature to them, and Declan's touch was real, it was not a ruse.

"I should go." Declan said and his voice came out a little hoarse, and she could only nod, at first, acutely aware of both her body and Declan's reactions to their proximity.

"You said that." She said eventually.

"Smartass." He replied with a smile.

"You don't have to go – if you don't want to." She said, and a distant part of herself wondered when, exactly, her body had started to act of its own volition, because she was tracing the man's profile with her fingertips and it felt so intimate, that she when her mind caught up she was tempted to stop.

"What I want is not really the issue here." Declan said.

Of course. He had a job to do, a trafficking ring to take down, lives to save – but didn't he see the toll it was taking on him? He did – and he had come to her, the night before and she still didn't know what to make of it.

"Mmm –" She mumbled, and somehow, for the past few seconds, while Declan was being a stand up guy and she was trying not to tell him that perhaps he should think about himself for once, since he would have to go back under, after, their bodies had started rocking against each other's.

They both realized what was going on at the same time, there was a moment where she could honestly say that she could hear both their heartbeats in the room and the soft sound of the rustling of fabric and then – they were both chuckling; they were being ridiculous, acting like horny kids rather than the adults they were and it felt so good to laugh, to feel the laughter bubbling up in her chest, that she didn't care.

"Alright – point made!" Declan said, but despite the gruff tone of his voice he was smiling and looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him. He looked like he had made peace with something in his mind, in his heart.

"Ok, why don't we – take this in my bedroom?" Amanda asked and she didn't try for sultry; the thing with Declan was that he had seen her at her very worst and she didn't have to pretend with him, she could be herself, with all her baggage and fuck ups, and it was liberating.

"Just out of curiosity, Amanda –" Declan said and the way he was tracing patterns on her back with his fingertips was distracting; she nodded her head wishing Declan would kiss her already and the fact that he still wasn't, despite she could feel how much he wanted her, was somehow incredibly arousing.

"Am I stepping on any toes here?"

"Not really." She said. And she really didn't want to talk about it.

"Fair enough." Declan said, "So, you were saying something about moving to your bedroom?"

"I'd like that." Amanda said, and Declan seemed to agree with her.

When she noticed the blizzard going on outside, making it impossible to even make out the shapes of the buildings in front of hers, she was in Declan's arms, as he was carrying her in the bedroom.

"Oh, my God –" She said, and the look on Declan's face when he peered outside the window would have been almost comical in other moments.

"How did we not notice?" He wondered aloud and Amanda could only shrug her shoulders, choosing to ignore the weird, sudden, dance her heart had done at Declan's words, at the possibilities ...and how much she liked him using we with such ease.

Who are you? She wondered.

She didn't tell him, though. Declan looked relaxed, he was smiling...the job seemingly far away, for once.

"Looks like you're stuck here for now." She said.

Declan's only reply was a deep, scorching kiss. The first of many.

The call came at night, on his other number, the one only a handful of people knew.

Declan blindly looked for the glasses he kept on the nightstand and put them on; he looked at the display of the phone, recognizing right away the number.

Right. He thought. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to check in every now and then; he had thought that Interpol would deal with that side of things, reassuring NYPD that lieutenant Declan Murphy was alive, had not gone rogue and was still doing his job. Fred Aiello was a friend, though; he was one of the few people Declan really trusted, he usually had his back.

"You still alive?" Fred asked as way of greeting.

"Apparently." Declan countered.

He searched the small apartment he was renting for bugs everyday, and even if he knew the rooms were clean, one could never be too careful.

"You're a ray of sunshine." Fred said, and Declan knew that his c.o. had probably scoffed at what the Interpol report said and wanted to hear it from him.

"It's 3 a.m here!" Declan replied warily, snorting as he turned on the bedside lamp.

"Humor me." Fred said. "What's going on, Murphy?"

And that was Fred in a nutshell; he always got results. He was a good c.o.,looking out for his men, even when the were thousands of miles away working on joint operations with other agencies to bring down a sex trafficking ring and were in a town whose name he couldn't even spell, not at 3 in the morning, anyway.

He sat with his back against the headboard, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his captain had not called him in the middle of the night just to hear the latest report.

"By the way," Fred said in a (too) casual tone after he finished with his report, "Remember detective Rollins?"

"Yes." He said, and he didn't add anything else.

He didn't ask if she was alright (she had to be), he waited for Fred to talk, because he had no doubts he would.

He also knew that Fred would probably read into his paucity of words, even if he didn't show it when he continued, "I ran into her yesterday. She looks about ready to pop."

"Come again?" Declan asked, because his mind had chosen that moment to short-circuit. And he respected Fred too much to pretend that his words hadn't come as a surprise.

Understatement of the year. He thought.

"She is pregnant." Fred said, and he could hear the man's implicit questions loud and clear, "Did you knock her up? Is it yours?"

Fred knew about Amanda and he. He knew because he was a paranoid bastard and he had tracked the GPS on both his cell phones after he had stormed out of his office back in February.

He had tracked him right to Amanda's address because he had been worried about him, because things had been bad, he had been under for too long and the cracks had started to show. He knew. He had always known, even though he had only mentioned it in passing, after. He had never asked what had happened because he knew he would have told him to mind his own fucking business.

"You ok?" Fred asked.

It was the friend asking, not his c.o. and Declan appreciated the concern.

"Yeah. Fine. Thank you." Declan said.

It took him a couple of seconds to realize that he was up, pacing the room with long, measured steps.

"She looks – happy, and she isn't wearing a wedding ring, in case you're wondering." Fred said.

Declan didn't ask him for more details, even if he knew that the man would give them if he did; he didn't even ask him about how far along he thought Amanda was. Fred wouldn't have told him if he didn't have suspicions.

"I might need a favour." Declan said and couldn't help a small smile when he heard Fred sighing on the other side.

The good thing was that Fred would help him, like he always did, without wanting anything in exchange.

"I'm on it." Fred said.

"I owe you one." Declan said and couldn't help smiling when Fred said, "No you don't."

He threw some clothes in a duffel bag he kept under his bed. He could disappear for a couple of days without blowing his cover, he would be in New York in half a day.

"She asked me about you." Fred said. "I thought she didn't even remember me, but she did."

Declan stopped. When he had left Amanda's apartment there hadn't been promises, there hadn't even been too many words exchanged. There had been smiles and coffee slowly sipped against the counter, looking at each other, as if they could buy more time that way, and when he had left – feeling human again, feeling light and happier than he had been for a very long time, ready to go back to his job, she had whispered against his chest, "Please be safe."

"You too." He had said, thinking that he needed to leave, before it became too hard to, before he got too used to holding Amanda in his arms and too content with it.

People in Serbia didn't ask him questions, he had made sure those scumbags knew that he was not the kind of man that could be fucked with. He had made sure people feared him and had no choice but to follow his lead.

He listened as Fred gave him the instructions. He didn't have much time, and he knew things would not get any easier in New York. Fred asked him to keep in touch and he grunted his reply before disconnecting the call.

As he took his shower he tried to focus on his cover, he tried not to think about the blonde detective in New York. He would have all the time to think about Amanda during his trip back to New York, he would have all the time to go back and think about the week end they had spent together in February and whether the baby she was carrying was his.

He would have all the time to go from, "Jesus Christ this can't be happening." To, "I want this.", from, "there is no way the baby's mine." To, "I know when it happened." And the thing was – it didn't matter how crazy it was, he knew exactly when it had happened.

The blizzard had finally quieted down, things were slowly coming back to normal and he knew that he would have to leave soon. He wasn't even supposed to have stayed in that apartment, with that woman, for so long. It had been crazy, it had been reckless – and he had loved ever minute of it. Even now, he was supposed to get dressed, instead he was on the couch, holding Amanda in his arms, both of them wrapped in a blanket, Frannie sleeping on the floor, the tv was on but neither of them was watching it.

He could not stay; of course he couldn't. He should also turn on his cell phone, he should slowly start to get back into Bishop's mind, and he would, soon. Just like Amanda would eventually answer her phone (and deal with whatever was her situation with detective Amaro, regardless of his presence in her life.), and yet he made no attempt to move until Amanda shifted, tilting her head up so that her chin was on his chest and they were so close that they could kiss if they wanted to.

And he very much wanted to. Even if he knew how dangerous it really was, on so many levels, to stay there. It did not matter what he might feel; he knew that as soon as the sun went down he was going to leave that apartment, because that was the right thing to do. It was his job.

Besides, Amanda had her own issues, her own demons, he was not going to make her life even more complicated than it already was with his presence in her life.

"You're making that face…" Amanda said.

"What face?" He asked, loving the feeling of her body wrapped in his arms, of her voice low with sleep and aftermath of sex, and her smile touching his skin.

"The brooding one." She said.

"I'm sorry?" He said – had he lowered his guard down so much that she could read right through him? He couldn't honestly remember when the last time he had gotten so close to someone, in such a short amount of time, had been.

"Yeah – you're thinking about the job, aren't you?" She asked.

Declan shrugged, "I'm thinking that I should check my phone, but I don't really want to."

"Then don't." Amanda said, "Even the universe is telling you to take it easy for a couple of days."

"My higher power looking out for me?" Declan asked, smiling, using the same words Amanda had once used.

She seemed surprised by his words, she opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it at the last second, and shifted instead, brushing his lips with hers. "I don't know about that, but …"

I wish I could stay here… he thought. And he really did. "

I know you have to go –" She said, after a moment of silence, "and you will do whatever it takes to finish the job, but now? You're still stuck here with me, until sundown, at least."

"Oh, the hardship…" Declan said, and let out a surprised yelp when she tickled his sides.

He was still laughing when they moved and he was above her, and he already knew how well they fit together, but he loved the way she was smiling, looking at him with absolute trust. And knowing what he knew about her, now, what she had chosen to share with him, he was, once again, humbled by the level of trust that woman kept showing him.

Her skin was hot, almost feverishly so, under his fingertips, and her hair was tousled for having been in his arms for – however many hours they had been together, and her eyes were bright .

"God, you're beautiful." He said and there must be something in his voice or in his look, because Amanda tilted her head on a side, staring at him for a moment.

She didn't say anything, and Declan wanted to tell her that he wasn't just talking about her physical appearance. He was not blind, he knew Amanda Rollins was a very attractive woman. There was more to her than her physical appearance, though – but self preservation was too much an ingrained mechanism, therefore he didn't say anything.

He just stared at her, like an idiot, until Amanda sought his lips with hers, and then – he could not really think. He didn't have to. He just loved the taste of her skin, how responsive she was to his lips, his touch.

"How are you real?" She said, panting against his lips, and it felt like something that had struggled to come out from her mouth.

She was rocking her hips against his, and he could feel against his palms that her nipples were hard, yet she was looking at him, almost embarrassed by her words. He kissed her. He was real with her – he was himself: the good and the bad and the ugly, his issues, his nightmares, his job – how he still believed that he was doing something good, that he was making the difference.

She blinked her eyes for a moment and kissed him, hungrily, shutting him up before he could say anything, for which he was grateful.

"Declan…" she said, taking his face in her hands, "stay with me. Now."

And he knew what she meant, the same way they always seemed to know what the other meant, which was probably the worst thing – the most dangerous. He nodded at her words, letting her kiss him again, and again. Even if with every kiss, it became harder and harder to pretend that it was just sex, that it was just a week end romp; because it wasn't just that – at least not for him.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, in silent invitation – but Declan took things slowly, that time. It was probably the last time he would ever be with Amanda and he wanted to savor it. Which was all fine and good, if it weren't that she was sucking on his earlobe, and he could feel her, her heat, her smell, so inviting and intoxicating. He sought her mouth, kissing her, tickling her lips and cheekbones with his beard (who would have thought? She liked it, as he had found out soon.)

"Declan…" She panted. It was a plea, his name whispered against his lips.

"What do you want?" He whispered, locking gazes with her.

She didn't reply, not with words, she rocked her hips against his, urging him to move. And he did, while still looking at her, and for a moment everything around them seemed to fade. There was just the feeling of their bodies moving together, the heat of her body enveloping him.

They moved together, once again defying the laws of physics and Amanda was above him. She was breathtaking: golden, mussed hair framing her face, bright blue eyes fixed on him, soft tanned skin that he could not stop touching and tasting.

He would leave bruises, perhaps, just like he knew that he had scratch marks on his back and a hickey on his chest, and it was fine with him; he liked the idea of having something tangible, for a little while, to remind him that it had really happened, that there had been a break from his bleak reality made of pretending and dealing with scumbags, with girls so young that they could be his daughters whom he could not save.

She moved over him, setting up a tantalizingly slow rhythm, which he followed, while his hands caressed her sides, leaving goosebumps on its wake. That was the last time he would be with Amanda and perhaps that awareness was heightening each sense, so much that she seemed to be everywhere: he was breathing her, tasting her. He was in her, but she – she was enveloping him and everywhere seemed distant, the only thing that mattered was the two of them, on that couch. She arched her back when his hands went to her breasts, circling her hard nipples with the pad of his thumbs.

It had indeed been the last time they had made love. There had been a shower, after, which they had taken together, laughing and holding onto each other (and they had laughed so much together, and it had been unexpected, at first, that the two of them could so easily have fun and just enjoy each other's company.). There had been hot, black coffee drunk against the counter, shoulder to shoulder, in silence, while his clothes were drying and New York was going back to normal, and he had been acutely aware of the time.

Months later, on the first plane that would take him to New York, Declan Murphy couldn't help thinking about those last few hours he had spent with Amanda, and how he had felt, deep in his guts, that it had been more than sex, more than a week end romp, more than two solitudes meeting, for a few hours. He had been very good at not thinking about her, after. The hickeys and the scratch marks had faded, and he had gone in deep with his cover, never allowing himself the luxury of feeling. Of being truly himself. He needed to see Amanda.

He needed to look at her in the eyes and know whether the baby she was carrying was his. He wanted to know whether it had been that last time on the couch, the time he had felt too deeply, and he had thought that if he stayed longer, if he wasn't careful, he might fall in love with Amanda Rollins.