Apparently I couldn't stay away from this. There will be more. I didn't want to write a story about the issues this would bring up, but it's still stuck in my head, so here you go. More smut and a whole lot of angst.


I wake to heat. Too much of it. I can feel the sweat sticking against my back and my body glued down and sunk into a too-soft mattress with unfamiliar sheets. Something is moving, but it's not me. The sway of the mattress shoots tension along the back of my neck straight to my head, the back pounding so hard I don't dare try to lift it, my stomach churning to mimic the throbbing in my brain. This is a hangover – apparently it is as bad as they say.

The space around me seems to be spinning and I reach out my arms, trying to steady myself against the flat surface. It helps but serves to also allow the light to filter through to my eyes, reigniting the headache. I need water and Tylenol and something to eat but I still can't quite figure out where I am. I should figure out where I am, but even considering it is making me nauseous, so I close my eyes, focusing instead on taking long, slow breaths to steady this shaky feeling.

It's not until the bed shifts once more beneath me and I catch the scent of coffee and something fried that I consider anything more than breathing. Instinctively, I tilt my head and dare a glance, but the light is too harsh and the world is a blur, so I just groan and turn my face back down into the mattress.

Then Kate – Kate Beckett – let's out a little laugh, almost a giggle, and I hear the hooks on her curtains swish and even with my eyes closed I can feel the darkness return.

Hangover or not, the mystery is solved then. I'm twenty-one and she's brought me breakfast and it wasn't that long ago that I was fucking Kate Beckett. That blush is back and I can't figure out how I missed the smell of sex hanging in the air – never mind that smell of her that had so fascinated me the night before.

"You awake?" Thank god she whispers it, because it still reverberates inside of my skull like a bomb and I must flinch because she lets out a sympathetic sound and then her hand is on my back. The touch is gentle and little too 'poor baby' but I'm not really any sort of position to object. "Brought some recovery supplies for you, they're on the nightstand."

Her hand whisks upward, smoothes back my hair, then disappears. She does too, stepping back from the side of the bed and I listen to her move around the room. I open my eyes carefully, ready to slam the shut if that spinning, burning, throbbing sensation returns. It does but it's muted now, the room cast in shadows and a dim glow from the sun filtering through the drapes.

The nightstand is loaded up with a bottle of pain relievers, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and what looks like a mountain of fried potatoes that matches the one Kate is digging into tucked up in the arm chair near her window. When she catches my gaze, she smiles, silently nodding before resuming her meal.

I glance down at myself, tangled up in her sheets, skin flushed, pressed with lines from linens – and a few that I'm fairly sure are her – still bare. It's awkward because I can't seem to move and she's pulled on a big t-shirt that isn't covering her entirely but is hiding far more than the rumpled cotton tangled in my legs. She's trying to look at her plate, but I can feel her watching me, stuffing forkfuls of potatoes into her mouth to silence whatever thoughts she's having. And she's definitely considering something, pausing to tug at her lip with her teeth; her head lowered just enough to indicate that she's distracted. I just cannot move or stop staring at her and my throat is far too dry to even consider trying to speak so apparently this weirdness isn't going to end until she finishes eating or I manage to pry myself up from her bed.

When she gets there first, unfolding those long legs and moving just beyond my gaze to set her plate on the dresser, my breath catches hard in my chest and I find I can't let it out as I wait. All those things that I'd ignored last night that make this so wrong and so weird are crashing back in on me because apparently I'm too hung over to be turned on by the sight of her barely-dressed, her throat marked with light red blotches from my mouth, standing in front of the mirror, carefully combing and smoothing her curls into something resembling normal. It's a mesmerizing sight and she's gorgeous but my body just can't go there right now, not when I'm not sure I can move without throwing up.

I'm really hoping that she'll say something. Hoping so hard it's bringing back that unbalanced, spinning feeling. She's done impulsive things like this before – not fucking her ex… whatever's daughter impulsive – but she's jumped into bed on the first date, had too much alcohol, gone too far in a public place, probably even made out in the back of a taxi before, but I've never gone anywhere close to this far without dating someone. So I'm laying here, staring at her back and just praying that she knows something that I don't.

The panic is rising, making it all so much worse and I need to move. Now.

Somehow I manage to flip onto my back, breaking the bed's mysterious magnetic hold on my body and the cool air hits my chest. It feels so good, I sigh, forgetting for just a moment that how exposed I am. Then Kate turns (did she see me turn over in the mirror?) and reality hits hard.

She's trying to hard to keep her eyes up, meeting mine, the hand still scrunching her curls going still as she looks at me. I really don't want her to apologize but she looks so damn guilt I'm sure that's what she's about to do. Holding my breath, my hand scrambled for the sheets, tugging and spreading and fluffing until it's draped over me.

"Really, now you're shy?" she teases gently, the word so much not what I expected that I find myself sitting up, squashing the pillows back against the headboard until I'm upright and leaning.

"I just…" I croak out. My throat hurts and head spins and I suddenly remember she brought me water for this. I grab for it, twisting off the top and swishing down a few long gulps, hoping we can just let that go. But she's waiting, as if she thinks I really had something more than gibberish that I was about to say. So I take a few more gulps, then sips, until she shifts, folding one leg under her to sit on the edge of the bed near me.

Once settled, she reaches for the nightstand and grabs the Tylenol, shaking out two caplets and handing them to me. I take them, trying to remember how I forgot about them, grateful that her expression has softened – a small smile tugging at her lips as she watches me. Maybe this isn't the end of the world, but a little reassurance feels good.

"We'll go out for lunch later, talk about all this if we need to. Until then, consider this just part of the experience," she offers. I want to accept but I know I've got to be gawking at her because I'm so sober now and way too aware.

I screw the lid back on the water and put it back on the nightstand to find her climbing into the bed, looming over me and planting one hand on the edge of the mattress while the other one makes it's way to my cheek. Her fingertips are gentle, skimming my hair back behind my ear, then tracing down to the tips. Maybe I am recovering a little because that feels good, no great and I can feel my nipples tighten beneath the sheets as she brushes a bit closer.

Her breath tastes like coffee as it brushes against my lips. I'm stuck in a whole new kind of way because she's hooked that hand behind my neck, tugging me forward just enough to tilt up my chin. It positions me for a kiss I can't return because she's got such a grip on me. I can only open up and let her angle her mouth over mine. And suddenly there's absolutely nothing wrong with being kissed by Kate Beckett.

She pulls back too soon and I can't seem to close my mouth, gaping at her as I watch darkness and desire swirl in her eyes. I want to ask for more but before I can speak, she's already ahead of me – lips crushing mine as she swings her leg over me so she's straddling my thighs and I can feel just how much she wants more.

Breathing is hard as she roughly tugs down the sheets, baring my chest to her once more and mouths, "Much better," against my mouth as she finally releases my neck to shift her hand to rest against my breast. Sober, I feel like a groupie, president of her fan club who won a fantasy night (and apparently morning after) in some contest because my brain just won't stop swooning each time it obsesses with the fact that this is Kate Beckett kissing me. Kate Beckett's hand on my breast. Kate Beckett pressing me down into Kate Beckett's bed and thrusting Kate Beckett's thighs against mine. It's so bad and I'm so awestruck that I can't seem to do anything useful, my hands eventually drifting to her back, smoothing and then grasping at the worn cotton that covers her skin.

My skin feels like it's on fire – tingling and hot and red and tight, preparing itself for her touch – and I'm wishing that we could plunge the room into darkness because it's not just arousal. I'm totally in over my head as her mouth plunges downward, finding my chin, then my neck, then my collarbone. She's way too good, too at ease, and I'm just a melting bumbling idiot grabbing at her shirt. I bet she's not once used my full name in her mind.

But she doesn't seem to mind my lethargic status, shifting and pulling at the sheets, lifting and resettling herself to free it from my frame. Rising up on her knees, she stretches up and pulls her shirt off before coming back once more, her hands slipping down my arms to take hold of my wrists, drags them up above my head holding them loosely as she resumes kissing the living sense out of me.

My hips are rocking upwards without my permission, nearly grinding against her center and she groans appreciatively, breaking the kiss enough to meet my eyes. The need is leaping out from her gaze and somehow gives my hands permission to move, wrestling free from her grasp and giving her a little push back. I feel a little less like a groupie when I find my fingers against her breasts, pushing her further upright. Her weight is resting heavily against my hips, the friction quickly growing slick and sticky from her arousal as I tilt forward and she arches to bring my lips to her breasts. I suck gently at first then graze my teeth carefully against her nipples to find that it makes her swear under her breath. It sounds beautiful and I repeat the move again, this time grasping a bit more tightly, tugging until a little gasp comes out of her that sounds like my name and she rocks her hips roughly down into mine.

I tease each nipple again and again, gradually nipping harder, tugging longer until her hands suddenly clasp my face, dragging me up with a frustrated growl. "God, you're gonna kill me…" I can't help but love the sound of her like this, so I let her kiss me, but slip my fingers back over her breasts and pinch gently at her peaks. Ripping back from the kiss, she throws me a deadly glare, but arches into the touch just the same. I tug and twist, gentling a bit as even the lightest brush is making her gasp, watching her head tilt back, eyes closed.

She's nearly as flushed as me when it's suddenly too much and she's grabbing my hands, bringing one to her face and the other down to where our hips are grinding together. "Enough teasing," she growls, pressing the pads of my fingers against her lips, sucking then licking at them until I'm too distracted to realize that she's lifted her hips until she's molding my fingers against her clit. I try to move my fingers, rub them against her clit, but she hold her hand firm, palm flat and aligned against the back of my hand, forcing me to move with her. It's a strange feeling because she's watching me and kissing my fingertips as she uses my hand to masturbate. It feels voyeuristic watching the pleasure ripple across her face as she rocks our hands against herself, but I'm not entirely sure which one of us is the voyeur and which is the exhibitionist because her eyes are fixed on mine and she's watching just as much as I am.

It doesn't take long, just long enough to make me desperate for more of her skin against mine, for her to get close. I can feel the trembling of her inner thighs around our hands. She suddenly drops the fingers at her lips and purposefully withdraws our joined hands from her center to bring them to my lips. My mouth is already open and she offers those fingers to me, glistening from her wetness and she doesn't have to tell me what she wants. I cover them with sucking, open-mouthed kisses as she moves from on top of me, to the bed beside me.

As she settles back against the pillows, she smoothes her palm along my cheek and pulls me towards her. I follow amazed at how much her chest is heaving as she tries to catch her breath. All those curls she's tried to arrange are once more a tangled, silky mess and I try to smooth them back from her face as she speaks, "I want you to use these…" Her finger finds my lips then, dragging across the bottom then the top, her other hand heavy on my shoulder, pushing me downward.

I can't do anything but obey, letting her guide me to the space between her legs. She's stretched back, propped up watching me as I lower my gaze to the wet pink flesh between her thighs. It's intimidating like this now that I'm sober and she is too and I'm not sure where to put my mouth because fingers and fucking are things I know, not lips and tongues and teeth, not here anyway.

I'm thinking way too much and thank god when she finally comes to my rescue, those long fingers of hers appearing on her thigh. She parts herself and slips two fingers across her clit as if to show me. Her other hand brushes my hair back from my face and then presses down. "Please… Alexis," she groans, her fingers insistently pressing into her clit until I relent, lips pressing and sucking as she makes room. Her hand tightens, far more demanding, making my teeth press into her. I have to grip her thighs to steady her, the slick nub difficult to target as she bucks and grinds against me.

There's no need to slip my fingers inside of her this time – she's so close that it seems like mere moments before she's arching, squeezing me maybe a little too much with her thighs. But I slide my tongue against her instead, stroking the length of her folds as she comes down, her fingers nearly knotted in my hair, tasting her until she finally stills.

I have to help her untangle her fingers when her nail catches in the strands, pulling a few out. Laughing, I take her hand and unsnag the offending nail before raking my hair back. When I look up, she's looks almost shy as she props herself up a little higher, wiping her hand against the sheets. She looks rumpled, skin and hair and eyes a bit droopy, and I find myself wishing I'd woken early enough to see her waking. Rumpled looks incredible on her and I crawl my way up to sit next to her.

My chest swells with warmth when she leans into me, rested her heated cheek against my shoulder. I can't see her face, but she's tucked up next to me so tightly I can feel her breathing. It feels good, cozy, and I can't stop the swirl of emotion stirring in me. I'd never really considered that this might be the result of my attraction, never imagined anything but the sensation of her against me. But this, with her snuggling against me and her face hidden behind a curtain of her hair, has me thinking of more. Of this, again and again. And dates and kissing and questions and stories.

Turning towards her, my words catch in my throat as I look down at her. Nestled just above and between her breasts, I can see the slightly dimpled skin of her scar. My mouth had been mere inches from it but yet, this is the first real glimpse of it. Not meaning to, my hand drifts towards her anyway, brushing across her stomach to her ribs, coming to rest along the thin ridge of tissue there. I can't see this one, but I can feel her tense as I make contact; she pulls back a bit and I quickly realize what I've done and drop my fingers down to her waist.

Something clutches tight inside my stomach when she doesn't relax. I still can't see her face, but her breathing has grown unsteady and hot against my shoulder. "I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's okay. Just…" she interrupts. "I'd just nearly forgotten it was there."

So did I. I'm tucked up against a real-life Superwoman, survivor of a bullet to the heart. My internship in the morgue had taught me just how close she had certainly been to death that day, even if no one ever truly let me in on the details. At the time, it had been terrifying. Now, with her alive and breathing and very much healed next to me, it's inspiring. I can feel her trembling slightly and want to tell her this but I can't find words that don't make me sound like school girl with a crush, so I swallow my words and just bring my fingers back up, playing across her scar.

She lets out a long sigh and I feel her tighten against me. I should stop, but I can't seem to make my fingers listen. It's stupid, I know, how I'm romanticizing this moment, this entire experience. She's never been one to let anyone in and I'm in, way in, and the feel of that rough skin under my fingertips is evidence. In the back of my mind, I know that this can't go anywhere, but for now, I give in to the illusion that we could hide this. Carry on. Make them all understand or run off together, damn the consequences. I'm floating on the possibilities as we linger in silence.

Her next move is sharp and sudden.

Pushing off the pillow, she launches herself up onto her knees, dragging me along with her. I'm not sure where we're going, but I follow. She glances back at me as we get off the bed, eyes flashing with something I can't quite read. It feels dangerous – more so than anything else we've done – because her grip on my wrist hurts.

When she drags me out into the hallway outside her bedroom, I balk, confused. We're both still bare and even though I know that she lives alone, the thought of being out in the big open living room like this feels like too much. But rather than explain, she jerks me roughly against the wall, pinning me by my shoulders. She looks fierce with this teasing grin on her face and I just wish she would say something. My heart is leaping up into my throat and I just don't understand.

She smudges her lips against mine and I just melt. The drag of her mouth peels back something and I strain against her hands, urging my lips back into hers until she lets me taste her with my tongue. "Kate," I groan into the kiss, my heart pounding as her fingers curl, digging into my skin roughly.

I manage to get my hands on her waist, skimming along the bare skin when suddenly she's ripping her lips back from mine, ragged gasps masking a low curse. Ducking, she lets her breath warm my shoulder as she tries to catch her breath. "Stop," she huffs.

I try to clutch her tighter, urge her on, but she drops one hand just long enough to push my hands down, then slams me back hard, holding her body back from my own. She doesn't speak, but the message is clear and I let my hands drop down to my sides. Her eyes are alive with flashes of green, vaulting themselves across my features as she seems to search for the ability to form sentences.

"This is so messed up," she hisses. Her eyes fall shut and she lets her head fall back without giving me an inch to move. "How…" The rest is caught up in a heavy sigh and then she just falls silent, her chest rising and falling heavily against me.

After a moment, she shakes her head and lets out a heavy sigh and I can feel an apology trying to form on my lips even if I have no idea what's going on here. I manage to bite back the words, but find myself squirming. The move seems to startle her and she shift quickly, pressing her hips into mine to intensify her hold on me.

At this point, I'm just shaking and waiting while she drags in breath after breath with her fingers dug into my bare shoulders. Truthfully, while there is definitely something really good about just how strong and powerful she feels like this, I am definitely slightly terrified because reality is crashing back in fast and my hangover is pretty much gone, leaving just the truth to burn into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I stammer out for lack of anything else to say because she's still not speaking. Still hasn't even opened her eyes.

But at my words, she lets out a huff of a laugh, her head dropping between her arms. "It's not your fault. No one's really. If anything, it's mine for being so goddamn stupid."

Slowly she lifts her eyes to my face. My pulse flutters but then she's releasing my shoulders, backing up. There's all this space between us before I can react and she's about to turn away when I stop her. Blindly, I reach out and take hold of her wrist.

I have no idea what I'm going to say or do, but she stops, even if she doesn't turn back. Just waits.

I'm not even sure what part she's exactly talking about because there are a lot of reasons why this is messed up and it's not like I can explain them away. We got caught up in the moment, didn't think through the consequences, went with our guts (or rather our libidos), let the alcohol blot out our better judgments, and just generally declared damn the consequences. I didn't have an undo button or even any sort of comfort for the tense woman who was so passively remaining in my grasp.

So I let her go. Watch her retreat back to her bedroom and try not to watch as she tugs on clothes, unable to push myself off the place where she'd planted me against the wall.