A/N: So here is the next chapter. This is the main thing that has been going on, hence the title 'Back At Your Door.'

I am done, so I now give you permission to read this chapter.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, APOLO :D

A cackle rang through the house the next night. She never sounded like that, he thought. They made their way to his-their bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Arms tangled and legs entwined. She was beautiful in a Hollywood-kind of way; too much make-up and not enough skirt. She pulled herself away from him for one second; eyesight blurry and breath overtaken by alcohol.

"Lil' Tommy Q-" she started, looking at one of the posts on the four poster bed they had inhabited. It was silk and sheer, but gorgeous and had only been worn once, when they were a 'they' not a 'them.'

All alone with the negligee
That still hangs off of my bed

She got up and pulled it off the post, pressing the fabric against her body. It smelt like her and him; she was too drunk to notice, but he wasn't.

"Can I wear this? When we, you know," she said huskily.

He noticed the want in her eyes, but it wasn't the same. Not the same kind of want he once knew; not the want that had filled his eyes for the past year.

"You can hav-um, no," Tommy looked at his watch, feigning interest in the time, "Look, I have an early morning. I'm gonna have to take a rain check. Sorry." His voice was not sincere.

I keep meaning to give it away
But I just leave it there instead

He drove for two hours; going fast and then slow and then fast again. That's the way his weeks had become; seconds felt like hours and hours felt like flashes from a camera. Finally, he exited the highway and drove out of the city for a few miles. His rights became lefts, but he knew the way like the back of his hand, tattoo included.

No need to cry about it

On his last right turn, he drove past a few houses to his end destination; one he had seen too many times in the past year. He turned the engine off as he sat in his car across the street. He wouldn't get out yet; it was too early. The lights were still on; not all of them, but one. The one that mattered; the studio. She was there, writing, recording, producing or doing whatever she did now.
He didn't know how long he had been sitting across the street staring at her through her curtains until she got his attention. She shut the lights off. It was time. He slowly exited his car and closed the door, leaning against it, waiting. He counted down and took a deep breath.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Go.

He walked across the street, slowly and noiseless. He stepped onto the curb and stood in front of her house. He looked at her car. At his car. He shook his head and made his way to the front door. He took a few steps and stopped suddenly. His breath was caught in his throat as he waited for any sign of life; nothing but the wind and a few cars in the distance. Did she know, he thought. She had replaced the grass that once lined the sides of the walkway that led to her front door with gravel and rocks.

I cannot live without it

He stood in front of her door for a few seconds. He took a deep breath and picked up his left hand. The one that should have a band on one of its fingers, but doesn't. He placed his hand underneath the peephole on her front door and leaned on it. It was if his hand was on her 'heart' and he could feel it beat. He always came back to her 'heart.'

Every time I wind up back at your door

He knew it. She knew it. She also knew it really was her heart that he could feel beating.