A/N: Once again, I come bearing tidings of great apologies! Know that even if I disappear, I shall return, because these two are imprinted in my brain and refuse to leave. Enjoy!

To all the wonderful people who continue to review, support, prod, analyse, and even yell at me to continue. I love you and and I thank you. And please don't kill me at the end, I swear we're getting towards something I know you've all been waiting for, honestly. Beware little nigglings of angst xx


It's a little strange, definitely different, but in the few days that span between Christmas and New Years, Will wakes each morning to a wisp of vanilla, soft tendrils of brown tickling his nose and the warm press of a body curled tight down his torso.

Mackenzie stutters into waking with little snuffles and sighs and Will holds her tight around the waist, toes curled in the sheets at the edge of the mattress and silently prays this isn't the morning she decides she should go home; wants to fall asleep after a long days work with her soft body each night and wake to her muzzy bright eyes more than is possibly healthy.

They shuffle around each other without words – Will presses his cheeks into the shower tiles and groans in frustration as the water pounds down around his shoulders and Mackenzie tip toes bare foot across the kitchen to pour herself tea. She dresses in the spare room but has no real qualm about passing by him in her underwear – they've seen each other stripped naked in so many different ways that little slithers of skin and such intimacy hardly bothers her.

It drives Will insane, however, so he begins running his hand around her bare waist when she passes him by, just to test the delicate shiver down her spine and the dark flash of her eyes as she falters.

Work slows over the Christmas break – everyone on holidays and the snow falling thickly – there's very little New York and the surrounding areas can get up to in such weather – and the rest of the country seems to follow and take a deep breath and calm, and Will wishes the rest of the world would follow.

He sits behind the news desk and discusses the pass over of leadership in North Korea, the continuing unrest in Syria, in Yemen, in Egypt, in Turkey; takes a deep breath each evening and a swig of whiskey because how the fuck can the world be so messed up during this week? How the fuck is he reporting on the deaths of worshipers in Nigeria who'd simply gone to church to pray?

It's in these moments, late at night with his tie slung low around his throat and the press of his dress shirt like an iron cage across his chest, that the thought of another soul sleeping by him is enough to wipe away four years of heartbreak and betrayal and mistrust - and perhaps that should terrifying him, that he's finally finding it so easy to forgive her – but he's steadily realising that he has a choice to move forward and its in the hesitant knock at his door and the slope of her neck and the curl of her lips when she slips into his office late in the evening.

"Ready to go?" she asks, hesitating by the corner of his desk and her voice is small but hopeful, as it has been every night she's sought him, as if she's afraid this time he'll shake his head and say no.

"Yeah," he smiles instead, and shakes his thick coat from the stand by his door to pull over his shoulders.

Mackenzie has a bright red scarf wrapped around her throat and red mittens that should look ridiculous, but she somehow gets away with them because she's always been half-nymph. Utterly enchanting to behold and admire and god forbid you fall under the spell of Mackenzie McHale; because there's no escaping it, Will's learnt.

He stops by his door and she swivels back towards him, just a few feet into the main newsroom and Will really should have more self control, but he can't help but reach out and tuck the strands of her scarf that have fallen loose in and under her coat. Her breath hitches and Will smiles knowingly, running his hands along her shoulders and down the long expanse of her arms to tickle at her fingers and Mackenzie is left breathless, two red smudges high on her cheek and the most darling smile hesitating to break free. Will squeezes her hands tight and then guides her softly towards the hallway.

His hand lingers on the small of her back and he hopes she can feel it – hopes she understands that his touches and his smiles and his caresses are his apology – a way to say yes, I forgive you. Yes, I want this – not just this child, but you and me.

Yes, this is happening.

He can't say the words yet, but he can feel them and he can live them, so he tucks his arm around her waist tight in the empty elevator and presses a kiss to her hair and lets them be.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

ooo

Sloan notices this moment, Will's gentle smile and warm touches and the radiant beam of Mackenzie trying to stop from giggling like a schoolgirl.

It's late at night and she's usually gone before them but Don had been in the doorway talking to Maggie as she'd tried to leave and so far she's managed to stick to her promise of not making eye contact with him, let alone walk near him, so she'd hid in her office until he'd shuffled off to run the ten o'clock show.

Now the newsroom is emptier and Will and Mackenzie have slipped into the elevator – Sloan trailing behind them like a lost soul, eyes wide with disbelief, because Will's arm just trailed around Mackenzie's waist and she's leant up against him and he's pressing his lips to her hair and holy hell, Sloan thinks, when the fuck did that happen?

ooo

"William!"

Will startles on his way to his office and barely catches sight of Sloan before she's grabbed his coat sleeve and dragged him inside.

With a flourish she presses the door closed and locks it before turning on him, body still pressed to the door, hands on either side and her eyes crazy.

Will sets his briefcase down on his desk and prays that the market hasn't crashed.

"I don't usually interfere with other peoples lives," she starts, and Will feels his stomach swoop. This can only mean bad things – very, very bad things. The last time Sloan was involved in his personal life he had a gun pointed at his chest.

"Really?" he asks, and the arch of his eyebrow reminds her of that incident.

She shuffles and crosses her arms, mouth furrowed, and Will starts unpacking his briefcase because the only way to deal with Sloan is to let her speak and then say as little as possible.

"I said I don't interfere much," she stresses – and really, she tries not to. She never knows what she's doing or seeing, and the last time she tried she ended up pushing the only man who's ever really given her butterflies into the arms of his girlfriend, but she's pretty sure there's no room to be wrong when Will had his arms wrapped around Mackenzie. There's only so many ways to interpret that altercation, and as Mackenzie's friend it's her duty to enquire.

So she tries a different tactic. "How did you spend your Christmas?" she asks him, trying for nonchalant.

Will's disbelieving gaze levels on her and she stiffens – her tactics would perhaps have worked better if it wasn't December 30th and Will hadn't been dragged into the group discussion of the holidays three days earlier.

"I ate turkey. Drank wine. Watched It's a Wonderful Life three times. You?" he throws back.

"My father got drunk and tried to convince me to marry the nice boy they just hired at his work."

Will pauses; tips his head to the side in a small nod of sympathy and then collapses into his desk chair, slinging his feet up and onto the smooth wooden surface. He crosses them at his ankles and plays idly with the corner of one of the folders sitting on his desk.

"Was there a reason you crashed into my office at," and at this he pretends to check his watch, "8:30 am on a Friday morning?"

Sloan shuffles and frowns neatly at him. Now that she's here she doesn't quite know how to phrase anything. For instance she could say, I saw you holding Mackenzie on Christmas Eve, or Last night you disappeared into an elevator with her and practically inhaled her hair, or you've been a lovestruck teenager the past week and Mackenzie is no better, what the fuck did you get up to over Christmas?

But instead she settles on, "Mackenzie seems happy recently."

Will, if he was at all startled, doesn't show it but instead grumbles slightly and tips his feet off the edge of his desk, sitting properly. "Mackenzie has always been too happy at Christmas," he mumbles, but after a second he seems to pause and Sloan thinks she might have stumbled across something.

She waits him out as Will's steady gaze creeps up towards her, meeting her with a stern glare and his own crossed arms, as if he's finally realized what she's hinting at.

"Sloan?" he demands, and she shuffles impatiently.

"I saw you last night."

Will crinkles his brow in confusion.

"A few million American's saw me last night Sloan. I was on national television."

"No, I saw you and Mackenzie last night. Leaving the building."

"And?" he asks carefully.

"And you looked comfortable, and happy, and you had your arms wrapped around her Will, what the hell do you think I'm talking about?"

She huffs and purses her lips, staring down at him, as Will ponders her words.

"Yes," he finally mutters. "And?"

"And I want to know what's going on."

Now he laughs, and Sloan fights the urge to stamp her foot like a five year old.

"That's really none of your business," he tells her, and then busies himself with his paperwork.

After a minute he looks up, because Sloan is still standing there, waiting, and he sighs impatiently. "Sloan," he grumbles.

"It is my business because she's my friend. Possibly the best friend I have and I know what she did to you was terrible. I know what it's like to be cheated on," she says, and hopes the hitch in her voice isn't noticeable (Thomas, bastard), "But I also know that you've treated her terribly this past year and she still loves you despite it. She loves you, Will. And if this is you stringing her along, then I'm not going to sit back and let you," she takes a startled breath and feels the rush of impudence burn through her, hot and alive and wonderful.

"And I think you love her too," she breathes, quieter but so self-assured. Will marvels at this woman sometimes – she has such eloquent strength hidden beneath layers of facts and brash comments and dark eyes.

"I do," he tells her, because sometimes honesty demands honesty. "And I'm not playing with her. Not anymore."

Sloan seems to deflate, exhaling loudly. "Good," she tells him, and then nods once, now awkward.

She makes to move towards the door with a little shuffle, not quite meeting his eye, and Will feels the words jump up his throat, like he can't control them, like for the first time he desperately wants to tell someone what's going on in the hope they'll just understand and explain it to him in a way that makes sense.

"She's pregnant," he stumbles, and then immediately regrets it because really, Mackenzie should be making that decision, especially when it comes to Sloan.

He has, however, managed to stop the Economist in her tracks; mouth open, eyes wide and lips working towards words. Slowly, slowly getting there as she turns back towards him, and then, "What?" she breathes, eyes darting to the far wall where Mackenzie's office sits next to his own.

"I probably shouldn't have told you that. I'm sure she wants to herself. But so you understand?" he offers, shrugging lightly.

"And you're...?"

"Yes," he says quickly.

"Shit," Sloan breathes, and Will thinks that sums it up fairly well.

"That explains a lot," she murmurs, and then turns slowly, headed out the door. "I won't...I won't mention it to anyone," she tells him, and Will nods in thanks.

"Wow," she mutters, and is gone.

Will leans back in his chair and chuckles to himself, oddly relieved but terrified at the same time because people know now. People that aren't family or his close friends.

Shit.

ooo

Charlie corners him with a smirk and an unfathomable hand movement – Will thinks it probably indicates he should follow the older man, but he's never been too bothered deciphering Charlie's signals so instead he pauses in the main office, crossing his arms with a huff, before grumbling and following the older man as he disappears around the corner and down the hallway.

Will had been on his way to the café down the road to find a sandwich, but apparently that will have to wait because Charlie just keeps walking down the hallway. Will jogs a little to catch up to him, ignoring his rumbling stomach and instead clearing his throat to announce his presence.

"You signaled?" he questions drily, because sometimes he thinks Charlie forgets this isn't 1973.

"Follow me."

"Any particular reason?"

Charlie has a sparkle in his eyes and a swing in his step and a few other metaphors that Will is loath to think about, because a pleased Charlie never results in good things, Will has learnt.

"Charlie?"

"Step lively!"

Will rolls his eyes but follow him into the elevator and it isn't until they're safely enclosed that Charlie turns towards him, "How's Mackenzie?"

Will sighs.

"Fine. She's fine."

He thinks perhaps people need to stop asking him that question and instead ask the woman herself.

Charlie hums to himself and nods, seemingly satisfied.

"And yourself?"

Will flounders for a moment, caught between a flippant remark and an actual conversation. He's never been one to express himself verbally, least not to work colleagues, but Charlie has always been the exception. He's painfully aware that he looks up to Charlie as a father figure – and wouldn't Doctor Habib have a field day explaining that occurrence? But Charlie has always been someone to confide in, and Will values it, mostly because the other man has never been afraid to call him out on things.

"Will?"

"Things are better, I think. We keep getting closer to...everything," the baby, a child, the rest of his life, dammit, "But we're also working through things."

The elevator slows and then stops, depositing them, Will realizes too late, at the roof, not Charlie's office.

"Shall we?"

"It's fucking freezing Charlie and I don't have my coat."

The former marine puffs out his chest mockingly and steps outside "Come on Will, you've got to be tougher than that. In a few months you'll be chasing after a child."

He wants to roll his eyes and possibly weep and maybe also punch Charlie in the jaw for that comment. "Thanks," he mutters, instead. But he follows.

His fingers feel like they're going to freeze off in seconds and the cold seeps straight through his bones, to his heart and his lungs and he breathes it in, coughing quickly.

"Are you really working things out?" Charlie questions softly, and Will goes to argue before shutting his mouth.

Are they?

He thinks of waking in the morning to the soft press of Mackenzie along his body, to the trail of her fingers down his spine and the fresh smell of toasted bagels in his kitchen. Thinks of quick smiles in the office and the tingly feeling in his stomach when ever he looks at hers and jerking off in the shower because of her fucking legs wrapped around him at night and then having to be quiet and breathe slowly least he wake her in the evenings – she always falls asleep quicker than he does, and he's always terrified he's going to wake her up.

He thinks of all the little things they've shared since she arrived home at Christmas and how they're somehow mending his heart – she's wormed her way in after three years of hatred and a couple of startling familiarity and in the space of five days she's reminded him that she's the only person he ever wants to spend his life with.

Raise a child with. Marry.

And then he things fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, because they've really worked through nothing at all.

"I don't know," he whispers, watching the blur of snow swirl before him, barely able to make out the buildings all around; the lump in his throat rising quickly.

They've been pretending for weeks and whilst it's helping to fix them it's not going to fix them. He knows that now. Because there's a box in his office that he once used to hurt her, and he's really never spoken to her about how much she hurt him, and he doesn't know why she's suddenly invaded his bed every night, only that he wants it.

"I don't know what we're doing," he mumbles wearily, and without thinking grips the metal pole running along the roofs edge.

He jumps back with a gasp – the metal is painfully cold, searing his skin and causing rapid shivers to run down his spine, tingling through his body and the thick curl of cold air is intoxicating down his throat.

"We need to talk," he says, and Charlie hums beside him, startling Will as he'd almost forgotten the other man was there.

"This is it Will," Charlie tells him, "Don't mess around with it. With her. You both deserve better than that," and that's the second time today someone's called him out on messing with her feelings. He sighs and his breath mists heavy in the air before him.

"I know."

ooo

"Hi," she murmurs, voice clear and high and strangely innocent; Will startles from where he's attempting to tie his tie and glances up as Mackenzie leans against his door.

"You ready?" she asks, nodding at him.

He shrugs. Sure, he's ready for the show tonight. Anything else? Not so much.

But she's beautiful and careful and watching him with sparkling eyes. "I seem to be having problems with this tie," he breathes; soft least he breaks their moment.

Mackenzie pushes off the doorway and steps towards him, smirk playing at the corner of her lips, "First the pants, now the tie, one day you're going to forget entirely how to dress yourself, aren't you Mr. McAvoy?"

A slow thrill runs down his spine and he thinks fuck, is she flirting?

They've danced and pushed and prodded and caressed over the past two years, but it's been a long, long time since she's flirted.

"You'd have to help me," he murmurs, and she lifts her hands to straighten his collar.

She tugs quickly at the ties loose ends and then drapes it once, twice around, knotting it quickly, like she always used to.

It's late in the evening, almost past 7, and the lights in his office are low, hazy. Mackenzie is close and he can smell the vanilla in her hair – his pillows smell the same way and it would be so easy to lean into her, to kiss her and hold her and love her and ignore everything.

"You could just wear nothing at all," she whispers, eyes focused intently on the knot at his throat.

"Kenzie," he grumbles, low and throaty and she laughs a little before stepping backwards, cheeks stained gently with red.

"How many parties are you invited to this year?" she asks, still within his reach but leant back a little, so at least he can watch her as she tilts her head to the side. It takes him a moment to comprehend her question, a series of What? Parties? Oh, New Years Eve, running through his mind.

He shrugs because he honestly can't remember and wants to go to them even less.

"I think I might just come here," he tells her, and the happy little sigh she gives makes his toes curl.

"Good."

She tucks his collar around his tie properly, smoothing the dress shirt down his shoulders, and in a move eerily similar to his own yesterday, runs her hands down his arms to his wrists. Mackenzie wraps her slim fingers around them and pulls them up between them, cradling them close, inspecting his hands, the curve of his thumb, so intently, and Will wants to shake her because really, is this necessary? Short-circuiting his brain before he goes on National TV?

She leans up on tip toes and Will goes still, her hot breath ghosting along his check and then her lips, cherry red and glossy, nip at his ear and really, this would be crossing a line, only he's been nipping and kissing and sucking at random points along her skin all week, eliciting soft whimpers and dark groans.

He guesses this is only payback.

And as usual he's correct, but also so very wrong, for she whispers, "If you tell anyone else without consulting me first I will make you very, very sorry," dark and sinful and Will feels his heart constrict and burst.

She's gone in a second, the soft swing of her hips, and Will doesn't often feel like a teenager but there are a lot of feelings that Mackenzie McHale elicits and at the moment they're all coursing through him.

Fucking Sloan and his runway mouth, he thinks, and shakily steps towards the doorway.

He's still a hot, flustered mess when the first lines of his script appear on the teleprompter half an hour later.

ooo

Later that night and Sloan is holding Mackenzie's arm tight, whispering quietly to her in the doorway of her office and Will can't help but stop and watch them.

He's sure they know he's there but if they're going to speak in view of the main office then really, they have no one else to blame for his brief foray into voyeurism.

Mackenzie is wearing a pair of dark pants that slide down her slim legs, and a beautiful, soft cream shirt that Will had wanted to pet in the early morning light as she'd buzzed around his kitchen. She'd hesitated at the mirror in his bedroom, standing after putting on her shoes, and Will had seen the momentary pause in her countenance – a brief second of panic before her hand had smoothed down her stomach and then she'd turned to him, hot in the cheeks and mumbling.

"Can – can you see it?" she'd asked, waving at her stomach. "Can you see the bump?"

And Will had stood in the doorjamb, leant against it and still in his pajama pants with a mug of coffee and a piece of toast in hand, shaking his head.

But now he watches her, the easy curve of her hip and her steady stance and thinks yes, he can a little. Just a tiny little change in her body that is their child announcing it's presence to the world.

He feels his heart stutter and the phantom burn of cold against his fingertips from the rooftop and Sloan's words, "Don't mess with her," imprinted in his brain.

He's not messing with her, he promises himself. He's not, he's not, he's not.

ooo

That night she steps delicately into his office and smiles warmly, hugging her arms around her body, and asking "Are you ready to go home?" without really thinking.

The words sing happy in his chest and he thinks, Yes, home would be nice.

But he pauses, for a moment he almost thinks to say no, or ask about her house, and then he thinks of waking in the morning. Thinks of the New Year about to arrive, thinks of their child – shit, this will be the year his child is be born, 2012 – and finds himself nodding before he can stop.

Thinks, I'll always want you in my bed in the mornings.

I love you, I love you, I'm so, so sorry.

"Yeah, home," he smiles instead, and leaning down locks the small top draw of his desk.

He steps around it and she sways towards him, almost on instinct. Their bodies have grown accustomed to sharing space these past few days. He tugs his coat on and drapes a scarf around his neck – Mackenzie has forgone the mittens and her hands are stuffed in her own pockets tight.

"Come on," he whispers, and tucks an arm snug around her waist.

ooo

That night as she tucks herself into his body he flips her over quickly, and presses his ear to her chest, just above her heart as she giggles breathlessly, and with wandering hands lets his fingers dance down to her stomach. He lays his hands there and breaths quickly, feels the sudden jolt of her body under his fingertips, and then a hum as she presses her lips to his forehead. She threads her own fingers through the strands at the nape of his neck, scratching slightly, and they drift to slip with his head pillowed against her breast.

ooo

She's wearing a beautiful black dress that sways gently around her knees, the cut perfect to hide her growing bump and her eyes bright with the lights in the office; Jim keeps spinning her around and around on the makeshift dance floor and Will feels dizzy with her laughter, the cherry red of her lips and blush of her cheeks.

Maggie comes up beside him and bumps her shoulder against him, startling back almost instantly as if her own action surprises her, but Will just smiles softly, sipping from his champagne flute.

They'd told the rest of their small crew earlier in the evening, and whilst the prevailing feeling had been shock and awe, slowly they've all started creeping up to him with bright smiles.

Charlie keeps sending him knowing looks across the now crowded newsroom and Jim has stationed himself by Mackenzie like a puppy – sometimes Will forgets just how much the two of them have shared.

"Congratulations," Maggie smiles, genuinely happy, and Will's heart keeps hammering like it can't quite believe anything is real.

"Thanks," he nods, and heaves a breath in.

Mackenzie takes a rather dramatic twirl and ends up pressed into Jim's arms, giggling madly, and Will wants to walk towards her, wants to pull her up and away and into his own arms, but instead he stays stood beside Maggie in comfortable silence, sipping slowly.

"Are you excited?"

The young woman's brow crinkles as if she thinks it's an odd question, and perhaps it is, after all you needn't be a rocket scientist to figure out how complex and strange the situation is. Will's not sure excited is the right word to use.

"I mean," Maggie tries again, stumbling over her words, "Are you happy?" she finally settles on, and Will chuckles softly, eyes lingering on Mackenzie before slipping away.

"Yeah," he tells Maggie. "I am."

"And you and Mackenzie?" she asks, needling, like all the others have.

Will thinks perhaps he should carry a sign around that reads, We're Figuring It Out.

"We haven't killed each other yet, so that's progress," and Maggie giggles softly.

She seems to hesitate a moment, but then throws her arms over Will's shoulder and pulls him in for a hug and Will thinks, how on earth was I ever so stupid and blind to not know your name? He hates that there was a time when all these people didn't mean something to him.

"Thanks Maggie," he mumbles, and wraps and arm around her waist to squeeze.

Later, and Maggie's dancing with Don, and Sloan is talking to Charlie with wide, animated hand gestures, and Neal has already come up with sparkling eyes and a heavy handshake, saying "Congratulations Will, this is so awesome." Will can't find Mackenzie in the crowd and Nina Howard is slinking towards him like a cat stalking its prey.

He startles backwards and takes a sharp left but then runs into Jim who stops to chat with wide, slightly startled eyes – like he can't quite wrap his mind around the idea of an actual, real baby, like seriously Will, a baby? – Nina finds him and a chill runs down Will's spine at the thought of bubbly champagne up his nose.

At least Mackenzie isn't here with anyone else tonight. He guesses it's sort of implied that they're a duo now.

"Hello Nina," he says conversationally, reaching up to adjust the tie tight around his throat.

(Mackenzie's fingers ghosting across his jaw line and the smell of her perfume intoxicating in his bedroom, her eyes bright and merry as they dressed and the swish of her skirt and god, that woman is going to be the death of him)

"Will," Nina nods.

Out the corner of his eye Will can see Charlie moving towards him quickly, but Nina isn't up for pleasantries, apparently, instead she points Will towards his office and frowns delicately at him.

"I just gave Mackenzie a copy of something that really always belonged to her. I thought you should know," and then she slinks off into the crowd before Charlie can grab at Will's elbow.

"What was that?" the older man asks with a frown, his bow tie a startling, bright purple. "Will?"

"Huh?"

Charlie levels him with a glare and Will shakes his head, confused a second before, Oh, Damn. He spins quickly on the spot and rushes throw the throngs of people towards his office, slipping through the door and shutting it soundly.

Mackenzie is at his desk, sitting back in his chair, eyes closed and lips parted softly in a smile. She barely stirs, and Will takes a moment to watch her, heart in his throat.

"Mackenzie?"

"Hmmm?"

He steps forward, takes another step, circles around his desk and crouches down beside her where she has his laptop open. He doesn't even question how she turned it on.

"Nina?"

"Hmmm. Delivered the rest of your message. All this time and I needn't have got you high, I could have asked her for it and we would have saved ourselves all this trouble," she gestures vaguely to her stomach and Will thinks of his hands on her skin last night. Thinks no, this is the way everything is supposed to be.

"Don't say that," he mumbles, and apparently it was the right answer.

She snuffles happily and Will tips her chin up so their eyes meet – this time last year she was standing on the opposite side of his desk with Wade, but this year, well –

"So you still love me," she says without preamble, and Will feels his heart constrict.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

"I guess."

She snorts and then nods, understanding his reticence to say more, "Good," she mumbles, but doesn't press.

Out his office door Will can hear people stirring loudly – he glances at the corner of his laptop and it's 11:57 – three minutes until the new year.

Mackenzie stands and her skirt swishes softly, Will catches at her waist and she sways into him without question, tipping her head against his chest and sighing, and Will wraps both arms around her waist.

She presses her lips to his chest through the folds of his dress shirt and he presses his own to her hairline, nestling down until he reaches her skin. She breathes against him and then tips her forehead up, meeting his gaze, lips tantalizingly close; he can feel her exhale against his cheek slowly.

"How are we, Will?" she asks, and her voice is breathy, but it aches suddenly, and Will feels his heart clench, afraid.

There's something in her voice that isn't quite right and Will doesn't understand how moments ago everything was good and now its like she's slipping quickly from him.

"What do you mean?"

"Are we good?"

She sounds so earnest, so soft, and he wishes he could say yes, we're fine.

"Mackenzie," he sighs.

"Are we?" she presses, petulant.

He grumbles, people start counting down from sixty and suddenly he understands what she's asking him.

Are you playing with me or is this real, is this for good?

He can't tell her yes, not yet, not when there are still secrets and lies and betrayals hanging between them. To say yes now and then not discuss any of it would be like hanging a noose around any possibility of forever. Eventually it would all come out and he doesn't think they can survive another heartbreak.

But they can talk, and they can move forward. It's a New Year and all that comes with it, yada, yada, yada.

He tips her head up and presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, deep and still and he holds her against him as the clock strikes midnight. It's a gesture startlingly more intimate than if he'd kissed her on the lips, and he hopes she understands why he's saving that for later; for when they are good and whole and ready.

"We will be," he whispers.

And that's true.