A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews! Some of them are very flattering, they had me in tears. I can never say thank you enough. I'm glad so many are enjoying this story so far.

I apologize for being a bit late posting this, I've had a very busy weekend. Today I was finally able to finish it. Sorry for any errors, I was only about to go through it once before posting. I didn't want to leave you all hanging any longer.

Once this chapter is posted I will be catching up on review responses. Again, Thank you all so much for the reviews, and I can't wait to find out everyones feelings about this one.

Enjoy!

In my life, I've owned a lot of easels.

When my interest in painting started my dad went on an easel buying spree.

The attic at the old house was full of them, ones that we had either outgrown or ones that had broken...

Again, Tyler's are genetically coded to be pack-rats.

Whether or not our bee allergy is entirely hereditary or not, genetic fate or chance, is debatable. Either way, Tony and I have always had an EpiPen somewhere on our persons and can't-slash-won't throw things out.

But the thing is, I never use them.

Neither the EpiPen nor the easels.

Well, I would use the EpiPen if I had to…

After work, I came home, washed a sink load of dishes and then settled in on the ground, as is my way, with a fresh canvas propped against the living room wall and a ratty old comforter I've used as a drop cloth for years under everything.

Well loved brushes.

And brown, and green paint under my nails.

Feels damn good.

Mickey is dozing and farting happy on the patio. I've got the windows open for ventilation and because, while not as good as October, November smells so damn nice.

My legs going to sleep forces me to get up and step back and look at the thing, often, which is good. I need to do that and it's easy to forget to step back and look sometimes.

I've spent a lot of my life like this, curled up like a grotesque on a ledge and covered in paint spatter.

What's different about today, though, is that I'm not alone painting.

Amy and Rory are tangled together and stretched out on my couch under a blanket watching Monty Python's Life of Brian.

They'd migrated to my couch from upstairs and at first I felt like my carefully maintained leave-me-alone-while-I'm-painting-bubble had been unceremoniously popped… but now? It's kind of nice having them there. We're not talking or anything. It's just… nice. Social. Easy social.

"Ooh."

I look over my shoulder at the sound of her voice. Er, her moan.

He's rolling her off of himself and trying to extricate himself from the blanket.

"Guys…" I rub my nose, "not when I'm in the room…"

"Unclench. She was lying on my phone," Rory smirks and rolls his eyes at me, standing and pulling his vibrating phone out of his front pocket. He frowns.

"Hello."

He walks out of the room.

Amy grabs the remote and pauses the VHS, I refuse to upgrade any of my Monty Python collection. Not one to be seduced by HD or special features, there's something comforting about watching a VHS that's older than I am.

"That's not a good face," she whispers, getting up, wrapped in the blanket. Okay, fine, it's a Slanket – I like it. And sitting next to me on the ground.

"Huh?"

"That's his Yvonne face."

"Yvonne?"

"Boss."

"Ah…" this brown… I'm being too picky about it, but it's just not working, "They're still at war then?"

"Brutal war, yeah," she presses the tip of her index finger into a glob of an abandoned green experiment on my palette, "I think they're about a day or two away from mustard gassing each other."

She finger-paints a dick on my palette.

"Trench warfare?" I swat her hand away and start contributing a crudely drawn male body to her dick, "How old-school of them."

She watches me and then butts her head against my arm, "Hey."

"Hey."

"You're going to enter, right?"

"Ugh," I thought she'd drop it, "I don't… I don't know."

"You have to, Rosie. You're so fucking good I can't stand it sometimes."

The Cardiff art fair, artists from all around compete.

Jack slid the flyer for it across the counter at me this morning and Amy had spent the rest of the workday unsubtlety bringing it up.

"There's a cash prize, Rose. You love cash prizes!"

"Do I?"

"Of course you do. Who doesn't?" she adds while smudging a truly massive quantity of pubic hair to our artistic collaboration, "It's perfect. You'll get dressed up, look adorable, make some snooty judges an amazing painting and win cash prizes and notoriety. Regional fame and modest fortune! Jack wouldn't be pushing it if he didn't think you were fabulous."

It'd be good for Harkness' if I did well; at least within the high end scene, it's definitely kind of a big deal.

"You paintings are amazing, Rosie."

I'd gotten more practice lately at making pretty coffee.

Every Thursday.

I made a dragon in his foam this last weekend. A dragon. Okay, I was pretty proud of that. I'll admit it… felt like a badass.

"I'll think about it."

Sure I'd think about it.

But there were freaking giants in the scene that dominated that competition every year.

"Fuck!"

Both our heads snap toward the kitchen.

Rory's generally really unflappable. I haven't ever really seen him… flapped.

He's standing in the archway between rooms looking equal parts deject and pissed.

"What was it this time, Tiger?"

"She said it was bullshit. 'Bullshit!'"

"…is it?"

It's a gamble.

But he smiles tightly at me, "Of course it is."

He has lately taken to describing his job at the college as an albatross around his neck. A profitable albatross, but still…

"She said that no one cares about those books to read a philosophical manifesto. And that what I'm teaching is bloody garbage," he sighs, "I'm sick of teaching that... bullshit."

He comes forward, into the room, and drops to his knees before lying belly down on the floor with his head on Amy's leg.

"I'm frustrated," his voice is muffled by her lap. "I want to go out."

"Where?"

"Somewhere fun."

"It's Tuesday?"

They both look at me.

"I've got an idea."

OoO

I'm confident that I made the right call.

Taco Tuesday Karaoke at Torchwood is about as divey as you can get in Cardiff.

But freely flowing tequila and greasy yet delicious tacos? It's worth the chanced exposure to a little Hepatitis.

I push the door open, my ears ringing a little. Holding my phone in my hand, I let the door close behind me, muffling Rory's surprisingly sincere rendition of Katy Perry's E.T.

He really took to it.

Tequila helped.

He's been trying to get Clara on stage for about forty-five minutes. It's actually really sweet.

I answer my phone, plugging my other ear with a finger.

"Hey, Little Bro!"

"Hey Sis, is this a bad time?"

"No. I'm out, but it-"

"You're out?" he gasps, dramatically, "At night?!"

"Yes. I am," so sassy, this brother of mine, "Like an actual young person."

"Are you getting hammered at the club right now? Please, please tell me that you are."

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm doing right now."

"Thank god!"

It's actually quite chilly out here, close to the water as Torchwood is, and I shiver, "Ooh. Ohh, yeah." I offer, dryly, and he laughs, cackling happily on the other end of the line, "Anyway, what's up?"

"Are you so excited to see me in a week? It's okay, you can admit that you are."

I am, actually.

As much as I'm maybe not looking forward to sharing my Tyler Family Thanksgiving with Jimmy (there's no way around it… Mum has officially taken him in under her wing. I get daily emails about his well-being and activities… like a tiger or an Ethiopian child I've symbolically adopted for a dollar a day. I feel like she's barely holding back from attaching photographs of him that she'd want me to put on the fridge.) I am genuinely excited to see Tony.

Add to that the fact the Rory and Amy have also RSVP'd and… well…

"I am. Yeah!"

"I, um…" he's smiling, I can hear it, "I'm bringing someone with me."

"Whaa?" Defensive Older Sister Mode Engaged. "Not the I-Love-You, girl!"

"Not. God, no. Blech. No… someone else. She's flying back with me… so… um, anyway… you can pick her up too, right?"

Tony is flying in about two hours apart. I was picking him up.

"I, uh… yeah. I have room. I can… yeah. Is she your girlfriend?"

I'm teasing, but I really do want to know.

"No! Yes. I don't know… don't tell Mum. Hey, what about you?"

I made a dragon in his foam. We've reached that level.

Relationship Threat Level Dragon Foam.

"We've hung out."

"Since Halloween?"

"Yeah."

"Good! Ugh… I still can't believe you let him go."

"What was I supposed to do? Tie him down?"

Oh, god, no… DON'TTHINKABOUTIT.

"How's The Lodger?"

"Mum loves him."

"She always has."

"I know."

"You never told her about everything he did?"

"No."

"Oh, will you ever tell me? I know it's not good, I know he was in Jail not off on some bullshit missionary mission overseas like Mum likes to think."

"Tony…"

The sound from inside gets un-muffled as the door opens. I hear a few strains of a strangled 'I Will Survive.' Rory's drunk-head pops out, "Hey! Get in here!"

"Oh, is that him?" Tony squeaks.

I laugh, "No."

"Who're you talking to?" he smiles like a cartoon fox and slinks out toward me.

"My brother."

"Oh, really?" he leans in close to my mouth and says into the phone, "Hi, brother."

"Who's your drunk friend, Rosie?"

"His name is Rory," I say as he grabs a handful of the neck on my shirt and starts dragging me back to the door, "I think I have to go, Tony."

"Have fun, Big Sis!"

I laugh and hang up.

And then I spend the next five minutes making a complete fool out of myself in front of a bar full of strangers with Rory being the Sonny to my Cher.

OoO

My phone rings.

I wake up, fast.

It's late.

It's really late.

Once you get older than twenty-five, a phone ringing late at night is never a good sign.

Never.

I feel that cold wash of panic clear sleep out of my head and I answer without looking at the name.

"H-Hello? What's… is't okay?"

The line is quiet.

"Oh, fuck! I… sorry, I didn't…" David. I sit up, Mickey perking up next to me, "I didn't realize how late it was."

My heart is hammering, "It's, uh… fine. What's…"

"Can you get to a window?"

Words are stunned out of me, and I kind of grunt the affirmative.

My bed is under the window, and I lay back, looking up and out. The sky is still mostly navy.

A hot yellow light darts across the sky. And another. And another.

A meteor shower.

"Wow."

"Sorry… I just," he laughs quietly, "I can't believe I called you…" Sleep? Forget sleep. I'm totally and completely awake. "…so late."

"No. It's fine. I'm glad," I am, I'm so dizzily, fucking glad, "It's amazing." His voice is in my ear and I'm… I'm most definitely in bed, and there's something about that that is completely overwhelming.

And, oh my god, meteor showers are so fucking neat.

So neat.

And his voice?

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah. I thought you'd…"

He doesn't finish that sentence.

We stay on the line, not talking, and just watch.

My free hand is spread on my stomach, and I try to level out my breathing.

Oh, god, can he hear me breathing? Am I panting into the phone? Am that person?

"What…" I break the silence, "what are you doing up this late?"

"Editing."

"Oh."

"I got caught up… again, yeah… I had no idea how late it is. I just, saw that and…"

Called me.

"I thought someone had died!" I laugh, like a crazy person.

"Sorry…" I hear him cringe, "I don't need very much sleep. I forget that other people… do."

"I don't need that much," That's a lie, Rose Tyler. You're a total curmudgeon unless you get at least nine hours of sleep, "But… you know, some."

"Sorry."

"I really don't care! I'm glad you did."

"Uh… good."

"How was your day?"

I've crossed that line.

"It was good. Busy. I've got a teaching seminar this weekend."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll… be out of town for a few days."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's down south."

"How long will you be gone?"

…I have no right to ask.

"A… a few days."

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah… I um… I'm leaving the day after tomorrow. Taking the train."

We're quiet.

Really quiet.

I want to ask him to hang out tomorrow night.

I want to ask him to come over.

A really completely insane part of me, one that's very painfully awake, wants to ask him to come over now.

I want him here, with me.

I want him in my bed.

I could just say it. Right?

I could say, 'David… there's no way I'm falling asleep again tonight. Do you want to come over?'

No…

'…please come over?'

Or is that needy? I guess it'd depend on how I'd say it.

How would Rory say it?

'…come over, please.'

I could.

And he could be here.

Oh, god, I want that.

I could do that and be happy.

Assuming he'd say yes.

And assuming against odds that he'd, you know, get into my bed.

Damn you odds.

Anyway, I could ask.

But instead I hear myself say…

"Trains are great."

No! I shake my head.

"Hmm."

And that's enough.

That 'Hmm'.

I'm in a barrel and I go over the falls.

"Come over." Oh, jesus. "Tomorrow." Oh, fuck. "I'll… what… I'll make dinner."

"…sure. Yeah. What time?"

REALLY?

"Seven?"

"That's early."

"Uh… seven-thirty?"

He laughs, "Okay."

I give him my address, mumble something about opening at work and we hang up.

Because I will only manage to screw this up more the longer we talk and I, for once am going to end on a high note.

And then I proceed to lay there until I have to get up for work and grin stupidly up at the ceiling while Mickey enthusiastically licks himself next to me.

OoO

So, this had all seemed like a really great idea between 4:07 am and 10:00 am.

A victory.

I was a master of my own destiny.

I was capable of change and growth and I was not, in any way that scared young girl who always walked on eggshells.

No.

No longer!

I was a new Rose who was fully capable of inviting the cute brown-eyed professor over for a casual dinner at home.

I was a new woman for just under five hours. It was great.

But when he walked in?

What have I done?

I feel like I'm not wearing my good jeans, but instead am back in my school issued gym-shorts which were always, ALWAYS, way too short.

He's wearing his blue suit and that really sexy coat.

Not brown.

Blue.

I love the blue suit.

And his camera is around his neck, and his bag is over his shoulder.

I can't do it.

Why did I think I could?

What madness was it, exactly, that made me do it?

Maybe I wasn't actually totally awake. Maybe I was sleep talking.

He shakes hair out of his eyes. "Hey."

"H-hey."

I'm standing there with his tea in my hand, ready to go, ready to…

"You okay?"

No.

I am a giant deer in the middle of the road. But… a sentient deer. One well aware of the fact that a smarter, more socially adept deer would just get out of the ROAD.

I see Clara out of the corner of my eye, re-stocking bags of the holiday flavored whole bean.

"Yeah…" I swallow, and shake my head, "Just got… umm… kind of dizzy for a second."

He looks worried.

And that's crazy.

I feel sweaty. The back of my neck feels tight.

What is wrong with me?!

I must look much worse than I feel because he steps closer to the counter and says quietly, "Do you need to sit down?"

I hand him his tea, because I feel like my hand is shaking.

"Yeah… maybe."

I am aware of Rory, watching over the edge of his laptop completely still.

David sets the tea on the counter in front of himself.

"Sit down, Rose."

I nod, and come around the counter.

There's a chair. At a table. Good old chair. My old friend.

David wraps his arm around my waist guiding me to sit down.

And a second later he sits down across from me, handing me a cup of water, taking my free hand in his pressing his fingers to my wrist. I already know my pulse is racing.

"Are you sick?"

"No."

I'm just a coward.

"You okay, Rose?" Clara's standing next to me, twisting a towel between her hands.

The door opens and a vaguely familiar woman comes in, chatting happily with Jack.

"Oh!" Clara touches my arm, "I've got it. Don't worry, Rose!"

She darts over to the counter, Jack greeting her cheerfully after looking at me with a quizzical little grimace.

"Drink that," David says quietly.

This is embarrassing. Really. It's just getting worse.

But sitting down is good.

And… at the very least, he's sitting down with me.

That'd be great!

Under other circumstances.

I drink my water, avoiding looking at him.

Embarrassing.

Maybe I should lie and say I'm sick.

Maybe there's some scrap of normality in that.

"You feeling okay, Tyler?"

I look up at Jack, who has come over, setting David's abandoned tea in front of him.

"Yeah… just… I think… my blood sugar, or something."

Blood sugar! Yes. Brilliant! That's a real thing!

Jack breaks off a piece of the coffee cake he's holding and puts it in my hand, "Eat that. You'll feel better."

I want to laugh.

And cry.

And crawl into a corner.

But it is really good coffee cake.

I eat it.

"Hey, those shots look great, by the way."

I look up. Jack has turned his attention to David who has at some point taken his camera off and set in on the table between us.

"Glad you like them," he says.

"You've got a great eye," Jack glances at me quickly, and then says, "I've been thinking about showing art in the shop. Help out local artists, you know. Donna does it," he gestures over his shoulder at Donna of the Bookstore, who is talking to Rory (who, while politely engaged in conversation, does keep glancing furtively at me with a WTF kind of glare), "so, if you'd be interested, I'd love to have you be the first."

"That would be… great. Yeah," David nods, "Thanks."

"Fantastic. We can hammer out the details some other time," Jack looks at me, "You going to be okay?"

"Yeah. I feel better."

"Maybe go sit outside? Get some fresh air…" he smiles.

"Yeah. That's a good idea."

He leaves after chatting with Clara about the whole bean for a few minutes, taking Donna with him.

"You want to sit outside?" David's hands are folded on the table.

Why is he doing this?

I'm pathetic.

"Yeah."

He stands up, slips his camera back on, and waits for me with his tea in his hand.

I stand up slowly and lumbering, feeling like a depressed sloth, lead the way outside to the bench.

I sit down, and after a second of visible hemming and hawing, he sits down lightly next to me.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"I keep…" I laugh, "so, you've seen me have a panic attack, you've seen me paralyzed from the waist down, and now… blood sugar."

He sips his tea.

"I'm a mess."

"Eh," he smirks, "We're all messes."

I lean forward, my elbows digging into my thighs.

These are my good jeans.

Not gym shorts.

"Do you…" he doesn't look at me, "want to… I mean, tonight. If you don't feel great…"

"No! I'm… fine! I'm fine. I… want to."

He nods, "Okay. I just, if you felt shitty."

"No. No… it's… I'll be fine. I…" I push my hair back, "What do you eat?"

"Anything."

"Like…?"

"I'm not picky."

He's really quiet.

Like, I can hardly hear him over the sound of meandering downtown traffic.

"Should I bring anything?"

"You don't have to."

He looks at me, "Wine?"

God, yes.

"Yes."

He nods, "All right."

I see the top of Clara's head as she peeks through the little round porthole window in the back door, then disappears fast.

I laugh.

"Your friends really care about you a lot," he says softly, the corner of his mouth twitches.

He saw her too.

OoO

I made pizza from scratch.

He brought wine.

I'm already a little tipsy. My brain is so fucking peaceful. Quiet.

All's quiet on the brain front.

I'm stretched out on the sofa and he's sitting cross legged in my big leather chair, which was my Dad's before it was mine.

"Okay, so…" I smile, "Do you like being a professor?"

He's touching the paper of my Ikea lamp, "Sometimes. I have a hard time staying in one place long enough to really have a permanent job. This is torn."

I look at the lamp, "It is?"

He pokes his finger into a hole about an inch long.

"Well dammit."

"Do you like painting?" he asks, reaching for his glass on wine on the coffee table.

"Generally yes. But I'm not good at it."

"Oh, no?"

I shake my head, "Not even a little. I'm always a little surprised that everyone thinks that I am. I figure they are just being nice," I roll my head and look at him, "Really. You're smiling but I'm totally serious. Most my work looks like something a cat puked up."

He chuckles, his head back against the chair.

I watch his throat.

I want to taste it.

His eyes are closed.

"I like your place," he says, voice rougher than usual.

"Thanks. Rent's a little high, but, I like it."

"You get a lot of light in here in the day?"

"Yeah. I work in here."

I have been painting. Every day after work. It's felt really good.

"Hmm."

I glance over at the work-in-progress that's propped against the wall.

Clara and Rory had come over briefly to help me clean (not that I needed that much help… the place was pretty clean and I suspected they were here as a watch to make sure I didn't back out of it).

Clara picked out the shirt I'm wearing.

Rory told me to leave the painting clutter out.

Apparently it's sexy.

I took his word for it.

"It's an old building?"

"Very. I like that about it."

"Yeah?"

"I thought I had a ghost once but it was just some bad piping," I curl up and reach for the bottle of wine and my glass, "You want more?"

He opens his eyes and nods, unfolding to hand his glass to me.

Comfortably high and a little buzzed, I feel good.

I'm happy.

And he's… sitting there and looking warm and comfortable and…

"I'm going to have to find another coffee place," he says calmly, taking his glass from me.

"What?"

WHAT?

"On the trip…" he says.

"Oh! Yeah. Coffee! Are you addicted now?"

"Definitely."

"I try to tell myself that I could stop anytime I want… but I don't want to, you know?"

"Yeah."

"I could recommend some places."

"Other dealers to get a fix from?"

"Ha. Yeah. Wait… does that make me… am I a dealer?"

He shrugs, and smiles and, relaxed though I might be, the way that his lips spread around that smile… my heart thuds out of rhythm.

I blink, fast, and look down at the couch cushion.

"I'd trust your opinion," he says quietly.

"I'll make an annotated list for you," I say, looking up at him, "I'll have it ready with footnotes tomorrow morning."

"I'm leaving early," he says, holding my eye contact.

"How early?"

"Train leaves at eight."

"Oh."

So… I won't see you?

"I'm…" my mouth is so dry, "I'm excited that you're, that your stuff's going to be in Harkness'. I've thought Jack should be doing that for a long time…"

"Show art?"

"Yeah. But I never brought it up because I thought it'd sound like I was… angling. For personal gain."

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" he's not smiling.

"Maybe. I'm not… good at that though," I cringe, "Which maybe explains why I haven't sold anything in about two years."

"You're good. I think," he twists the base of his glass on his thigh, "the piece by your front door? That's…" he drinks, "beautiful."

Without meaning to, I make a weird groany squeak.

I cough to cover it.

"Thanks."

"Rose?"

"Yeah?"

"You…" he's gripping the arm of the chair, and his tone catches me off guard. It's… different. He swallows, "You photograph really well."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The other night… I, um…" he smiles, "got some really good shots."

"Yeah?"

He nods.

When he looks at me, I don't know…

There's something there.

And I'm up.

My brain can't catch up to my body.

I'm not on the couch.

I don't want it to catch up. I don't want it to tell me to stop.

I'm over the chair, with a glass of wine that isn't mine in my hand.

I'm…

I move his wine.

And… I'm over him. Hands braced on the impossibly familiar arms of the chair.

His face is turned up at me, and open, and… like he expected me to do this.

Well, I'm glad one of us saw this coming at least.

He lets his head fall back.

Mouth open slightly.

And I feel his breath on my throat.

"Is this…" I don't sound like myself, but I don't know who I sound like, "is this okay?"

"I want it to be."

It's an honest answer.

"But…"

"I'm not… I'm not an easy person to be with, Rose."

"I think you are."

He smiles sadly and looks at my mouth.

He shifts, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip.

I groan.

And I can barely hear past the sound of it and the blood in my ears.

But I feel him groan too.

"I think you… I think you wouldn't feel that way if you knew-"

"What?" I open my eyes, "just… tell me."

Under normal circumstance… inebriated circumstances… I wouldn't ask.

But I feel him, and leather under my fingers, and wine and…

I feel that bastard brain start to catch up, snatching at my ankles as it tries to pull me back from the edge of… whatever cliff I'm so stupidly intent on dangling over right now.

He frowns.

But his jaw sets, and he stays there.

"I've… only ever been with someone once," he says, haltingly, like it hurts, "I mean… I've slept with people. Many."

"Many?"

"Not…" he blinks fast, "quite a few. But… I've only been someone's one time."

I nod, fast, Uh, yeah, me too. I mean… apart from the sleeping with many of other people thing. We should start a club.

"I thought it was what I wanted. I thought… it felt, normal. No. It felt good."

Sure. Easily the motto for our new club.

"I was his…" his voice cracks, hard, but he doesn't look away, "That doesn't bother you does it?"

Well.

I wasn't expecting that.

Nope.

"Uh…" I lean back a little, more out of the feeling that he needs me to than out of any kind of reaction, but... "No, it doesn't bother me at all."

He exhales and kind of sags into the chair, "Good, that's… good. I was worried that, you know."

"You're worried that it would bother me that you were with another man?" I feel like I'm whispering but it's the loudest freaking whisper in history. I think he can see my pulse, which is fucking racing, because he's staring at my neck.

"It wasn't just… sex. That was…" he licks his lip, looking trapped, "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I'm sorry. I-"

"No, I… I asked," I ease back to sit on the sofa again, but he stops me pulling me into his lap.

His arms hold tight around my waist, as if he is afraid I will run away.

I'm not going anywhere, this is deep.

We're both so damaged, I won't leave him unless he tells me too.

"He… decided when I slept. What I ate. Where I went. And, these," he lifts his arms, "he decided on these."

His sleeves are bunched up near his elbows and the scars look almost beautiful and smooth and light, like art work.

My stomach twisted at the thought of someone doing something so horrible to him.

"And I liked it. I wanted him to do it." He casts his gaze down away from me, he looks so ashamed.

Carefully I touch his cheek, his words swimming in my head.

I wasn't expecting this.

"Is that…" in for a penny in for a pound, I stare at his scars and light stroke his face, "is that what you like?"

Could I be that girl? Could I-

"No," he says firmly, "No, not at all. That's… not what I'm… I actually, uh, hate feeling… like that. Now. It worked at the time. But… I just, wasn't one of those people, Rose. That time of my life things were impossible for me." He pulls me closer against him. I can feel him trembling. "I just thought… if…" he sighs, "I've got some baggage."

I nod, "Okay."

My hands are sweaty.

"So have I killed this?"

"No. Not at all."

He laughs, and wipes wine from his lip with his finger, "You sure? You look like I just kicked a puppy."

Do I?!

Dammit.

"No!" I protest too loudly, "I just… I don't understand it, but you're not the only one with baggage," and I feel like you were hurt and that makes me feel all ragey inside in a way that I could never, ever explain to you or anyone else, like I want to Hulk-out and rip phonebooks, "Just… processing."

"It was a long time ago. And I don't mean to make it sound like I'm… sitting alone at night brooding about it or anything. I'm fine. Really. I just, I thought you should know. Maybe it would help explain why I'm…" he takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, "why I need to go slow."

"Go slow?"

"If this is…" he swallows, "going."

I feel a lot of things.

I feel like crying into my crying-pillow.

I feel like phone-book ripping.

I feel like laughing hysterically on the hallway floor.

I feel like jumping off a cliff.

"I'd… like it to go," I look down at him, I just want to curl up in bed with him and never let him go.

"Slow. I like slow. Slow is definitely my speed."

"Really?"

"Yeah, uh…" I lean forward until my chest is against his then lay my head on his shoulder. His grip on my waist relaxes, but he doesn't let go. "I've only ever been with one person, too. But, I mean… I've really only been with him. Ever."

"Oh."

I laugh, and it feels good, like a purge, "And we broke up five years ago. And… it's been a long dry spell."

I'm not ready to dive into my baggage after that, I need to process it is a lot to take in.

"Five years?"

"Yeah!" I'm laughing, "Isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard?"

He's smiling, and buries his face into my hair, "I've heard sadder things…" he puts his glasses back on, "but, yeah, that's pretty sad."

I laugh harder and reach out to touch his knee, "Christ, I know!"

"Do you even know how?"

"Shut up!" I sit up he's smiling that dazzling smile of his, "Of course I do!"

He doesn't lean back, and he's close and I can see his throat bobbing around a laugh I can't hear.

"Okay. So. Let me just be clear… you're not going to ask me to tie you up, and carve you up like a ham on Christmas right?"

He laughs, hard, loud. Like a purge.

"Christ, no!"

"Because I don't have a whip or anything-"

His head falls forward, laughing out loud.

"No, that's a lie. I do own one. I was Indiana Jones for Halloween when I was ten. So… I have one. Technically. But that seems like ten different kinds of wrong, doesn't it?"

He's still bent, laughing, "No! That's not what I want."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"So…"

"Yeah."

I feel like I've just run ten miles.

But it's out there.

All of it.

We both agree that more wine is in order.

We drink, and talk for a little while longer, not about going or about whips or about dry-spells… but just… talking.

But it's late.

And we're both exhausted.

And he's catching a train at eight.

I try to talk him into letting me give him a ride home, but he refuses.

He wants to walk.

We both stand awkwardly in the dark entryway.

He's got his coat on, and a scarf, and a beanie and it all looks like armor in the dark.

He reaches for the doorknob.

And I hug him.

That's all. Just a hug.

But I feel like I've never hugged anyone like this. And I don't want to let him go, because he just fits there.

And after about a minute, I feel his arms settle around my waist.

He hugs me back.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

I feel him laugh against my chest.