A man sits in front of me.

In a chair. In a forest. Long blonde

legs,

folded under.

Blonde hair, green leaves and red, gold upholstery.

His eyes locked onto something behind me

behind him.

There is a boy sitting in front of me,

where a man was,

In a chair

In a forest

A boy with a different name.

a different home

a different heart

than the man who slipped into a memory, still warm as wax

on skin.

I tore him apart, with my hands with my fingers with my tongue

In the places that he lets himself come apart.

Then I molded him back, fitting things together again, with my hands with my fingers,

What's one more scar?

And whole again he tore

me apart-

"What are you reading?"

David cracks one brown eye open.

"Smut."

He's on his back, awake, and he smiles.

And it's one of those smiles that jumps right past a smirk.

David's real smile is warm and full and unguarded, and happens in bed more often than anywhere else, and it's kind of absolutely my favorite thing.

"Er, poetic smut. It's classy. Is the light keeping you up?" I tent Adam's book across my chest.

He opens his other eye, stretching with a little grunt, arms over his head, "No."

He came home tonight, from the wedding, and by that, by home, I mean he had a cab drop him off here. At my flat.

After a second he reaches tentatively for the book and I let him.

He holds it close to his face, nose literally buried, squinting to read the text without his glasses which are still on the nightstand.

He had felt better after letting me take care of him for a couple of days (and more soup, more Vicks and, as per his very carefully phrased request, a lot of fruit – he was so polite about asking me, but I was actually delighted to head out early and hit the Farmer's Market with the express mission of buying as much fruit as I could for him – he ate all of it), but he was definitely still sick when he left early on Friday morning.

But he came home, inside, and I kissed him and said, "Hey."

His nose was cold against my cheek, but his mouth was warm.

Hot.

And before we ate dinner (store-bought ravioli) he got in the shower and I followed in after him.

I was a girl with a mission.

I was feeling pent-up and lonely after not being near him for days.

He looked so fucking perfect, standing there with his head bent forward, hands pressed into the curve of his lower back…

"Hey," he looked up at me.

He stood with the water hitting his shoulders and I knelt in front of him, welcomed him back, kissing his stomach, his hips, the places that make him tight and loose, sucking his cock and swallowing around him, swallowing him, with his hands braced on my head and the cold tiles.

And god, the echoing sound of his voice, still thick in his chest and his throat from being travel-tired and sick, and that faint, soft accent saying my name when he got close, thrusting and saying Rose, god yes, fuck yes, godfuckgodyes, his fingers at the back of my skull, pulling at my wet hair just hard enough to hurt a little, to make me moan, just before coming in my mouth, down my throat…

Oh, fuck. Perfect.

David.

I missed him.

"You taste so good," I kissed the inside of his thigh while he braced himself of the wall and panted over me, I love your come, David, "Sweet."

He smiled down at me. His eyelashes were wet and thick, and he blinked fast, blinking water from his eyes.

He's so nearsighted. To see anything without his glasses on he has to squint – the TV, the alarm clock, his iPhone when it rings in the middle of the night… always a wrong number from the 212 area code – and the squinting and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes drive me completely mental. Good mental.

Hot mental.

I have thus far stopped myself short of calling him Mr. Magoo. I… I'm fairly certain he would not appreciate that.

But I think it.

But close to each other like that, in the shower, it doesn't matter.

He sees me.

I pushed wet hair out of my face and asked if he jerked off at all while he was gone.

I asked because when he came, he came a lot.

"Not that I'm complaining."

He smirked, water dripping down his hair, down his neck, onto my face and kissed me, tongue deep in my mouth, tasting himself.

"No, I didn't," he growled, he has so much more self-control than me "Did you?"

I nodded. Because, oh yeah.

Before falling asleep, I'd roll over and smell his sweat on the pillow next to me and-

That's how bad I've got it. A whiff of a sweaty pillow and I'm rubbing myself like a lonely furtive teenager and thinking about skin, hands and sweat and dark hair and that smile.

I stood up in the shower, facing him. He looked up at me, close, held on to me under the water, and smiled.

And proceeded then to masterfully rub me off while telling me without any semblance of hesitation and with great specificity, what exactly he missed doing to me while he was away.

It was only a few days.

A few nights.

But he missed doing a lot.

And when he tells me, holding my head in one hand and stroking my clit with the other, his mouth and that low dangerous edge in his voice against my ear, that he missed spreading me open, my legs, missed tasting me, skin, sweat, need, cum, missed feeling me shake under him, stretching around him, before that moment when my body gives in, gives over to him and I moan, always his name-

I cum and hot water ran over his shoulder.

I ran my hand over him, down his wet chest, across his ribs.

"I missed your skin," I babbled, dazed and uncertain how I'm still standing.

He chuckled and coughed, breathing in steam. I had curled against the back of his body, arms around him.

Then dinner. And then shortly after, bed.

Too shortly.

But he was tired from being on the train. And being sick. And working a wedding that was, in his summation, pleasant by disorganized with a pasta buffet table and dry cake.

So while he slept, I sat up reading Adam's book.

Which I'm now only capable of thinking of as friend-fiction.

I've been mentally inserting Rory into every poem that's about a man… and Amy into every one about a woman…

"Huh," David says quietly, turning the page and then burying back in.

"Read it to me."

He looks over the edge of the cover at me.

"Read to you?"

I grin and fold my hands together behind my head, yes, please, because I missed your voice in my bed, "Yeah. If you would."

"Hmm…" he eyes my body for a second, rolling closer and kissing me just above the armpit, pausing there to breathe in deeply, "You want me to read this to you?"

"Yes," I sigh, my breath in his messy hair.

He reaches back behind him for his glasses, twisting around.

I see him pause for just a second, body going tense for a second, like a twinge.

He grabs his glasses and slips them on.

"You okay?"

"My back…" he rumbles, dismissively, "sitting on a train all day."

"Ahh." I offer him the use of my heating pad.

He cracks open the book, giving me a withering look, and starts reading.

"A man sits in front of me.

In a chair. In a forest. Long blonde

legs,

folded under.

Blonde hair, green leaves and red, gold upholstery.

His eyes locked onto something behind me

behind him.

There is a boy sitting in front of me,

where a man was,

In a chair

In a forest

A boy with a different name.

a different home

a different heart

than the man who slipped into a memory, still warm as wax

on skin.

I tore him apart, with my hands with my fingers with my tongue

In the places that he lets himself come apart.

Then I molded him back, fitting things together again, with my hands with my fingers,

What's one more scar?

And whole again he tore

me apart

hands, fingers, tongue, cock

and a broken piece of himself that

I didn't fit back into place, putting him back together in a dark bed he's never slept in before, that I'll never sleep in again-"

Eyes cast down at the book, I watch his lips, I watch his chest, bare and rising and falling with each breath.

He looks up at me.

"I missed you David."

He blinks and smiles crookedly.

And I kiss him.

"Hey."

He pushes his head against mine, heavy and solid and then yawns, unable to hold it back.

"What do you want to do for your birthday?"

The yawn turns into a laugh, and then a groan, "Nothing."

"Nothing?!"

He closes the book, laying back against the pillow a little gingerly, and scratches his head, "I… yeah."

I flip through the pages fast a couple of times with my thumb, "Not even a dinner thing?"

He's watching me carefully, "I don't like to make a big deal out of it."

"Have you ever made a big deal out of it?"

I regret it immediately.

He looks away from me, a fast kind of flick of his eyes, to the corner of the room.

I feel that ache in my chest, that Oh, god, I wish there was a way I could take that back, ache.

Tyler's obviously make a big deal out of birthdays.

He's seen mine.

I told him all about Amy's birthday over ravioli. The surprise party and the karaoke and, oh my god, Clara and Matt. I know he hasn't talked to his brother much, but Matt's marriage to his wife fell apart quickly since Clara first met him. David told me that they had been doomed from the start, and they're divorce had nothing to do with Clara. Still, Clara's got a thing for him.

Rumor has it that he kissed her hand... and much to her displeasure, nothing else. Sounds downright chivalrous to me, but, Clara told me that it's been bloody long enough that she needs more kissed than just the back of her ruddy hand.

And while I didn't even remotely think David would want something like that (I couldn't even begin to visualize a David surprise-karaoke-taco-Tuesday-on-Sunday-birthday party) I mean… I figured we'd do something.

Birthdays... it's important.

My dad made a huge deal out of birthdays.

Always.

I don't mention that right now, but I think about it. I think about Dad's birthday and how we still celebrate it.

Always.

Because that's what you do.

I mumble, "Sorry, I-"

"No, I haven't."

He doesn't look at me. Still.

"Whatever you want, that's what we'll do."

He smirks, "Whatever I want?"

"Yeah!"

He coughs into his fist and closes his eyes, "Even if I want to do nothing?"

I shrug, "Yeah. I guess. But maybe nothing with… like… a cupcake?"

He reaches for me, finding my hand on the book without opening his eyes,

"Let me think about it, Rose."

I watch him fall asleep, with his fingers against my wrist where my pulse beats.

"Whatever you want, David."

OoO

"Is it weird if I admit that I'm jealous of your ability to wear so many kinds of hats?"

Rory laughs, "No. And, okay, wait… are we talking about metaphorical hats or-"

"No, I mean…hat. Hats on your head," we're killing time before the gallery opening and for whatever reason, he wanted to walk out to the end of the pier. It's freezing. I'm freezing even though I'm bundled up to within an inch of my life.

Also, my hair has reach critical mass. It's grown out to the point that I can't do anything with it. While this doesn't really matter day to day, it did matter, a lot, tonight as I was staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.

I'm Rory's date for this thing. He knows the artist. Amy had a thing. But, she's meeting up with us after for drinks, as is Clara (after her latest chaste-date with Matt).

Rory said that David was more than welcome to join us, but David told me he wasn't really interested.

He's annoyed by installation art, apparently.

He'll come out for drinks and get some work done in the meantime.

Rory warned me that we very likely will get our picture taken. It's that kind event. And the hair situation had only been solved by David handing me one of his beanies. It looks fine with what I'm wearing…

but…

Rory looks fucking dapper.

And he's wearing a newsie cap, a hat that I absolutely cannot wear.

Ever.

It would look ridiculous.

On Rory, it looks great. Of course it does.

"You can wear hats," he says to me as we pass under a light on the pier.

"I really can't. My head is too big. Tyler's have big heads."

He thinks about this, breath fogging in front of his face, "Tony does have a big head."

"Don't ever tell him," I laugh.

"I won't, I won't…" he looks at me, squinting, "You're right though, I mean… I hadn't ever really paid attention, but your head is… wow, yeah, very, very large-"

"Stop it," I nudge him with my shoulder as we walk and it sends him off to the left, "You'll make me even more self-conscious."

"Aww," he steps back in line next to me, "Here, try this on."

He takes off his hat, shaking out his hair before the wind does it for him.

"Ugh. No. It's… it'll look like a novelty hat."

He laughs again, "Oh come on, Ro."

I sigh, and stop walking, squaring my hips and bracing myself for it, "Okay, fine."

I take off David's beanie and stuff it in my coat pocket before taking his hat and putting it on.

It barely fits around my huge skull.

"Christ, Rose," he's pulling out his phone, and I just stand there while he takes a picture, with the flash on, because it's easier than arguing. He looks at the screen, "Aww. It's kind of cute."

I look. It's not an awful picture, but it is very much a picture of me, with longer hair, wearing a tiny hat.

"All right, all right… happy?"

He fiddles around with his phone for a second, his face lit up by the screen, and then he slips it back into his pocket and takes back his hat.

I put David's back on.

"I am, yeah."

We walk to the end of the pier. The waves hitting the supports below us send vibrations up through the old weathered wood. I lean against the railing, looking out at a black sky and black water.

"When I was a kid, I was terrified of walking to the end of these. I always thought that a whale would come and like, knock the supports out," I tell him, "…especially at night. I thought if I fell in, everything would be black. No one would ever find me."

He's quiet.

He doesn't answer, he doesn't say anything.

For a while.

And that's… weird.

He's close to me, but not leaning on the rail.

I look at his face.

"What's up?"

"I, uh, I…" he shrugs, and scrunches up his face, "I took a test."

"A… like a… math test?"

"No, like a…" he says conversationally, "a medical test."

"Oh."

"I got the results back today. And, uh, apparently I'm sterile."

I blink.

I blink again.

"Oh."

"Or, not sterile… but…" he laughs, and looks at me, grinning crookedly, "pretty damn close to it."

"Oh…" I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, so I look out at the black water and wait. Eventually, I say, articulately, "Are you… uh, we're you… why did you…"

He laughs again, shifting his weight and patting the middle of my back before leaning in next to me, staring forward, "No! Uh… sorry, yeah… came out of nowhere, right? I… a medication that I was on a while ago, for my," he pats his chest but I knew that he meant his heart before he did that, "They, uh… well, they thought that maybe this medication might have affected, uh… that."

Rory never talks about heart stuff, at all. I mean, he did once. Recently. At Amy's birthday. He told me.

It's not something that really bothers him. He's not… sick.

I hadn't really thought about him going to doctors for it. Because he's not sick.

But I guess with something like that, you stay not-sick by going to the doctor.

"Oh," I stand up and put a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't seem particularly upset, so… I don't really know what to do, so I pat him and say, "Rory, I'm sorry about your sperm."

He nods, chuckling, "Thank you."

"Did you tell Amy?"

"Not yet," he rubs his chin, "but I will. I always thought that someday I might… but Amy It's not like…"

He doesn't finish that sentence.

There's a lot to that sentence. I get that.

We're both quiet for a while.

I still have my hand on his shoulder because that seems like the right thing to do and he hasn't tried to shake me off or anything.

"Do you…" we're still both looking forward, "think about that?"

"Uh…" I shift, "Not too much normally. More in the last year. I think… Mum says it's my biological clock."

"Your mum is a wise-woman."

"She wants fifty grandchildren. She's told me that. Fifty."

He leans into me, and I move my hand around to his other shoulder, pulling him in, "Fifty is a lot between two kids."

"Yeah. Tell me about it," I kick the lowest rung on the railing lightly, "I… I don't know. I'd…"

I don't finish that sentence.

He puts his arm around my waist.

There's a lot to that sentence. He gets that.

In my pocket my phone vibrates and I pull it out.

FROM: David

BODY:

hat looks good.

"You texted that to him?" I ask flatly.

"How could I not?" he laughs, pushing me off.

OoO

"How was it?" Amy's curled under Rory's arm in the booth. We're making our way through a pitcher of a micro-brew while waiting for David and Clara.

I'm sitting across from them, "Uh… It was…" I look up, into the middle distance, thinking, "Rory, what would you say?"

"Uhh…" he takes a drink and sets down his glass, saying with certainty, "Vaginal."

"Yeah," I agree, "Yes. It was… very. Vaginal."

Amy's eyebrows shoot up, "Oh yeah?"

I nod, fast, "All of it."

"You should tell your mum," she says, "She'll love it."

"Oh god…" I put my elbows on the table, "You're totally right. She might buy something."

Both of them laugh. Because I'm totally right. I can already see a six-foot vagina propped against the wall next to the china-hutch.

"Hey, Rosie," Amy's petting Rory's stomach and he leans his head against her and I think that he looks really tired, unless it's just the lighting, "It's come to my attention that Valentine's Day is just a couple of days away…"

I take a drink, "Oh really? What brought that to your attention?"

"Couldn't possibly have been the decorations that Jack wanted us to put up, could it?" she rolls her eyes.

Harkness' is… festive.

Really festive.

"Couldn't possibly be, no."

"What are you going to do?" she bats her eyelashes, "You have a Valentine, Rosie."

"Ugh. Don't," I shake my head, "It's… I mean, yeah. Yes. I do. I… uh…"

And he walks in.

I see him before he sees me.

Other people see him too.

I mean… David, especially David at night, David dressed like that, David…

David looks good.

I'm not the only one who knows that.

But what's crazy to me is that… he's looking for me.

Not anybody else.

Just me.

He sees me and starts walking over.

"We're going to be low-key about it."

"Low-key, huh?" she winks at me, "So, that means what? Not pink fur-lined handcuffs?"

"Yeah," I sigh, "Exactly."

"Just regular handcuffs then?"

He slides in next to me.

Fuck, he smells good.

"Yeah," I say to her, "Uh-huh."

"Hey. How was it?" he asks, pouring himself a glass.

"Vaginal," Rory and I say together.

He laughs at that, "Of course it was."

We're halfway through a second pitcher when Clara walks in.

With Matt behind her.

"Hey," I tap the table, "look."

"Huh… it's about time," David whispers to me, we've talked about his brother and Clara together.

He's talked to Matt about Clara.

Matt likes her but he's nervous.

Failed marriage and all he wants to take it slow.

I get that, I understand taking things slow.

Poor Clara looks like she's going to burst. I thought David and I were bad for sexual tension.

They are worse, much worse.

Rory and Amy crane their necks to see. Amy pushes Rory out of the seat.

By the time Clara and Matt, who is smiling awkwardly and waving, are standing at the table, Rory and Amy are sitting on our side, Rory squished in against David leaving that whole side of the booth free for them to sit together.

Across from us.

"This is a funny arrangement," Clara says, tilting her head, "Have you been sitting like this all night?"

"For warmth," Rory smiles up at her before digging an arm free to reach up and shake Matt's hand.

They sit.

Clara says, pulling off her red coat, "I think it's quite warm in here."

Rory and Amy both shrug, innocently.

Clara is adorable.

This is the first time I've ever seen Date-Clara.

Her top is sparkly, and her eye makeup is smoky and she's just the cutest thing I've ever seen.

And I look at Matt, who is also adorable, and I don't understand how she could think he's not interested.

He's smitten.

Completely.

He's also just got the bad luck to have a terminal case of being a gentleman.

To a fault, apparently.

David's smirking at his brother.

I bite my lower lip after introductions are formally made and I stand up to get two more glasses and another pitcher.

When I come back, I slide back into my spot.

David's hand finds my knee under the table.

"Hey," I say quietly to him. I get an arched eyebrow in response.

"Where in the North?" Amy asks, and I realize she's talking to David, because David answers.

"Yorkshire. We lived there for a couple of years, before I moved to New York."

"Yeah," Matt nods, and smiles, "That's when it was the three of us together. Chris, David and me."

Matt said his fingers entwined with Clara's. I've never seen her so happy before.

"Yeah," David nods, and his fingers curl for just a second against the inside of my thigh. My breath hitches but I, astoundingly, don't make a noise.

"I didn't know you boys lived in Yorkshire," Clara her chin in her free hand; such a light-weight, her cheeks are already flushed, "Matt mostly has an London accent, I mean you all but Chris who sounds really Northern, " she looks at Matt, and smiles, she's totally smitten too, "distinct. But I don't hear The South in you at all David."

"It's there," David shrugs.

"Can you do it?" Clara asks, but Amy is quick to second the request.

I watch him.

He's… relaxed.

With his hand on the inside of my leg.

Which is making me…

The opposite of relaxed.

But, it's nice. Seeing him like this. Wedged in between Rory and me and not… worried.

"What do ye want me to say?"

I groan, but bite off the sound fast, coughing instead.

Oh, god.

He asks her this in a soft, drawling accent that… okay, I'll admit, that I'm programmed to respond to because I've definitely heard this voice before… but… you know, only ever…

Only ever right before he cums'.

Oh, god, David.

Across the table, Clara is delighted, "Ooh… it's so different from your accent," she looks at Matt, and then back a David, "Where?"

"We moved from Yorkshire to London when I was ten and Matt was six," which is more specific than anything I've ever heard about his childhood.

I haven't… asked.

I mean… I've wanted to know, but I didn't want to…

Why haven't I asked him?

"It's sexy, David," Amy says, grinning at him and then at me, "Rory speaks Polish."

He nods, "I do."

This, too, thrills Clara, who asks Rory to showcase this skill.

With attention diverted to him, I press my head against David's while he takes a drink, and I quietly say, a little jaggedly, "Christ."

And his hand, which is very, very warm against my leg, strokes up, slowly, stopping just shy of… me.

"What about you, Rose?" Clara asks me.

"Uh… I… uh…" I shrug, "My dad was part Scottish. I… can sort of do that."

"Go on, then," she smiles at me, and leans into Matt who looks momentarily surprised before boldly putting his arm around her shoulders.

"Uhh… okay…"

"Do you know any poems?" David asks me, smirking, and I laugh.

"Yeah. Uh… a sonnet."

"Oh, God, Rose," Amy leans on the table and stares at me, "Please do a sonnet."

So I do it. Giving the people what they want.

I recite Sonnet 127, from some deep memory-well, and lay on my already thick brogue.

Vaguely.

"Not bad," Clara says when I'm done.

The group's attention turns to where to go next, having had our fill of this bar, and while they're talking, David's hand moves just slightly further, and he turns toward my neck and sighs, "Christ, Rose."

And I smile.

Outside, in different lighting, I can see Rory's face more clearly. He's definitely tired, but he's also the first one to say that he wants to go to another place, that he's not ready to go home yet.

Amy's under his arm, holding onto his waist.

She glances at me, and gives me a little half smile.

I make a big deal out of crossing our little circle and hugging both of them, at the same time, while I announce that Old Woman Tyler is too tired to stay out.

"Those vagina's really took it out of me," I say, letting them go.

He holds on to me for just a second longer, laughing sincerely.

"Vaginas?" Clara blinks at me.

"I'll tell you all about them at the next bar, Clara," Rory says, clapping me on the arm and taking a step backwards.

I hug Matt and Clara, very quietly making her promise to tell me everything later... to which she just laughs, and sighs, "Oh, I will..."

David hugs Matt briefly, patting Clara's shoulder affectionately.

But I need to go home. I need to take David home with me.

Because I just hear his voice, in that accent, in my head and… I want him.

No.

I need him.

OoO

"God. You feel good. You…"

The force of his weight pushes me forward, my chest pressed against the mattress and I groan into my pillow, "You… oh, yeah- deep, David. Talk, David. Please. Talk."

"So fucking tight, fuck, Rose..." one of his hands leaves my hips, holding my shoulder, pulling me back, leveraging, his palm sliding for just a second and half an inch across my slick skin, I'm sweating so much, I think the heater is on and- "..wanted this, wanted you."

I only realize that I'm still wearing his beanie then, in that moment when he's behind me, inside of me, and he reaches instinctively for my hair to pull my head back, and gets a handful of hat instead.

Which makes both of us laugh hard enough that we stop.

And I don't think anything's ever felt as right as that moment, just after we both stop laughing where everything is really clear, and just… right – both of us naked, together, pushed forward on my arms and knees in my bed, with David deep inside, and still, his body curved over my back, one hand braced on the bed and the other against my stomach, feeling me breathe.

And he stays still.

He kisses my spine.

And then he's still again.

Still until I start.

Until I drive back against him.

Until I make him moan.

He braces himself and lets me generate the movement, pushing back into him until he eventually starts pushing back, into me, meeting me. Every time.

I groan, his name, shifting my weight forward, back.

"More," he says, again, again.

I make him cum like that.

And he's still again until he pulls out.

He turns me over and buries his face between my legs, while I lay there cuming and saying his name.

And I think, as I'm lying there after with his head against the inside of my thigh, that I want to say I love you again.

I think I want to say it.

But I don't.

And that moment slips by.

It just passes.

And nothing… happens.

But as I'm lying there in the dark, in my bed, with him… I can't fall asleep.

I don't know why.

I stay awake.

When he crawls up next to me, lying on his back, I stay awake.

I should have said it.

I still could.

I haven't said it since the first time.

But I don't.

I say, "Rory's sterile."

David looks up at me in the dark, with his hair soft and everywhere, messy from having my hands buried in it. He frowns and says, "Oh."

I tell him everything. I tell him about the medication and Rory's heart.

And... I tell him that I don't think I was supposed to tell him.

"I won't tell him," he says with his hand on my chest, "You're... worried."

I shrug, adjust my head on the pillow, "Yeah, I guess."

"About Rory?"

"Yeah," I am... but... I'm worried about something else too... and I'd tell him what it is if I knew. But I don't know.

He rolls over, holding my face between both of his hands and kissing me, firmly, enough to refocus my attention.

His mouth tastes like me, and-

"It'll be okay," he says, softly, and I almost feel like he's saying it to himself too.

I just... hear that.

I fall asleep eventually, I don't know when, but when I do, I dream about a six-foot vagina wearing a very small hat.

Then I dream about David.

And then I dream about a city I've never been to.

I dream about New York.