Disclaimer: Still don't own.

A/N: I just can't do any kind of thing approaching sustained smut with these two. Or even sustained discreet smut. I just don't think I could do it in the vibe of the show. So instead, you get ... this. I hope it satisfies, at least somewhat.

By the middle of the following week, things are officially getting out of hand.

Otis had woken up the next morning in a state of agonised self-consciousness and dread. What if Maeve regretted sleeping with him, and didn't want to talk to him or see him again? What if she felt too awkward about it to be friends? What if she'd only struck up their tenuous friendship again because she wanted to see what he'd be like in bed, and now that she'd found out, what if she left for good? Or, the best scenario—what if she wanted to keep doing this? How long could he keep it casual before his heart gave out? Metaphorically, but also, he'd begun to feel, literally. There was an ache in his chest, sometimes dull, sometimes sharp. He couldn't figure out what emotion it represented. Dread; grief. A heart breaking before it broke.

She didn't text. For days. Three, to be precise. To be more precise, seventy-six hours. Then—

MAEVE: So

OTIS: So?

MAEVE: I'm not doing anything tomorrow night...

This time, they barely make it inside his college room before their bodies crash against each other, magnets colliding, hung on an erratic string. They fumble madly with buttons, zips, remembering about the blinds belatedly, Maeve crawling over him half-naked to close them, Otis swearing—

"Fuck, that was my jaw—"

"Sorry, sorry. Are you hurt?"

"No— come here—"

And, when Maeve takes his hand, and shows him what she likes, he doesn't have to ask to know it worked.

"Next time, or else?" he teases her, after, as she glares at him, chest heaving, dishevelled.

"What?"

"Well, what were you going to do to me if I didn't?"

She huffs a breath. "I find that threats work better when there's an element of nonspecificity."

"Well, your instructions were very specific, so the threat wasn't needed."

"Hm."

"You didn't answer my question, by the way."

"What?"

"From earlier. I asked you how things are going, but you didn't get around to answering before we—erm..."

"Started ripping all our clothes off. Honestly, Otis, for the son of two sex therapists—"

"I know." Otis thinks that it's because it's them that he's so abashed. Oh, no, nothing out of the ordinary here... just a boy and the girl whom he's been unable to get over for the past three years, having totally casual, no-strings-attached sex...

"But, um, yeah." Oddly, it's when talking, not when having sex, that Maeve seems shy. "Things are going good. I think. I mean, my roommate definitely keeps drugs in her room, which is... I hope we don't get kicked out, is all. And work is busy. But classes are good. I had to read Little Women for class the other week. Have you read it?"

"I haven't, actually. I did watch the film adaptation."

"It's, um, a really interesting mix. Very progressive in some ways, traditional in others. Jo—you remember who Jo is?"

"I don't think so, sorry."

"She's the main protagonist, and she's... actually given a remarkable amount of agency within the novel. To know her own mind, and to dictate her own romantic choices. It's, um. Just really interesting. Kind of envy her a bit." Maeve mumbles this last bit, looking away with a dogged sort of look on her face, as she buttons her shirt.

"Why?" Otis asks, gently.

"Her family's kind of perfect. Like, they argue and shit. But they're kind of perfect."

"Okay."

"Yeah." Maeve scoops her hairpins from where they lie scattered over the quilt, and with one deft motion, tips them into her bag. "I should be off."

"If you want to stay for dinner—"

"No." Briefly, to Otis's shock, she ducks her head against his chest, an almost nuzzling movement. "I've gotta go," she says, from this position, but without moving.

Hearts thud. Otis stays perfectly still. It's like trying not to scare a cat away that's decided to snuggle.

"I've gotta go," she repeats, and this time, she does actually stand up, gather her bag, and stride from his room without a backward glance.

This scene, with slight alterations, is repeated twice more that week.

By the time Otis meets Ruth for coffee, on Tuesday, he is in a state of deep abstraction. He almost misses her sitting at a corner table, waving him over, although this is also because she has cut her hair and dyed it a vibrant purple that clashes with her soft pastel blouse. "Otis!" she exclaims, joyfully, as he approaches, and stands up to hug him. He accepts the hug, bemused and somewhat relieved—he'd been worried she might be offended at his lack of romantic interest.

"I'm buying you coffee," she states, as he sits down. "I want your advice on something, and I don't want you to feel like I'm taking advantage of you, though of course I am. What do you drink?"

"Uh... whatever you're getting?"

Whatever you're getting turns out to be a rather murky-looking flat white with a triple shot of caramel syrup. It's sickeningly sweet. "I basically live on these," Ruth declares, sipping. Well, that explains her hyperactive personality, Otis thinks to himself.

"So why do you want my advice?" he asks, trying not to grimace as he takes another sip of his coffee.

"Well, Maeve mentioned that you two used to run a clinic when you were at school. Sex and relationship therapy, I think it was called?"

"Yes, that's right. Though we shouldn't have been, really. I wasn't qualified at all, and it was pretty unethical to charge for it."

Ruth waves this away. "Maeve said you were really good at it."

"Oh. Well, that's nice of her."

Ruth makes a sort of hmph noise, and gives him a look he can't read. He shifts uncomfortably. "So what's the question?"

"I have a crush on both Simon and Stephen, and I don't know what to do."

Given that the two law students look and act extremely similarly, this is not surprising. "Can you elaborate? Maybe you could explain a bit more about what it is that draws you to them?"

"Mm." Ruth nods, slurping her drink. "I don't— I don't think I really know, actually. Like, they're both handsome, and, like, smart, and wear really nice cologne. But, like, I feel like I'm just interested in everyone right now. I was a bit relieved, honestly, when you friendzoned me. Makes life less ... complicated."

"Well, that seems ... reasonable. When you say you're interested in everyone—"

"Like, honestly, I think I'm just horny. But, like, romantically horny too. I just miss having a boyfriend, and doing all the couple-y things, and having someone to talk to when I'm drunk and sad. Cos right now I'll just call Simon, or Maeve, or my mum, and then I wake up the next morning and I feel really self-conscious about it. Particularly my mum. She thinks I drink too much."

"Well..." Otis takes a sip of his drink while he tries to organise his thoughts, and instantly regrets it. "There's... quite a lot to unpack here. Do you think you would feel less self-conscious talking to your boyfriend when you're... um... drunk and sad?"

"Yeah." Ruth gives him a Well, duh sort of look that is strangely reminiscent of Aimee. In fact, now he thinks about it, this whole conversation is reminding him of Aimee. Did Maeve have a friend-type? Were Maeve and Aimee still friends? Concentrate, he reminds himself.

"Well, it's kind of a boyfriend's job, innit? He deals with me when I'm drunk and sad, I give him blowjobs. Fair exchange."

Otis chokes down a wild desire to laugh. "That's certainly... an interesting perspective. Although I would hasten to emphasise that the sexual aspect of a relationship should itself be reciprocal—"

At the end of two hours, Otis is simultaneously drained and also weathering an uncomfortable sugar buzz that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Ruth had, oblivious to his discomfort, ordered them both a second round of coffee while she quizzed him on his history with Maeve.

"But it doesn't matter now," he'd tried to insist, after explaining the fateful history of the Drunken Party Rant and Subsequent Ignored Voicemail. "We're just casual."

Ruth eyed him shrewdly. "But you don't feel casual."

"Well—" Otis tried not to sound bitter, but didn't quite succeed. "Maeve does feel casual, and I'm being respectful. Besides, I got over it."

"But does she?"

"What do you mean?"

"She smiles when she talks about you. She also mentions you quite a lot, for someone as weird and secretive as her. And she keeps checking her phone when we hang out."

"Oh." Otis tries to ignore the fact that he simultaneously feels like a man hit by a truck and one borne aloft by a hot-air balloon. "Look, I'm not— I can't—"

"Can't get your hopes up?"

"Please stop reading my mind."

"Sorry."

"I should go. But it's been nice. Thanks for the coffee."

"Have I upset you?"

"No. Yes. No. Not really. It's... the situation mostly. Don't worry about it."

"I'm here, you know. If you want to talk about it."

"I know." Otis manages a smile. "Thanks, Ruth. I'll keep that in mind."

OTIS: Can we talk?

MAEVE: About what?

OTIS: I can't explain over text.

MAEVE: Okay. I can come over tonight?

She's early.

At the soft knock on the door of his room, Otis nearly starts out of his skin. It's a full hour before she'd said she was supposed to finish work. She's in uniform, black trousers and shirt, but her hair is down and decked with rain.

"It's raining," he says, idiotically.

"Yeah." She looks inexplicably nervous. She's chewing her lip. "Sorry I'm so early. Quiet shift."

"Oh." He hesitates. "Do you want something to eat? I can make sandwiches."

She shrugs, crossing the room to sit on his bed. Her eyes, lined with black and running a little from the rain, look huge and lost. Otis's mouth has gone completely dry.

Putting a sandwich together in the kitchen, he tells himself to get a grip. It's just a simple question.

"There you go. Guacamole and ham."

Maeve shakes her head. "Where are you getting all these avocados?"

"It's the one thing I splurge on."

She snorts a laugh. "Right."

"It's true."

An indrawn breath. They start talking at the same time.

"So what did you—"

"So can I ask you—"

"You go."

"No, you."

"Fine. What did you want to talk about?"

It feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. And he's never been good at letting himself fall.

Maeve's expression sharpens, becomes guarded. "Well?" she prods, impatient.

Otis makes a frustrated gesture. "I can't just— Fine. One word. Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why invite me out with you after we ran into each other? Why try to be friends again? Why suggest that we have sex? Why decide to stop ignoring me now?"

Maeve's eyes spark with anger, and she stands up from the bed, abandoning her sandwich on the coverlet. "You ignored me too, you know."

"You made it abundantly clear you didn't want anything to do with me!"

"Oh? And how did you make that out?"

"Well, let's see. You ignored me, wouldn't let me apologise, got together with someone else—"

"Someone who didn't act like a total dick, yes. Only for us to have a shitty, shitty breakup two years later, because apparently I can't have a single person in my life who doesn't let me down." Her voice cracks. "If you must know, Otis, it was 'cause I was curious. And because you were a shit friend, yet somehow every time I remember the clinic it— it makes me happy. And—fuck, I don't know what happened either, okay? So how about you answer that, Otis? How could you just stop caring about anything? Just like that?"

"How the fuck do you make that out, Maeve? I cared til I couldn't any more. I poured my heart out to you, and you just ignored it, like it—like I meant nothing to you. So don't fucking ask me why I stopped caring. I didn't fucking have a choice."

Otis scrubs a hand roughly over his face, wiping away tears. Maeve looks baffled now, as well as angry. She opens her mouth, and shuts it again. When she speaks, it's much quieter, though with undertones of steel.

"What do you mean you poured out your heart? Because if you mean that shitty speech at your party, then that's not pouring out your heart. That's attacking someone who trusted you with a rusty knife, and expecting them to be happy about it."

"No—fuck, of course not, Maeve." The import of her words catches up to him, belatedly, and he feels a sickening sensation of falling. It's hard to get the words out. "The — the voicemail I left you. After the party. I came by to see you—"

"Wait. Wait." Maeve's hands fly to her temples. She looks pained. Time seems to drag. There is a thundering in his ears, but he still hears her say,

"What voicemail?"

A/N: What do you think? I'll try make the next update a bit more speedy, but no promises. I do know where this is going, and next chapter is partially written. It's from Maeve's POV!