A/N: Olivia is talking.
Weary
She lays asleep in my bed, too full of wine and troubles to make it home.
Not that I mind. Not that I've ever minded.
Her glasses are slightly askew on her nose. Her attire is still that from the day, save for the suit jacket and her shoes are somewhere else.
She looks so lost sometimes. Usually so full of poise and stature; compassion and passion.
Everyone is allowed a respite, once in a while. Hers is a bottle or so of good wine along with my ears and shoulder.
She doesn't cry often. We have that in common.
Our refuge is each other.
I am not tired. I didn't need as much alcohol as she did. I would be just as awake lying next to her, but more troubled.
I pull a light blanket around her, whispering 'I love you.' I know she can't hear me. That she will probably never hear me say those words. It is only when she is in safely asleep do I tell her how I really feel.
It's the only time I can be that vulnerable.
