With a cry she collapses forward onto his heaving chest, her core no longer possessing the strength to keep her upright. He slides one arm across her back, their skin hot and slick with sweat, and holds her to him so tightly that she can feel his heart pounding beneath her. His other hand remains on her hip where moments ago his fingers had dug sharply into her supple flesh as he rocked into her, meeting her thrust for increasingly erratic thrust. She's grateful for this anchor. It's as though her very bones have been liquified and without him holding her together she might just melt away. They lie like this, gasping for breath, until Sam laughs.
"Man, I think we should get some kind of medal for that."
"A trophy, surely?" she counters, and he lets out a soft grunt as she eases herself off him and slips sideways onto the sheets.
He doesn't let her go far, reaching his arm across her stomach to rest a hand on her hip, lightly massaging the soft curve of her ass. Touching her is instinctive. Even now his body still carries the imprint of hers – the memory lingering in his fingertips. He's practically giddy, but can't tell whether it's due to the intensity of their exertions or the sheer happiness that's threatening to overwhelm him. It's been a long time since he's felt anything like this and it seems to have pulled the world into slightly sharper focus.
Doctor Sutton will probably call this a relapse. He'll be wrong. Sam knows what a relapse is – he's been there before. Right about now he should be trying to ignore the guilt and shame tugging at his conscience, but they've yet to surface and he doubts they will because this definitely isn't a relapse. It's not some hollow tryst, he's not chasing simple satisfaction of an animal need; this is him and Diane, and that has to count for something.
They've hardly been up for air in the hours since they left Melville's and Sam has no idea what time it is. At some point a wayward limb had crashed into the nightstand and sent his alarm clock tumbling to the floor. It's definitely late; the sky outside the window is nearly dark, the edges clinging to the last remnants of the evening light. They'd slept briefly, wrapped in each other's arms, and he'd held her close, afraid that he'd wake to find that the whole thing had been some cruel abstinence-induced dream or worse, that she'd decided to leave without saying goodbye.
He steals a glance across at her. She's lying on her back with the sheets tangled around her slender legs, her delicate features bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamps. Her hair, blonder now than he's ever seen it, is swept messily across her forehead, but she hasn't bothered to brush it away. She's beautiful. The perfume she's wearing is different, more expensive than before, but underneath it her scent is exactly as he remembered and just as intoxicating. Having her here next to him feels so right that it occurs to him that he's somehow been expecting it, and that deep down he's been holding onto the unlikely hope that her absence would be nothing more than an interruption.
Tearing his eyes away from the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest he's suddenly aware of how worn out he feels. There was once a time when he'd rather die than volunteer that information to a woman in his bed, but he's older now, the woman in his bed is Diane, and she's as worn out as he is.
"You know," he confesses, "I think I'm going to need another break before round four."
"Five," she pants.
Not expecting a correction, he's only half-listening. "What?"
"Next time–" she's still trying to get her breath back and twirls her finger in the air to bridge the pause "–will be round five."
"No," he retorts, "it'll be four."
"Sam," she intones slowly so that his name acquires an extra syllable, "I promise you it's five."
Groaning, he slides the palm of his hand over his eyes. "Diane, are we really arguing about this?" They always were able to find the conflict in the smallest of things.
"I'm sorry," she says, although it doesn't sound like it. "I just assumed that in the time I'd been gone you'd have finally mastered basic arithmetic."
"I'll tell you something," he starts, delighting in how it feels to flex his argumentative muscles with her again, "I really haven't missed–" He's about to tell her that he hasn't missed her talking to him like he's a child and that he hates it when she does, even though he knows that in whining about it he'll sound exactly like the child she accuses him of being and hand her the point. It's a trap he's fallen into so many times. The thing that saves him now is a sudden realization that cuts him off mid-sentence. He turns to look at her incredulously. "Surely you're not counting that bit by the door?"
They'd just reached the door to his apartment and he was fumbling for his keys – very few people had ever caused Sam Malone to fumble for anything – when she snaked her arms around his waist, pressing herself against him with such urgency that he'd had to brace himself against the doorframe and summon every last scrap of his self-restraint to resist turning to her. Her nimble fingers had his fly down before he'd even managed to turn the key in the lock. When they finally stumbled inside even the couch had seemed too far away and the back of the door was as good a place as any. It was a frantic, crude affair: her skirt rucked up around her waist; underwear pushed aside rather than removed; desperate moans, guttural and raw. Orgasm hit him like a freight train.
"Why not?" She's not embarrassed.
"It lasted about ten seconds!"
"So?" Her remark seems genuine, but there's also a fair chance that she's winding him up.
"It was a warm up at best," he mutters, obstinately refusing to admit that she's right without actually telling her that she's wrong.
The short drive from the bar had been torture. They'd been unable to keep their hands off each other and it surprised Diane that they'd managed the whole fifteen minutes without having to pull over or risk death in the flaming wreck of his Corvette. She might have been more concerned by Sam's disregard for the speed limit if it hadn't been for his hand on her thigh. As it was, her attention was almost entirely consumed by his little finger flirting with the edge of her skirt, stroking back and forth along the hem with teasing, almost hypnotic movements, before finally dipping beneath. How such a tiny gesture could feel quite so indecent was beyond her, but it left her aching with anticipation.
"You never wore skirts this short when we were together," Sam noted not long after they'd set off. His voice was husky but his words carried a flavor of accusation.
Preoccupied as she was by his ministrations, her response came out breathier than she'd intended. "I do a lot of things now that I didn't do when we were together." She didn't know why she said it; she had no examples in mind, but she'd already yielded enough in telling him that her life wasn't full and wanted to destroy the impression that it had stagnated without him. Maybe her tone had given a little too much weight to the innuendo because she heard his breath hitch and when she met his eyes they were dark with lust. She had to tell him to keep them on the road.
Now she rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow so that she can watch him as he's forced to concede.
"Is this a matter of pride, Mr Malone?" He grunts and she allows her fingers to trail through the graying hair on his chest. "Because as far as I could tell all of the constituent elements were present." Present and expertly, if expressly, delivered. "Duration does not a round make."
He rolls his eyes, defeated. "Whatever."
Satisfied that she's right, she squeezes his arm and flops loose-limbed back onto the bed. It's unbelievable that she's here, after all the effort she's put into letting go of this life – of him. She'd thought that LA had put some more steel in her backbone. But if she takes a moment to be honest with herself it's not that unbelievable at all. The minute she heard his voice down the telephone line she should have known that sooner or later she'd end up here, flat on her back, watching the shadows bleeding across his ceiling. The two of them are like magnets: provide a little proximity and the laws of physics take over.
Her therapist will probably consider this to be the mother of all setbacks, but right now she doesn't see why that should matter. She feels so alive, as if she's vibrating with a long-forgotten energy. Everything appears magnified: the colors more vibrant, the darkness richer. The sound of his breathing, still labored, fills her ears and his cologne… He still wears the same cologne and, although it's undeniably offensive, its familiarity is comforting.
Diane stretches, luxuriating in her happiness. Sneaking a look across the bed she finds mirrored in Sam the contentment that's enveloping her – with one arm tucked behind his head, his face showing none of the worry and tension that she'd seen from across the table at lunch, he too is basking in the afterglow. They'd fallen back together so quickly, naturally finding each other's rhythms, it was as if they'd barely been apart.
Earlier in the afternoon, sometime between rounds two and three (her calculation), she'd asked if he remembered their first encounter. He was lying with his head on her chest, his nose pressed against the base of her throat, as she curled her fingers absently through the hair at the nape of his neck. He might have been dozing, because she had to say his name before receiving a hum in response. She repeated the question: "do you remember the day we met?"
"Of course I do." He lifted his head briefly to place a tender kiss between her breasts before returning to her embrace. "Why?"
A wide grin broke across her face, unwitnessed by the man in her arms. "You were obnoxious."
"That makes two of us."
"Me?" she spluttered, caught off guard by the rebound. The sheer force of her indignation would probably have been enough to propel him off her, but the push she gave him did its job and he rolled away. "You told people that I was a hooker!"
Failing to take the rebuke in the spirit she intended, he laughed heartily. "I did, didn't I?" But his mirth was short-lived, such was the intensity of the glower she shot him, and he felt obliged to offer some sort of explanation. "I was only trying to help!"
"How could that possibly be of help to me?" she exclaimed, reeling at the idea that he could even attempt to justify the aspersion.
Sam leaned back over her, the expression on his face surprisingly sheepish. "Oh sweetheart, I'm sorry." Touched by his remorse she softened, tilting her head upwards to kiss him gently. It was also increasingly difficult for her to maintain a pout while he was stroking the backs of his fingers up and down her arm so delicately that her skin tingled. "The thing is," he continued, a smile playing over his lips, "you walked into my bar with a stick up your ass. I was just trying to dislodge it."
Diane felt a prickling sensation at the base of her skull; it was a test and she allowed herself a slight pause, a moment to enjoy his amusement, before responding. "Yes, well, I got rid of him myself, didn't I?" He dropped his head to her shoulder and her stomach fluttered with pleasure as he let out a snort of laughter. Their physical rhythms weren't the only patterns that had re-emerged without much prompting, and she found their verbal sparring almost as thrilling.
"Come on then," she said, patting his back, "if I really was that awful, why did you offer me a job?" He raised his head but didn't reply, instead looking searchingly into her eyes. Something about the depth and directness of his gaze made her heart skip. His eyes had always been one of her favorite features. So dominant was his bone structure – the combination of brow, nose and jawline providing ample material for the amateur caricaturist – that his eyes were never the first thing you noticed. It wasn't until you got close to him and looked straight at them that you even registered that they were blue.
"I wasn't finished with you," he said simply, "and there's no way you'd have come back without a reason."
Parsing his response, she arched an eyebrow. "You just wanted to get me into bed, didn't you?"
He shrugged. "If I remember correctly, you'd called me a magnificent pagan beast" – she started to protest that those weren't her words, but he breezed past her objection – "and I had to prove you right." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Speaking of which…" He began moving slowly down her body, leaving a lavish trail of kisses in his wake, before settling between her legs where his fingers and tongue worked in tandem to wring from her the most exquisite climax…
She's quiet and there's a pensive look on her face. Sam worries that the haze is lifting and that she's going to start thinking. Because when she's done thinking, she'll talk and when she talks, she'll ask him questions that he's certain he won't be able to answer. And that makes him nervous. He nudges her with his foot.
"Are you okay," he asks, gently pulling her out of her reverie.
"Oh," she smiles softly, "I'm just thinking."
"I think that's a given sweetheart."
Usually it is, but today it's wrong. She isn't thinking – she's floating dreamily, somewhere beyond this room, beyond the reality of the life she'll have to return to in the morning. Weightless on a cloud of bliss. Maybe it's the jet lag, but more likely it's the effects of the best sex she's had, sadly, since she was last in this bed. Maybe that's how it slips out, without preamble or deliberate consideration, without any airs or even a hint of pretension.
"Why don't you come with me?"
"I thought I just did."
It shouldn't, but his leap to innuendo takes her by surprise and she feels herself flush. He's eyeing her in that way he has: through heavy lids, biting his lip like he wants to devour her entirely. She used to try to pretend, to herself and others, that she was disgusted by it when in reality it made her weak at the knees and hot everywhere else. She looks away, reminds herself to breathe, and tries again.
"Why don't you come back to LA with me?"
"To visit?" His tone is neutral, giving nothing away, and she can't tell whether he's making this difficult on purpose.
"If you like," she replies, carefully hesitating just long enough to allow him to jump in and finalize the interpretation – of course, he doesn't. "But I was thinking perhaps of a more permanent arrangement."
"Really?" She won't be able to tell, but his heart is pounding again, this time for an entirely different reason.
As she nods her eyes flick nervously towards him but don't quite make contact with his. Earlier, when she asked him about his reasons for hiring her, he'd made some quip about proving his sexual prowess. What he didn't tell her was that even on that first night she'd made such an impression on him that he couldn't bear the thought of never seeing her again. Eleven years later and he's already lost her once, twice, three times if he counts Italy, although for some reason he never does. Now he doesn't have to see her face to recognize that she's slipping through his fingers once more.
He won't ask if she'll come back to Boston, he knows better than that. She'd said it herself: she isn't the person that left the bar six years ago and now she seems to have outgrown it. Even though she'd always been the outsider, with genuine affection for those around her and quirks that were occasionally endearing she'd managed to carve a niche for herself. It had become her home and they had become her people. But standing there that afternoon in her smart skirt suit she'd looked out of place, almost like a stranger, and it damn near broke his heart. There had been life at Cheers before him and it could go on without him. However much they need him – think they need him – it's nothing compared to how much he needs her.
"Ok," he says eventually, "but I have one condition."
Diane's heart sinks and settles as a shriveled pit in the depths of her stomach. He's looking for a way out. That line about their… symbiosis was an offer to backtrack and she'd stumbled blithely past it. It infuriates her how perceptive he can be when he so chooses, particularly given that his usual approach has all the subtlety of a blunt instrument. This had been a one-night fling, a fleeting encounter to be remembered later with a wistful smile, and she's ashamed that she could have misread it so drastically.
"Oh?" She aims for cool indifference, but the wobble in her voice betrays her. The mattress dips as he rolls towards her and out of the corner of her eye she can see that he's looking straight at her. She wishes he wouldn't. Fixing her attention on a mark on the ceiling, she prepares herself for rejection.
"I'll come to California with you," she hears him say, "if you marry me."
There's a distance between them, like she's listening to the radio, and his words wash over her as she continues her inspection. There's a bit of paint peeling above his side of the bed. She can't bring herself to play along, can't stand to see the grin on his face and the twinkle in his eye. She can't even find it in herself to be angry at him for toying with her like this because frankly she deserves it. After all this time it was selfish of her to show up here and ask him on a whim to uproot his entire life simply because it would make her happy.
After a moment she feels the brush of his hand against hers, hears the murmur of her name on his lips, and relinquishes. Turning to him she's braced for a punchline, but instead she finds his eyes filled with sincerity and more than a touch of nervous apprehension. When he kisses the back of her hand, she knows it's real. Somewhere in the deepest, most wicked recesses of her brain she toys momentarily with the idea of saying no, for old time's sake, but she finds it in herself to resist. He'd never been entirely comfortable with emotional honesty and she can tell that he's a hair's breadth from shrugging the whole thing off and claiming it to be a joke. There's no time for gameplay; tomorrow she'll be gone so this really is her final chance. She doesn't even want to insist on any formality or on a change of location, because this time it's enough that they're here, together. Given their tumultuous history with the subject it's almost absurd that the saga should end so simply and as she throws her arms around his neck the laughter bubbles up inside her.
He chuckles with delight and relief as he scoops her to him. "I take it that's a deal?"
"Yes!" She kisses him fiercely. Then again, softly. "Yes."
He rolls her under him with a practiced fluidity, burying his face in the crook of her neck, pressing himself to her, breathing her in with his entire being. Finally. They've made it. He pulls back to savor her, here at the beginning of the rest of their lives.
"Ready?" he asks and she nods without hesitation. There's joy on her face and a light in her eyes that he'll do absolutely anything to sustain. He starts by slipping a hand between her thighs and as her lids flutter shut and she sighs with pleasure, he closes what's left of the gap between them to whisper in her ear. "Break's over."
