Notes: Rated M. Based on the Tumblr prompt request: "It was supposed to be fun, and you ruined it."

looking for fun

"Hey. What's wrong?" Henry says when Elizabeth climbs off him, swings her legs over the edge of the bed, and starts grabbing up clothes from the floor and pulling them on.

"It was supposed to be fun…" she says as she slips her arms into the sleeves of a white silk blouse, then fumbles to do up the buttons, "…and you ruined it."

"What are you talking about?" He sounds genuinely confused. (Though he shouldn't.) "How did I—"

She shoots a look over her shoulder while her fingers work on the last of the buttons. "Telling me you love me?"

Or did he not notice that slight contravention?

He scrubs a hand through his hair, and sighs; he's sitting now, shoulders rounded against the headboard, sheet drawn to his waist. "I'm sorry. It just…slipped out."

She snorts.

Nice verb choice.

Before she can say it, his gaze seeks out hers, the look pleading—but in a way that asks her to see reason, not in a way that begs for her forgiveness for fucking this up.

"But is it really so bad?" he says.

Shaking her head, she turns away from him again. "Aside from your spectacular timing?" She steps into her pants and tugs them up, waistband coming to rest mid-thigh. "I told you I wasn't looking for anything serious."

"Neither was I. But things change."

"Not this." She stands, and hikes the waistband over her hips. "Not for me."

"So, that's it? After all this? We're just…over?"

She fastens the pants—button, hook, fly—then scoops her hair out from her collar and knots it in a messy twist.

"We never were."

/

Elizabeth tries to hold onto the anger, throws reminders at it like kindling to a fire: They had a deal—he broke it. They had fun—he ruined it. They had something—now, nothing.

But despite her best efforts, the flames peter out, and when they've gone, all that's left is a quiet devastation.

Missing what they had isn't the same as missing him, she tells herself.

And when she finds herself reaching for her cell phone to text him the gaffe a student made in a paper, it's only because she likes laughing about such things with someone; and when she feels a tug of disappointment at him skipping another faculty meeting, it's only because she wants to play Phrase Bingo while the dean prattles on; and when she's unable to sleep, her mind astir in a tempest of thoughts (mainly about him), it's only because she's grown used to her nightly orgasm(s); and when she decides to take matters into her own hands, only to end up picturing him—the heat in his eyes, the awe on his lips, the sound of his voice, I love you, Elizabeth. I love you—right before she comes…

—"Fuck." Her gasp echoes through the dark and fills the bedroom.—

…she might have to rethink that thing she said about not falling in love.

/

Elizabeth lingers in the doorway to his office, watching him a moment; he's sitting at his desk, elbows propped atop a heap of papers, frowning lightly as he reads through the one in his hand.

"Hi," she says.

He looks up. Surprise gives way to recognition, recognition to caution. His gaze flits over her, head to toe and back again, then returns to her eye.

"Hi," he says.

"Can I come in?"

Her stomach feels like a bungee cord, one moment tense, the next lurching around.

He hesitates a second, then nods. "Sure."

She steps into his office, closes the door with a clatter, and takes a seat opposite him. Though she isn't one for embarrassment and she doesn't do shy, heat rises through her cheeks and she has to force herself to hold his gaze.

"I wanted to apologise for the other week," she says, "for what I said, for how I acted."

She has a whole speech planned, reminding him of the parents she lost, the brother who no longer talks to her, the college boyfriend who broke more than just her heart, all the ways love has hurt her—and has caused her to hurt him.

But before she can begin, he shakes his head, casually dismissive, like it's no more than a misunderstanding over a seminar room booking. "There's no need to apologise. You were right, we had a deal. I got caught up in the moment, and I shouldn't have said what I did, and I'm sorry."

"Oh," she says as she stares at him, eyes wide. Surprise has wiped all other words from her mind.

He continues, "Given that we work together, I think it's best if we draw a line under this. No hard feelings."

Thought and language faculties still failing her, she finds her mouth tossing out, "Sure. Great. Right."

He rises to his feet and extends his hand over the desk, says, "Thank you for dropping by, Dr Adams," like he's never spelled her name with the tip of his tongue, and she finds herself standing too, shaking his hand, "No problem."

Only when she's alone in the corridor does the daze fade and her senses return and she remembers she's an ex-CIA analyst and trained interrogator, for crying out loud—she doesn't get flustered like that, and she sure as hell knows how to read someone.

She walks back to his office, the door open, as she left it. "Did you really mean all that stuff you just said?"

He looks her over again.

A hint of uncertainty creeps into his expression.

"Why?"

She folds her arms and leans against the jamb. "What if I told you I came here to say I was wrong, that I don't want us to be casual, that I'm open to something more?"

He rocks back in his chair, pivots it, side to side. His smile is the sun filtering through the clouds of an otherwise neutral expression. "I'd say I have two tickets for a concert this weekend, and I'm looking for a date, if you wanted to come."

She doesn't bother to restrain her own smile.

"Sounds fun."