Chapter title: On Your Side.

Chapter Summary: What's he supposed to do now that he cares?

Author's Note: Woah. Two updates within a month. Hah. Maybe I'll start updating on Thursdays.

He brings the camera everywhere.

He has pictures of the river, of taxis, of the fire escape. He has pictures of her.

He has a lot of pictures of her.

His favourite is one of her in a sundress, her shoulders bare. Her hair's piled on her head. She wears it like that a lot lately. His sunglasses are perched on her forehead and she's sketching. She doesn't see him.

Christ, he loves that pictures.

She takes pictures of him. He hates it, but whatever, you know? She likes taking them and he finds that cute.

The night before the trial, she sits him on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, wrapping a towel around his shoulders.

"What kind of roommate would I be if I let you go to court looking homeless?"

She says roommate. Whatever. He doesn't, he shouldn't, care anyway.

Yeah, not at all.

"I remember how you had it when I first met you," she says thoughtfully, spraying his hair with water. "You looked so young. I thought you'd just graduated high school, or something."

He grins, looking up at her. "That's why Michael stalked me!"

She sprays water in his eyes.

The iDeck is playing through the apartment. She sways on her feet slightly.

"Never pegged you as a 'Killers' person," he says as she cuts a piece of hair from the back of his head.

She frowns. "The Killers? What kind of name is that?"

And he laughs. Ok, maybe he cares a little bit.

She combs out a piece of hair by his ear. He pulls away from the scissors.

"Really, Ryan?" she asks, crossing her arms, an amused look on her face.

"Just… cut somewhere else," he mumbles, fumbling with his fingers nervously.

"That'll look stupid," she says flatly. "C'mon, I'll be careful."

"No."

"Ryan!"

"No, stop-"

"Come here!"

"What the fuck is up with the water?"

"Let me cut your hair!"

"I said no!"

"Ryan, stop being a tool!"

"Now I'm really not letting you get near me with scissors, you angry person. You can't just throw banana's at people!"

"Ryan, sit in the goddamn chair."

"Why?"

"Because I want to cut your hair! I won't cut your ear, I swear to God."

"Yeah, that's what my mom said before she hacked half my ear off!"

She stops, setting down the rolled up newspaper. "What?" she asks, her face looking torn between laughter and exhaustion.

"Yeah, I was ten and my mom was giving me a haircut…" He steps out from behind the bathroom door, his face flushed from running around the apartment. "And she was cutting around my ear and all of a sudden I feel, like, the worst pain ever and there's blood all over my neck and I had to go to the ER and get stitches."

He's panting, his whole body warm. The towel is still around his neck and hair is covering his chest, making him itchy.

And she laughs.

"Omigod, Ryan, I'm sorry!" But she holds onto the edge of the counter, breathless from laughter.

He puts his hands on his hips. "It's not funny," he says stiffly. "It hurt. A lot."

Her eyes are bright and she nods, her lips pressed tightly together.

"I'm serious!" he exclaims. "I have the scar to prove it!"

Her shoulders are shaking from a new round of giggling. "I believe you."

He reaches up, putting his hands over his ears protectively.

She snorts, doubling over.

He mumbles something under his breath.

"All right. I'm done," she gasps, straightening up and fixing a serious look on her face. "I won't hurt you, I swear to God."

He narrows his eyes.

"I'll buy you a beer if I do."

"If you do, I'll still have a bloody hole in my head. Beer won't fix that."

She gives him a look.

"Maybe it will," he caves, carefully stepping back into the kitchen. "Just be careful," he adds, sitting back down on the chair.

"You trust me, don't you?" she asks.

"Not with scissors, no."

"Ryan!"

"Yes, I trust you."

He winces as she begins trimming again, the scissors barely touching his skin.

Shit. He did trust her. When did that happen?

"All right, finished," she says, stepping back ten minutes later. "And you still have both ears!" He glares at her. "Sorry."

He sighs, unwrapping the towel from his shoulders.

"Come on, go see how it looks!" she says, pulling on his hand. He grins, trailing along after her and into the bathroom.

"Nice," he says, standing in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his hair.

"Sit down, I want to see something," she says, pointing to the closed toilet seat.

He does. Because he's totally not whipped. Like, not at all.

Her hands rest on his shoulders and she studies him for a moment. "See, you can kind of tease it in the back and it still looks good," she says, her fingers moving through his hair. "I like it this way."

"Well, that's all that matters then, right?" he asks teasingly, looking up at her.

"Well, yeah, basically. Fuck the judge."

And he laughs, but the realness of jail winds him.

She looks pale. Her fingers shake, tugging on a strand of his hair.

His arms slide around her waist, and he pulls her to him, his head resting against her stomach.

"I don't want you to leave," she breathes, her arms snaked around his neck.

He doesn't say anything. He slips his hand under her dress, slowly lifting it and holding the fabric against her hips.

Her breathing quickens.

He presses his lips against her stomach and Jesus, she tastes sweet. And warm.

Fucking oranges.

He runs a finger over the waistband of her panties, gently tugging them down.

He bites the inners of her thighs. His nose brushes against her hips and he feels her get wetter against his tongue.

Her nails dig painfully into the back of his neck. She seems embarrassed by the loud moan that escapes her.

And she peels off his shirt and she tugs off his belt and his jeans fall to his feet. He unzips her dress and they stumble through the apartment, falling against the bed.

His fingers graze her chest, her ribs, her hips.

"This isn't pity sex, is it?" he asks in a raspy voice, his mouth inches from hers.

And she laughs, shaking her head. "No, it's not."

The way she gasps confirms this.

xxxxxx

Her body is dripping with sweat. He watches her shoulders rise and fall as she lies on her stomach.

And his head reels because he just had sex with Pam Beesley.

And he's going to jail.

And he felt her skin between his hands.

He bets the cell will be small.

He made her moan.

Shit.

Sitting up, he feels something wet on her pillow. He hears her shallow breathing.

He was leaving her.

He crawls out of the bed, slipping his boxers onto his hips, and grabbing the cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand.

She doesn't stir as he climbs out the window.

The air is heavy outside. He drops onto the landing, facing the city below him.

He feels sick.

She's in there and he's out here and soon he won't even be here and she might not be there.

What if she goes back to that asshole? What if she leaves?

What's he supposed to do now that he cares?

Because, shit, she makes his heart ache just by laughing. Or by walking into the room. Or just by sitting quietly next to him, her perfume drifting around him.

It doesn't take much for him to loose his head. Especially around her. Usually around her.

The cigarette hangs limp between his fingers. It's late. He has to get up early tomorrow. He'll miss being in the city during summer.

He'll miss her dresses, and the drawings she leaves around the apartment for him. He'll miss the baseball games on TV and the movies before bed. He'll miss watching her paint her nails and seeing her toothbrush next to his. He'll miss all her crap scattered everywhere, tossed in his drawers and over his bookshelf.

The cigarette butt falls, floating through the air. He figures that it lands down on the sidewalk. He doesn't check.

At least he doesn't feel like jumping like he did after he got arrested.

Shit, she fucked up all his plans.

He'll miss that too.