And we're back! Enjoy. :)

a thousand miles seems pretty far
but they've got planes and trains and cars
i'd walk to you if i had no other way
Plain White T's, "Hey There Delilah"

Olivia loved New York. She really did. The food. The museums. The people. She loved the subway and the park and…everything.

Except she hated all those things, too. She missed the laid-back vibe of Charming. The quiet. The air. She missed California in general, and she realized just how right she'd been when she told Opie she was a West coast girl at heart.

She missed Opie. Tara, too, of course, and Juice a bit. Even Jax. She missed the garage and her house. But most of all she missed Opie. She'd felt disjointed and out of sorts ever since her plane landed, and the feeling only got worse as the days passed.

One week and three days, and by far the longest she'd gone without speaking to Opie since she got back to Charming.

Would it be weird to call him? Would that be too…something? Clingy? Or send the wrong message? She paced around and around her sofa and chewed her lip. He'd probably be glad to hear from her. Maybe he was missing her as much as she missed him.

Doubtful. He had the MC and Jax and everybody. He was busy.

As if she weren't busy in New York. Her agent had her running like a mad woman, shopping her older work to smaller galleries and going to meetings with various board members for the SoHo gallery that was showing the new stuff. She had three major dinner party…meeting…things next week, and she had to buy clothes for all of them.

She was a clotheshorse, but formal wear fit for an Upper East Side dinner party wasn't exactly a staple of her wardrobe.

"Fuck it," she muttered and dialed Opie's number. She thought it was going to hit voicemail, and she'd already started composing a message in her head (she fucking hated voicemail) when he answered.

"Ollie? Is everything okay?"

Her mouth fell open a little and she almost laughed. "Yeah, Ope. Everything's fine. Hi, by the way."

He let out a breath. "Hi. Sorry. I just—"

"What? I can't call unless there's an emergency?"

"Well, no, I didn't mean that, but it's midnight there, so I thought…never mind. So it's good? You're good?"

Now she did laugh. She fell onto the couch and pulled the throw over her legs. "It's good. I'm good. How are you?" There was a squeak, like maybe of bedsprings, and she frowned. "I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

He frowned at the phone. "Like what?"

"I don't know. What kind of thing does a strapping young lad like yourself get up to at nine o'clock on a Thursday?"

"I ate Spaghetti O's from the can and decided to turn in early."

"Oh my God," she said.

"Yeah." He flicked the bedside lamp off. "Hang on," he said and put the phone aside as he beat his pillow into shape and got the covers fixed. "Okay, sorry."

"So you're in bed. That's what you're telling me."

"Ollie."

She snickered. Picked at the blanket a little. "So how're things?"

"Things?" he said. "Things're fine. How's New York?"

"I said it's good."

"Uh huh."

He knew her, knew her moods and her voice and…well. Her. Olivia. And he could tell something was wrong. Not anything catastrophic, but something. He closed his eyes to imagine how her face would look, the nose scrunched a little and a line between her brows. He wanted to kiss the scrunch, soothe the line with his thumb…

She huffed out a breath, and the sound of it pulled him out of his revery. "It is!" she said.

"So then why are you callin' me?" he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice.

"Duh. I missed you."

"That's weird," he said. "I barely even noticed you were gone."

She bit her lip around a smile. "Asshole."

"Yep." He cleared his throat. "For real, I actually…I guess maybe I missed you a little, too."

"Wow, Ope, my nethers are all aquiver."

His brain blanked for a split second, and by the time he was back he could hear her laughter rolling through the phone. "Shut up," he muttered. "I don't need to hear a goddamn thing about your nethers, quivering or otherwise."

She giggled while he grumbled, then after a moment she said, "Tell me something good that happened today."

His response was instantaneous: "You called."

She let out a soft, surprised laugh and heat flushed her cheeks. "Opie," she said.

He grinned, loving the sound of her laugh. Clearing his throat he said, "Seriously? Umm…oh, I know. The odometer in the truck rolled over to two hundred thousand."

"Seriously?" she echoed.

"Yeah, Oll, come on. Two hundred kay is a big deal! And it's still goin' strong. I might be able to get another hundred thousand out of it."

"God you're such a boy."

"Huh. I'd accept that if you didn't love cars as much as me."

She smoothed the blanket over her knee as she grinned. "Yeah, I guess that's a point."

"What about you? Tell me something good that happened to you today."

Her smile morphed into a frown as she thought it over. There'd been good things. Of course there had. "Um. Oh, well, tomorrow I get to go to Barney's and buy clothes for these parties next week."

"Hum," he said, doubtfully. He knew she loved to shop, but… "That's not until tomorrow. Today, Oll."

"Okay, okay. Today I…I spent a couple hours with the Impressionists in the Met, drawing."

"Drawing? Oll, you're a sculptor."

She rolled her eyes. "I know. Why do you think I was with the Impressionists? It's hard to tell how much you suck when you're drawing fuzzy haystacks."

"Good point." A brief lull fell, and for a moment he just listened to the quiet sound of her breath. "I do, though."

"Hmm? Do what?"

"Miss you," he said. "Every day."

"Good," she said, her voice warm and low. "I miss you too."

The next night he called her. The conversation was light and easy, just small talk really, but when she hung up she felt better than she had since she got to the city.

The night after, she called him. He asked her what she'd bought at Barney's, and he closed his eyes to imagine her in each one of the dresses she described. He only felt a little guilty about it, until she called him on it.

"I'm not telling you about my visit to the lingerie department."

He started. "Huh?" He almost rolled off the couch in surprise. "What?"

She giggled. "Close your eyes," she said.

"Ollie, I wasn't—"

"Close your eyes."

He sighed. "Fine. Eyes are closed."

"Good." She grinned. "Now picture Jesus, because you are a very bad man!"

"Oh my God, Olivia."

"Exactly."

After that it became their routine: every night one of them would call the other. They usually recapped their days, made each other laugh a little, talked about what they had on the agenda for the next day, and that was that. No big deal. Just chatting.

But for Olivia, her conversations with Opie were the best part of her day. It was the same for him, but getting either of them to admit it would require an act of Congress and two minor miracles. It didn't matter, though: they could tell. He could hear the smile and the relief in her voice, and she could hear the delight and anticipation in his (as stoic as he was).

"I had some amazing pizza today," she said on day four.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep. Coal oven. We should open a coal oven pizza place."

"You can't cook for shit, Olivia."

"Details, Harry. Don't try to drag me down."

Day six
"You should go see a show," he said.

"Like, Broadway?"

"No, dumbass. That naked cowboy guy in Times Square. Yes, Broadway."

"I was thinking about it, actually." She paused. "What would you see if you were here?"

"The Lion King," he said without thinking.

"What?" she said with a surprised laugh.

He blushed. "It was my favorite movie when I was a kid. I think it'd be awesome. Don't you?"

"Yeah, Ope," she said. "I'd love to see The Lion King."

"Maybe we could go together," he said, then immediately kicked himself.

"If you came here, you mean, or if the tour came to San Francisco or something?"

"Uh." He was thrown a little by her easy tone. She clearly wasn't worried about it. "Either? I don't know."

"Hhmm," she said. "That's a good idea. It's a date." She closed her eyes as the word passed her lips and let her forehead drop to her hand. "I mean—not a date date, just—"

"Oll, it's fine. If I don't buy you food it's not a date, right?"

"Is that how it works?"

"I think so."

She laughed. "Fine. A show but no dinner. A not-date it is."

Day ten
"No, Oll, no. It's not like that! Picard wouldn't want Riker risking the ship to come rescue him from the Borg. He just wouldn't."

"Except it's not just about Picard, is it? When he gets Borged they get access to his memories, right? All his knowledge? He's a Captain, dude. Imagine the Federation secrets the Borg know now! And the more they Borg him, the more they get. Riker had to rescue him, and I think Picard'd understand that."

"You're such a fuckin' nerd," he said with a snort.

"Please. You started it."

There was a pause. Then, from Opie, "Okay, but, Khan, man!"

Day twelve
"Opie, please, there's no way the Mustang is better than the Cougar. That's just crazy talk."

"They're the same on the inside anyway, so I don't see what the big deal is." He was baiting her, but it was so much fun when she got all worked up.

"Oh my God. Why do I even talk to you? Yes, they have the same engine block, but seriously?"

"Okay, okay. Hear me out, though: Porsches."

"Oh fuck you."

He burst out laughing. "You're gonna hang up on me, aren't you?"

"Seriously thinking about it."

"Wait, okay, before you do—what're you wearing?"

"Opie Winston!"

"What, like a shirt with my face on it? Geez, Oll, that's a little much don't you think?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Talk tomorrow?"

"We better," she said, then he heard the click of her disconnecting.

He stared down at the phone in his hand, a little shocked at himself. She'd taken it as a joke, and he was glad, but what if she'd taken him seriously? Would it have pissed her off, or (maybe worse) would she've answered the question?

Get it together, Winston, he thought. He'd never forgive himself if he fucked this up. Pushed her too hard or too fast and she ran the other way. Or decided she just wanted a hook up after all, because while he imagined a hook up would be fun, it definitely wasn't what he wanted from her.

And he really didn't think it was what she wanted from him, either—but maybe that was just blind optimism on his part.

Maybe.

Day sixteen
"I ever tell you why Ben and I split? Like, finally and for real?"

There was a pause. He took a sip of his beer. "I know you…didn't feel the same way about him he did about you."

"Mmhhmm," she said.

"What are you eating?"

"Noodles. There's this great noodle shop down the block. If I ever get you out here I'll take you."

She'd been mentioning that the last few days, casually slipping if you come out or if you ever visit into their conversations, and every time it gave him a quiet little thrill. She wanted him to come visit her. She wanted to see him.

"You buy me food, it's a date," he said, almost without realizing it. He winced and waited as he held his breath.

"I'm aware of that," she said after a moment. "We could go Dutch, I guess."

"You don't sound thrilled with that idea. You gettin' cheap on me, Gable?"

She chuckled. "No. The opposite, actually." She chewed on her fork. "I'd be happy to buy you some noodles, Ope. You just gotta get your big ass to New York."

"If I'd known there was free food and a date with you in it for me, I woulda been on a plane last week."

"I don't put out on the first date, just so you know."

"Oh. Well fuck never mind then."

"God, Opie," she said as she laughed. "When did you get so fuckin' smooth?"

He was glad she couldn't see him blush. "I'm not; I promise. I just like makin' you laugh." He cleared his throat and hurried on before the moment could turn awkward. "Anyway, you were sayin'? About you and Ben?"

"Mmm," she said. If he wanted to drop it, she could drop it. "Yeah, that was part of it, for sure. But one day he came home and told me he'd been having an affair."

"Whoa," Opie said. "For how long?"

She shrugged and picked at her noodles. "A few months. I asked if he loved her, and he said yes…but that he loved me, too, and he was willing to try again if I was. He said he would end it with her and we could try again to—"

"Make things work," he said when she broke off.

"Yeah."

That wasn't what she'd been about to say, but he knew better than to push. "I'm guessing you turned him down."

"I did, but—first I asked if she loved him. He told me she did, and I asked if she made him happy. He said she did, so…I told him he should be with her."

Opie grunted. "You think you didn't make him happy?"

Her smile was rueful and she set her bowl aside. "How happy would you be married to someone who cared a whole lot, but would never quite feel the same way you did?"

"Hhmm." Eyes shut, he imagined entwining his fingers with hers, his thumb rubbing the soft skin on the back of her hand. Kissing her fingers and tickling her sides with his free hand until she was breathless with laughter. He hated hearing her so sad.

"What about you?" he said. "Did it make you happy being married to someone you didn't love?"

There was a pause, then she took a deep breath. "It didn't make me miserable, but…neither of us were as happy as we could be. We both knew we never should've gotten married."

He sighed and opened his eyes again. "What made you think about all that?"

"We sent out the invitations to the opening today."

"And you invited Ben?"

"Well, yeah," she said. "If it weren't for him I might never've started sculpting. And it was his old gallery that gave me my first break in Portland. So. Yeah. I invited Ben." A pause. "I also invited you. And, I mean," she hurried to add, "nearly everyone from Charming. I'm not expecting the club to roll up on some fancy-ass art gallery, but…I'm hoping a couple of you can come."

He blinked in surprise. "You mean me?"

She laughed. "I don't hate that idea."

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I don't either."

Day eighteen
"You're eating, right?"

"Opie, Jesus, I'm eating nearly every time we talk."

"Yeah, but…"

"Stop worrying! You're such a mother hen sometimes."

"Just need to make sure you're okay."

"Mmhmm," she said. Then, "Tell me something good."

"Ummm…oh, okay, so when otters sleep they hook arms so they don't drift away from each other."

"Wow," she said, smothering a giggle behind her hand. "That's the cutest thing I've ever heard. Like a little otter congo line."

"Conga line, genius."

"Hum. Whatever. It's cute either way."

"Uh huh," he said, trying not to laugh at her. "Or they wrap themselves in kelp, like sleeping bags. And, and! They have a little pocket under their arms where they keep their favorite rock that they use to, like, open shellfish and just to play and stuff."

"Opie, did you look up facts about otters so you'd have something good to tell me?"

A pause before, sheepishly, "Yeah."

"Wow," she said again, her voice going soft. "That's almost as cute as otter congo lines."

Day twenty-two
He finally got the invite nearly a week after she first mentioned it, and as soon as he got home that night he called her. "So I opened my mailbox today and there was this fancy envelope."

"Oh yeah? You win somethin'?"

"Maybe. But this looks like an invitation. To some…I dunno. Black tie event?"

She grinned and pulled the covers up higher—she was in bed and had been almost asleep when the phone rang. "Yeah, but, if you don't want to go full tux you don't have to." She paused. "If you can come at all, I mean."

"I'd like to," he said.

Her voice went quiet. "I'd like you to."

"Yeah?" He tried to smother a grin. "You just sayin' that to be polite?"

She snorted. "When have I ever said anything just to be polite?"

"Some time. Surely."

"Shut up, Winston. Are you coming or not?"

He shifted, and he heard her soft laugh when the bedsprings squeaked.

"You in bed?"

"Yep. You?"

"Uh huh. Looks like we're in bed together."

"Figures: I finally get you in bed and you're on the other side of the continent."

"Close your eyes," she said.

"What? Why?"

She let out a huff. "Just do it, Ope. Humor me."

"Fine," he said, feeling silly. Last time she'd had him do this she'd told him to picture Jesus. He shut his eyes and leaned back against the pillows. "Okay," he said. "They're closed."

She let hers drift shut, too, and she sighed, soft and sweet. "If I were there right now I'd curl up against you. Like I was when you woke me up after we fell asleep together the day you got shot. Remember?"

"Yeah," he said. "I remember." He hesitated. Then, "Difference is I got two workin' arms now."

"Oh?" she said, her tone teasing. "The better to fight me off with, my dear?"

"Yeah, right. More like…" The image was in his head in full on 3D, larger than life and so real he could almost smell her shampoo. Fuck it.

"The better to pull you closer," he said. "Wrap—wrap them around you and…" He trailed off. He'd gone from feeling silly to feeling downright stupid. He might've just made a huge mistake.

"And what, Opie?" she murmured. "Tell me?"

"Just, um." His face was hot and he was glad she couldn't see him. "Hold you, Oll. I'd really love to hold you."

She made a low noise that he felt like a caress. "I'd love that too."

"Because we're pals," he said. "Right? Buddies?"

She laughed. "Exactly, Opie. Pals."

They both went quiet, and he could hear the sounds of the city outside her loft. He wondered how she slept with all that noise.

"I don't wanna fuck this up, Ollie," he said in a rush.

"I don't either," she said. She flipped onto her stomach and propped her chin on her hand. "I'm really good at fucking things up."

"Don't say that."

"It's true. I'm not trying to be self-pitying or anything."

"Olivia—"

"Opie," she said on a breath. "Tell me again you miss me." It wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, but she was afraid of what he might've said if she hadn't interrupted him—but anyway. It got close to the truth without going over, like emotional The Price is Right.

"I—fuck, Oll, I miss you like crazy. Every day. I see shit that makes me think about you or hear something that'd make you laugh, or a song I know you'd like on the radio. These talks are the best part of my day. That sounds so lame, but—"

"No," she said. "No, not lame at all. They're the best part of my day, too."

"Really?"

"Duh. I have about five thousand pictures I've taken while I've been here, and at least three quarters of them are things I took thinking about you. I know it's dumb to be a twenty-nine-year-old woman and be homesick, but I am. And every time I hear your voice it reminds me…" She let the thought trail away, afraid she'd said too much.

"Reminds you of what?" he said in a voice gone thick.

"Of why Charming is home to me," she said all at once, before she could chicken out. "Because you're there. Because you—being with you, talking to you, making you laugh—is home to me." She slapped a hand to her face and groaned. "Oh my God, Opie, I shouldn't—"

"Stop," he said. "Jesus, Oll, you got no idea how bad I wanna kiss you right now."

"I think I have some idea," she said through a laugh. Then, quietly. "Come to New York, Opie. Not because I need you and you're riding to my rescue, like Chicago, but just because…I want you. I want you here and you want to be here."

"I do want to be there."

She bit her lip, feeling totally out of her depth. "I know you've got a lot going on, with the club and work and everything, so if you can't—"

"I'll try," he said. "I wanna be there, Ollie, and I'll do everything I can. Okay?"

She smiled and wiped at her eyes. She wasn't going to cry. What an idiot. "Okay," she said. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"You know. The usual. Putting up with me. Being you."

"Ah, I gotcha. Same ol', same ol'."

"Yep," she said.

He tugged at his beard and grinned. "So, Oll…what're you wearing?"

"Oh my God!" she said as she giggled. "Shut up, Winston. One day I'm gonna answer that question and then what'll you do?"

"That's easy," he said with a snort. "I'd describe how I'd peel every stitch of clothing off you. Slowly. You know, like unwrapping a really great present at Christmas."

Her breath caught, but she tried to hide it. They'd never—sure, they teased back and forth sometimes, and there was a chance he was doing that now…but somehow she didn't think so. She could laugh it off and they could move on, or she could…

"What if I said I was naked?" she said.

He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer, and she cursed herself for pushing it. He'd been teasing. He hadn't meant it. Maybe if she made a joke she could defuse it before things got weird. She opened her mouth, but he beat her to it.

"Then I'd skip straight to the part where I kiss you all over," he said, and the roughness in his voice made her shiver.

Her eyes flew open, big and wide. "Opie—" she breathed.

"Shhh," he said. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything. Just—just listen."

She bit her lip. It still wasn't too late. She could stop this now, and they could laugh about it later. Except she didn't want to stop it. She wanted to hear what he had to say.

"I'm listening," she whispered.

He closed his eyes again and hooked his arm behind his head. His mouth moved in an easy smile even as his heart pounded. He felt like he was outside of himself, watching, because he honestly couldn't believe he was saying these things to Olivia—and that she was letting him.

"I'd start with your neck," he said. "The part where it just starts to curve into your shoulder? You smell so good there…"

It went on like that for over an hour, his voice like warm velvet, and she'd had no idea laconic, taciturn Opie could be so goddamn poetic. He never got explicit. Or crude. But every word painted a picture so clear she could practically feel the brush of his lips or caress of his palm.

It had been unexpected. Shocking, almost, because he was also so…shy, maybe? Not quite that, but more…self-contained. An iceberg.

She chewed a fingernail as she thought it over. She'd known since that day he kissed her, the day he got shot, that there was something more between them than just casual friendship. He had feelings for her; she wasn't blind. But it was a terrible idea, and she didn't feel the same way.

She couldn't. He was…Opie. Just. Opie. They'd tried when they were fifteen, and it had been clear they just weren't meant like that.

Fifteen was a long-ass time ago, she thought.

It was impossible to tell anything like this, over the phone with an entire continent between them. Maybe she just missed him a whole lot. Maybe when she saw him this weird…brain-fog thing…would lift and it'd all be clear again

All the more reason for him to come to the opening. They'd dress up; she'd schmooze while he looked big and scary and kept the creepers away; they'd drink some champagne and have a few laughs and things would go back to the way they'd been before she heard him describe how he imagined the small of her back would look by candlelight—just before he tasted it.

She shivered.

Opie Winston.

Who would've guessed?

Opie Winston, you smooth motherfucker.