Picks up the morning after...

He feels a warm current of air tickle his neck. It's faint, and he decides, in his semi-conscious state, that it is a part of a dream that he's having. Yes, that must be it, a part of a dream - the softness, the gentility, the evanescence, the comfort it brings - it is all too perfect to be real.

He stirs. Shuts his eyes tighter. But the dream, the dream fades - the beach and the soft hum of waves, Teddy's face and his mother's hands, it all dissipates, like a drop of ink in water, without a trace. But the feeling, the soft breeze, it tickles his neck again. It tickles his skin, and spreads through his body, his bloodstream, until it's warming up his insides, until a smile is stretching on his face - consciousness playing catch up to what his soul already knows.

"Livvie…" He says, and his voice sounds foreign to his ears. It's gruff, traces of deep slumber still linger. Another current of warm air, this time on his bare chest. And he feels her fingers move along his sides. It's like faint electricity that makes his whole body come alive. And he tightens his grip on her waist, and pushes his knee up, higher, between her legs. He flips them. And he hears her laughter, and he knows, if he had to pick a single sound to listen to for the rest of his life - this would be it. The lightness, the buoyancy of it - it fills him up; it heals, it soothes. Finally, he opens his eyes, because he knows, that this moment, he'll want to remember it - the way her charcoal black hair is fanned out on the soft white sheets, the way her eyes seem to glow, the specs of gold blindingly bright, the way she scrunches up her nose as he tickles her sides, before she breaks into another fit of laughter. He knows, he's making a memory, a memory he'll tell their kids about, and their grandkids one day, one day when they ask - "When did you know she was the love of your life?" And he will tell them, tell them and smile, because the memory will be the first one, but not the last - there will be a thousand answers to the question, each one a perfect moment, carefully archived, the details meticulously remembered, each one another part of her to love.

"Stop! Stop!" She bellows through laughter, as her hands feverishly tickle his sides, his abdomen.

"You need to learn a lesson." He says, seriously, his hands stilling temporarily, "That. I. Am. The. Tickle. Master." And he starts tickling her sides again, and she tries to wiggle out of his reach, she tosses underneath him. It's a frenzy, of movements, of sounds, of sensations, and then she's kissing him - her hands are around his neck, pulling him down, as her tongue teases the seam of his lips. He parts them, barely, just enough for his tongue to meet hers, to tease back, but then she's gently biting on his lower lip, and he's done teasing, he's done playing. His hand moves up her side to her breast, and he cups it tenderly, before kneading gently as he twists her nipple between his fingers. And her moan resonates though his throat. He feels her hand travelling down his body, her nails softly scratching the skin on his back, and then she's pulling him down, as she opens her legs wider. Then she's flipping them, and suddenly he's on his back, and she's straddling him, grinding against his throbbing erection as she smiles victoriously.

"And you should know," she says, as she lowers her lips to his neck, "That. I. Am. The. Kissing. Queen."

"Oh, you are, huh?" And he's tickling her sides again, until she's collapsing onto the bed, as ragged breaths leave her heaving chest. He throws his arm over her exposed midsection and nuzzles into her side, his head resting comfortably just above her breast. "Good morning." And he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles slowly, tracing each one with his thumb.

"Morning baby." She says, her voice hoarse, as she lets her other hand play with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Go on a date with me?" He blurts out, then looks up, gingerly meeting her questioning eyes.

"What?" She asks, as her hand stills, her body tenses.

"Go on a date with me tonight." He says, more assured now. Somehow her uncertainty makes him more certain, her doubts make him see clearly. "We said we'll give this a try. Us, a try. And while I've enjoyed all other aspects of our boyfriend/girlfriend arrangement," he grins and kisses her exposed shoulder, "we have yet to go on a date." He pauses for a moment, unsure if he should stop there, but then he props himself on his elbows, until he's hovering above her face. "And if last night's events are any indication," and she looks away quickly, and he knows she's trying to bury the hurt; she doesn't know, doesn't understand that he sees it anyway, "we need to get to know each other better." He pauses, waiting for her to look at him. He wants to gently turn her head around, he wants to kiss her, until they're breathless again, he wants to kiss her doubts away- but he doesn't; it wouldn't work, it would just make her forget - temporarily. She finally looks at him, a small smile on her lips.

"Last night… I trust you." She says quietly, barely a whisper, as she runs her hand up the side of his face.

"You want to." He says, as he kisses her nose quickly, "But you don't." And she looks away again, as she lets out a shaky breath. "It's OK. Relationships are about earning trust."

"I do believe you when you say nothing happened."

"Good." And she looks at him again; her eyes searching his face for signs of doubt, uncertainty, as his do the same. "Because nothing happened. Even if Melanie hadn't given me a piece of her mind about how big of an ass I was being, nothing still would have happened." And she nods, slowly, as he cups her face. "But that's not the point." And she looks up, her eyes suddenly alight with curiosity, or is it traces of fear? "I know how you like your coffee, but not your favorite childhood memory. I know how you cheat on your crossword puzzle," and she glares at him, as he grins, "but I don't know why you care enough to hide that you're cheating. I know your favorite ice cream is chocolate fudge brownie, and that you always leave two spoon-fulls in every tub, instead of finishing it, but I don't know why you have boxes of popcorn that you never eat. I know what your sheets smell like, but I don't know why there were no photos in your apartment when we moved in." She blinks, and looks away again, and he knows, he's struck a chord. He stops. He rolls onto his side again, nuzzling his head into her neck. "I want this to work Liv. I want to give us the best chance that we can get. It's not a fling for me, it's not a casual thing. I want to know things, I want to know you. I want to know your fears, and your dreams, and things that go on in that magnificent brain of yours. I see you, and I know you, and I love you. But I want more. I want everything." And he sees fear flash across her face, and he knows now, knows without a doubt, it is fear. Because she doesn't know how to let him in, how to give him everything, without disappearing in him.

She kisses him. Tenderly. Just familiar lips brushing against familiar lips. It's her answer, he knows, she won't say anything. This is it - it's a promise, to give them a chance, a real chance; to try.

"So you'll go on a date with me?" He whispers, as he softly nibbles on her ear.

She giggles and there is a childishness to it, childishness inherent in hope. "Yes, I will go on a date with you. But I need to switch shifts at the hospital… Oh, shit!"

"What?" He can see the wheels in her head turning, she's trying to come up with a solution, but he needs to know the problem, the cause. "This, see, this right here, is why we need to go on a date." He says, half-jokingly, but they both know there's truth to it.

"I… I have to drop Lynn off by your dad's hotel this morning. To say goodbye." She says it all in one breath, as if the speed will make it sting less.

"I can do it." He says, before he can stop himself.

"Fitz, it's fine. We can do the date tomorrow."

"Liv, my father's always been an ass. I've always known he was an ass. This doesn't change how I feel about him. What he said, it changes nothing." They both know it's a lie, truth as he wishes it were. He rolls away from her and gets up; he pulls away.

"Fitz…" He turns around and and looks at her, pleas - to drop it, leave it be. And he can see her fighting herself, fighting her urge to fix. "Pick me up at 8?" He smiles and nods, grateful.

She kisses his shoulder blade as she passes him in the bathroom, before jumping into shower. And he wants to kiss her back, to tell her that what she's doing, just being there - it's enough, it's more than anyone's ever done. But he doesn't. Instead he splashes ice-cold water on his face, until his forehead hurts, and all he can think about is the pain - the one that's temporary, the one that can vane.

"C, how long have you been up?" He asks, startled, his arm dangling from the short sleeve of the NAVY t-shirt she took off before jumping into shower.

"A while." The girl says with a wide smile, her eyes on the TV.

"Right…" He awkwardly irons the wrinkles on the shirt, but it makes no difference, and after the third time he realizes it probably looks like he's petting his abs. "Breakfast?" And she nods her head, her eyes still glued to the TV. "Pancakes and coffee?"

"Yes, please." He should talk to her about it, make her turn off the TV, but the truth is, he's grateful for the distraction, temporary delay in the onslaught of questions he knows are coming.

He mixes the batter, as the coffee brews, the smell awakening the still-sleepy corners of his brain. And then it's the pan, and the smell of warm pancakes and melting butter, as coffee washes the last remnants of the scotch-infused night. He had too much to drink, he thinks, as he takes another gulp - too much. And despite what he told her, there is a part of him that doubts - another glass, and then - would he have been his old self, would he have hurt her, recklessly, selfishly. He doubts, and the thought terrifies him. Another sip of coffee. Cleansing.

"Can I have a sip?" She startles him, but he smiles, pushing his thoughts aside. It's a wonderful thing - being able to control his demons, even temporarily.

"Get your own." He says playfully, as he shoves his cup in her hands. She finishes it in two large gulps, and he tries to cover up the fact that he's impressed by faux-annoyance. "And stop stealing C's food." He says, as he tenderly swats her hand away.

"Oh, what, I agreed to go out with you, and you stop feeding me?"

He kisses her. It's quick. Deep. Wanton almost. "Your breakfast is in a bag on the counter," he says, as he steps away, smiling at her dazed expression.

"What?"

"I packed you a breakfast." He says, focusing on the frying pan, avoiding her tender gaze.

"Fitz…" She says as her thumb lingers on his cheek.

"It's just a pancake." He says, looking up quickly, giving her a shy smile.

"I…" And he knows what she was about to say, and he knows she's not ready. He knows that for her it's not about feeling the three words, it's about admitting that that's what she feels, it's about coming to terms with what it means. "Thank you."

And he smiles. And nods. "It's OK." And they both know he's not talking about the pancakes.

"Lynn, I'll see you later!"

"Uh-huh." She says, her mind occupied by the blue and green rays flashing on the large screen.

"Lynn, get your butt over here right now, give me a kiss, and then go wash up so that you can have breakfast." She says in that firm tone, the one that he finds both intimidating and incredibly sexy. The girl looks up, sighs, but then turns the TV off and runs over to give her a hug. And in that moment he understands why they left her to them - out of all their friends, who have kids, who are better versed at it, why they left her to them, two virtual strangers. They knew they'd make each other grow up; they'd push each other to try, and try again every time they fail; they'd teach each other how to be parents. He smiles and she catches his eye. She smiles too, and for a moment it seems as if they must be, thinking the same thing. She winks at him and leaves.

"So, if you're the Tickling Master, and Liv is the Kissing Queen, what does that make me?" She asks, as she hops on to a stool.

"It makes you nosy," he says as he drops a plate in front of her, trying desperately to keep his face from turning scarlet.

"I wasn't. You two were just very loud."

"We were not." He says, then grins as he realizes how childish he sounds. "We were the normal level of loud." She bites into her pancake, her eyes still smirking at him. "And next time, just… knock or something."

"I thought you might have been kissing."

"Well even if we are, you can always interrupt us."

"I can?" she asks, her voice laced with uncertainty.

"Yeah, C. You always trump kissing." She nods, clearly pleased, then takes another bite of the pancake.

"Where's grandpa?" She finally asks, the silence apparently going on for too long.

"I'll take you to say goodbye to him after breakfast." He says curtly, and she knows better than to ask again. "I need to send in my notes for a scene. Get dressed when you're done, and we'll go see him." She just nods, and takes a sip of her hot chocolate as he hides behind his laptop. She's studying him, he can feel, it's unnerving - as if she can see something no one else can; see scars so old that even he forgot about them. She is so much like Teddy, that sometimes, for a moment, he forgets all about the finality of death.

They walk down the busy streets, as a symphony of car horns, construction works and foreign languages sets a slow rhythm of their pace. It's a sunny early March day, warm, or as warm as winter days can get. Her cheeks are flushed, a cloud of white steam swallows her whole, each time she speaks. They reach the hotel and he pauses for a moment, he stands still as the glass doors turn, and turn again.

"Fitz?" She finally says, squeezing his hand gently, as she looks up, her blue eyes peeking under the panda ones on her large hat.

"Let's go," he smiles - it's shaky, empty; he doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to see the man, to shake his hand, to become ten again under his gaze. He doesn't want to hide the anger, the disappointment, to pretend. But he pushes past it, because that, that is what grown ups do - they push themselves, until there's nothing left.

He talks to the concierge and the young man makes the call. He watches Lynn jump between the perfectly polished marble tiles; her tulle skirt floating behind, as if caught in an invisible breeze.

"Fitzgerald." And instantly he squares his shoulders, clenches his jaw.

"Big Gerry." They stand there; in a busy lobby, they are perfectly still. They size each other up; the wounds, the scars; the hurts - they stare until surface dissipates and they see past it; until they see the things they'll never speak.

"I'm-"

"Grandpa." And the excited voice breaks them out of the trance. He won't apologize. He can't. Not now. Humility is a weakness; his father's always thought that. He takes a step back, then another, then another. Until their voices disappear in the sea of chatter; until she's just a girl in a tulle skirt and a panda hat, and he's an old man, hunched under the burden of regret. He sees it clearly now, as if it's a movie - he is aware, that this - this is the last time he will see his father, really see him. He commits it to memory. He is an ambitious man, a ruthless man, a scared man - he is a lost man. A lost man, temporarily found in a soft kiss of a girl with his son's eyes.

He hears her come in at 7:20, the sound of shoes being kicked off, the sound of shoes knocking the umbrella stand down, the sound of her cursing a string of profanities, the sound of feet rushing across the floor and the sound of her door close. He's dressed. He's ready. He has been, for an hour almost. He dropped C off at Amber's for their sleepover, then came back. Worked, which consisted of him thinking about whether he's made the right reservation, whether the outfit C and he picked out is too much, whether he should gel his hair down, or just comb it. He's never been this nervous about a date in his life, mostly because he's never been on a date, not since he was fifteen and took Angela Titsy to get ice cream on the pier. Her last name was appropriate, and he spent the evening staring at her cleavage, as she talked about how she was going to become a model and move to LA - Santa Barbara was too small, and was suffocating her. He remembers kissing her in the back of Teddy's truck, and struggling to unclasp her bra. Twenty minutes later neither of them was anymore a virgin. They hooked up a few more times after that, until she left with Vince, the photographer. He healed his broken heart with Jessica, then Dana, then Lily, then he discovered hard liquor and everything gets a bit fuzzy. But the point is - he hasn't been on a date in fifteen years, and never with someone he loved; it was never this important.

He paces. He hears her shower running. He paces some more. Maybe he should put on some more cologne. But he remembers reading, in one of those female, yet utterly chauvinist magazines that one of the biggest turn-offs was a guy with too much cologne. He had a mouthful of snarky comments then, but now, he wonders, as panic paralyses him, if maybe he already has too much cologne on. And his shoes, they seem too shiny. He had them polished, but what if they're too shiny and he seems spoiled and preppy, and not sophisticated. He takes his phone out. No emails. No messages. Nothing. Not when you need it. He texts C, then chastises himself - he's using his six year-old as a distraction. But even she just texts him a - Watching a movie. Chill. They need to discuss her language.

7:50. Maybe he should go out into the living room. Just in case she's finished early. Or he could watch some TV. But does that send a wrong message? Too relaxed? He could mute it? He sighs out. He's exhausted and the date hasn't even started. What was he thinking, they don't need to date, they're fine - they're perfect. Sure, they have communication issues, but so does everyone (according to the same female magazine that pointed out the thing about the cologne). He turns the TV on, as he settles down onto the couch. A reality show filled with girls he slept with; flip; a movie staring a girl he slept with, or was it her twin?; flip; a basketball game… and the guy who punched him for sleeping with his girlfriend scores; turn off. It's almost eight, and he gets up, trying to iron out the creases on his pants - maybe he should change, or iron them again? But no, there's no time - breathe out. Should he knock on her door? She did say pick her up, but what does that mean - they live together for Chrissake. His hand hovers above the door, readying to knock, but then he heads out - he could ring the bell; no, no, that's just weird, back to her bedroom door, and his hand hovers again, as if there is an invisible wall keeping it away. And the door swings open; he's a little startled, and very embarrassed. She's startled too, and taken aback, and blushing… and absolutely stunning. She looks up at him, and smiles, shyly and he feels his nerves melting away. This is it, meant to be.

"Shall we?"

"What were you doing?" She says, as she follows him out of the apartment. "In front of my door."

"I was about to knock."

"For how long?" She asks with a smirk, as they wait for the elevator.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He replies, letting his eyes linger on her face. Her makeup is impeccable, emphasising her natural beauty, rather than masking it. Her cheekbones are as striking as ever, and the dark eyeshadow makes her eyes emit a soft glow.

"What?" She asks, reaching her hand up to her face tentatively. "Is something wrong with my make up. I was in a hurry, there was a patient and… I didn't have time to do it properly, I was rushing, oh god…" He smiles. She's nervous too. "What?!"

"Nothing. You… you're just, you're beautiful."

"And you're so cheesy." She says dismissively, but her smile gives her away, as does the gentle flutter of her lashes as her cheeks blush. "Where to?" She says as they step out on to the street.

"TAXI!" But the cars pass, as he waves from the side walk.

"Taxi." And instantly, three cabs stop, and she turns around and smirks. He opens the door for her, then slides in. He fires the directions off, then leans back.

"How-"

"What-" And they laugh; they're trying too hard. She nods in his direction, with a wide smile, "What was the emergency, at work?" She tells him about a five year-old who fell out of her tree house, on to a branch. She tells it in a way in which he can understand, and her eyes come alive, the way they do only when she talks about certain things - Lynn, Abby, and recently him. He rests his hand on her thigh as she talks, and she rests hers on top of it, letting her fingers draw small patterns on the back of it.

"We're here."

He looks at the meter, and reaches for his wallet, but his pocket is empty. Back pockets - empty. Other jacket pocket empty. He feels the seat around him, frantically, but nothing.

"Fitz…" She asks, her voice laced with amusement, rather than frustration, and he finally looks up.

"My wallet. I forgot my wallet. In my other jacket. I changed jackets… and I forgot my wallet. We'll go back, and I can get it, and-"

"Fitz, I got it."

"No, it's a date."

"Yes, in the 21st century. I got it."

"Liv…" He starts seriously.

"No. We are not driving around Manhattan in a cab, so that you can get your wallet and fulfil some social criteria. I've got this." She says as she takes a $50 out of her purse. "And there'll be plenty of dates for you to get," she adds with a smile that instantly puts him at ease. This is their beginning, there's more, infinitely more to come - more for him to give her.

They're seated by the window, a secluded table in the corner. Candles, while a possible fire hazard, are admittedly romantic, and the flame does the most amazing dance across her face, entrancing him. The food is great, if only there was more than a bite of it on each plate; but the wine seems to be a complete win. He tells her about the beach, and Teddy and him; about their mom and Big Gerry, about the girlfriends and mistresses. He tells her about his mother's heart slowly breaking, until it was filled with resentment, that even the pills couldn't take away. He tells her about the Navy, and flying, and feeling free. And she, she tells him about the summer when she was twelve, when her mom died. She tells him about the hospital, the chemo and the smell of disinfectant that seemed to linger in the air permanently that July. She tells him about her dad, about how he died that day too, outlived by a shadow of a man - taciturn and hard. She tells him about boarding schools, and how she met Abby. Her eyes shine then, for a moment, and he realizes she isn't re-living it; she's telling it like a story she's read, or heard - like someone else's life. And he knows, he can tell - she pities the girl who cried at her mother's funeral. And that, that breaks his heart, but it also fills it with tenderness, immeasurable love, need to protect her and love her and show her that it is OK to have hope again, to let love in again. He reaches for her hand across the small table. It startles her a little, and she looks up, her eyes searching his face.

"You make me believe in heaven." He says simply, and she looks at him, silent for a moment, as she tries to understand. "Being with you, it's what heaven must feel like. And it makes me fear everything else." And she smiles. She understands.

"Let's get out of here." And he nods.

She waves to the waiter, "It's all taken care of."

She looks at him quizzically, and he smiles and helps her put her coat on. "How did you…"

"I know the owner."

"Fitz, you didn't have to…"

"I wanted to. Even if it is just a socially imposed idea that's outdated in the 21st century." He says with a wide smile.

"Sorry about that!"

"You wouldn't be you if you hadn't said it." And he leads her out. They must have been in the restaurant for hours, because the street is almost deserted, the only sounds a tambourine and a soulful voice of a man absentmindedly tap-dancing in front of a large store window further up the street.

"I love the city when it's like this." She says, as she leans her head on to his large shoulder. "We should walk back."

"You're in heels." And he interlaces their fingers together, before putting their hands in his pocket.

"It's not far." She looks up and smiles. Another moment to commit to memory. He pulls her close, wrapping his arm around her midsection. He lowers his head, until his lips are brushing hers, as their noses bump against each other. They smile. He kisses her - the kind that makes their lips tingle, that makes their tongues get lost in a slow dance, that makes their bodies mold to each other, until they are one - floating under the star-studded sky; in a pool of city lights.

A car honks. They carry on. Their hands holding on to the familiar bodies, the only things that seem real, seem to truly exist. Another honk. "Get a room!" They step apart, breathlessly, their legs a little wobbly.

"We're about to, asshole!" She shouts, showing the man a middle finger, before running off and pulling him behind her. They don't stop, until they're breathless, and laughing uncontrollably, as the elevator ascends to her apartment.

It's been forever. Over a month - as someone kindly pointed out. I don't know when I'll update again, I'd love to finish pt.2 before the New Year, but I make no promises.

Let me just say, your support, and messages and reviews urging me to keep writing were wonderful and thank you so much for every single one of them. Let me know what you thought of this... It's been a while, so I might have lost my touch a little bit. Hopefully, it was still a good read. Also, when I deleted the stories, all the follows/favorites were lost, so if you guys want to get the notifications, I'm afraid you'll have to re-do it. Sorry about that!

Anyways, I'll let you get back to your lazy, or not so lazy Sundays, and hopefully it won't take me as long to update again.