A/N: Me again! Wow, I can't believe I'm almost done with posting this story. I'm about to get my life back :')

Thank you all so much for the love you've been giving it so far. I couldn't reply to my "silent readers" because you reviewed as guests, but I'm sending you delicious virtual cookies and warm hugs! *SMOOCHES*

It could be argued that this scene is the reason why I started writing this fic. I'm putting a Feel Warning on that one. I think you'll enjoy it ;)

SHIVERED BONES

V.

By the time Peter becomes aware of Olivia's panic, it's already too late.

She's almost panting in distress, her face constricted, eyes wide, unseeing, her entire body shaking. The second it takes for him to realize what's happening and make the decision to stop the elevator to let her out is a second too long.

Before he can touch the panel, the elevator stops on its own, halting abruptly. The light goes off, plunging them in the dark, and half a second later, a piercing alarm goes off.

Peter doesn't even have time to wonder what the hell just happened, all of his focus on Olivia. Even over the obnoxious siren now echoing off the walls, he hears her panicked whispers.

"No no no no no no…." There is a loud sound, and he knows she's backed herself into the wall. "No no no no no no…"

"Olivia," he calls out, loud enough to be heard over the alarm, moving towards her. "It's okay, it's probably just a false alarm, it's alright."

With his hands extended in front of him, he finds her fingers first, as she's adopted a defensive position. Instead of soothing her, the feel of someone touching her does the opposite, immediately opposing resistance, trying to push his hands off her, the words coming out of her in a breathless whisper, "No please don't, please don't, not again, don't."

Even though he's only tried grabbing her hands, her movements are becoming increasingly violent, her nails scratching his skin, digging into his flesh, as if she's trying to fight off a deadly enemy, repeating the same thing over and over. He instinctively moves forward instead of away in an attempt to immobilize her against the wall, trying to contain her wild energy before she hurts herself in her craze, swiftly using his leg to block hers before she can do too much damage with her knees. She's strong, and completely frightened, but he's stronger.

In an attempt to calm her down, his left hand finds her face, cupping it. "It's alright, Olivia, it's okay."

For a suspended instant, he thinks it's working, as she freezes against him. He soon realizes that she hasn't calmed down at all; she's simply changing tactic. Her hands aren't trying to push him off anymore, one of them now swiftly making its way between them, and Peter understands at once what's she's going for. His free hand zooms down, following hers under the hem of her dress to cover her fingers around what he knows to be the barrel of her gun, his grip firm as she tries to get her weapon out of its holster.

"Olivia, don't," he keeps on repeating, as soothingly as he can manage at the moment, given the noise and their current position. "It's alright, you're safe, it's okay."

The light comes back on as abruptly as it disappeared, less than a full minute ago. The deafening alarm stops, too. In the sudden silence, Olivia's panicked breathing becomes obnoxiously loud. He feels it on his face, too, much closer to hers than he initially realized.

His hands haven't moved, one still on her face, the other under her dress, covering her fingers over her gun. In the newfound light, their eyes lock. Hers are wide and frightened, her pupils so large they've swallowed up most of the green.

"It's okay," Peter repeats, his voice softer, now that the alarm has stopped, aware that she's still trapped in her panic. "You're okay."

Slowly, very slowly, her breathing becomes less hectic, her body progressively relaxing a little. He almost sees it in her eyes, the growing realization of where she is, instead of where she thought she was. The way she looks at him changes, too, from fright and confusion to complete recognition. Pain is what comes next, followed by what looks too much like shame, at which point she closes her eyes, turning her head away from him.

Now that's she's completely still, he's much more aware of the way he's leaning against her, still pressing her into the wall, of his hand on hers, fingertips on her thigh. He knows the exact moment she realizes it, too, as her whole body tenses up again, her face constricting in intense discomfort. She's shaking.

As gently and quickly as possible, he releases his grip on her, pushing himself off and giving her space. "I'm going to use the emergency call button, try and find out what's going on, okay?"

As soon as their bodies stop touching, Olivia seems to curl into herself, her back still pressed to the wall. Although she's reopened her eyes, she doesn't say a word, looking numb, now, but he knows she's back here with him.

Peter forces himself to turn away from her, taking the necessary step to the panel. The light might be back, the elevator still isn't moving. He tries pushing a couple buttons, without success. He pushes the red one, and that seems to work.

When someone picks up on the other line, Peter doesn't waste any time. "Hey, who's this?"

"This is Kevin from security, sir."

"Alright Kevin, I'm Peter Bishop," he knows Kevin will recognize the name. "We're inside elevator 7, somewhere between floor 23 and 26 I think. Can you tell me what just happened?"

The other man's voice becomes a lot more anxious and apologetic, having undoubtedly recognized the name indeed. "There was a small incident in one of the labs. All the elevators automatically shut down when it happens, it's a safety protocol."

Peter doesn't like the sound of that. "What kind of incident, exactly?"

"Nothing dangerous, sir, just unexpected enough to trigger the alarm system. Everything has already been contained."

"Alright, then how long 'til you can get this elevator moving again?"

"Well, the lockdown is about thirty minutes long, sir, and unfortunately, it can't be overridden."

"You gotta be kidding," Peter almost grunts. "You're telling me Massive Dynamic doesn't have any way to restore their system in case of a false alarm?"

"No sir," Kevin says, regretfully. "The safety protocol is designed so that-"

"Yeah yeah," Peter cuts him off. "I get it, they don't want anything getting out of the building. Thanks anyway. Just…make sure the light stays on in here."

"Absolutely, sir. And Mr. Bishop, I'm really sorry for the incon-"

But Peter has already released the call button, turning back to Olivia.

While he was talking, she has let herself slide to the ground, now curled up in a corner, knees bent, legs to one side. While she's wrapped an arm around herself, slightly doubled over, her other hand is pressed to her forehead, elbow on her thigh, fingers twisted in her hair, so that it falls in front of her face.

She's still shaking.

Inside his chest, his heart throbs with each beat, until it feels like it has lodged itself at the base of his throat.

"Olivia…" he calls out softly after a long stretch of silence. At least another minute goes by before she moves, pushing her hand further up in her hair, clearing up her face as she raises her head to look at him.

As he dreaded, she's crying. Expecting it doesn't make the sight of her tear-stained face any less painful. As they look at each other, she brings her second arm down, hugging herself tightly. Her expression begins to change, then, her hurt morphing into something else altogether, something…fierce.

She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, her face constricting even more. "I don't need your pity," she says, her voice low, thick with tears.

He's not surprised she's interpreting whatever emotion his face is displaying as pity, even if it can't be further from what he feels at the moment.

He slowly walks to her, sitting down against the wall next to her. He's close enough to touch her, but he makes sure not to. She's not looking at him anymore, her temple now resting against the opposite wall.

"I've felt a great many things towards you these past two years," he finally says, keeping his voice low and soft. "Pity was never one of them."

She doesn't turn her head, doesn't look at him, but her lips purse in that way of hers, her face briefly constricting again, and he sees the small ripples on her wet cheek as more tears roll down. He looks away, knowing she wouldn't want him to stare. If it were up to her, she would never in a million years have allowed him to witness what just happened.

He may have failed her when she needed him the most, Peter still understands her, probably more than she realizes. They've barely spoken to each other since she came back, and she's put too many walls around herself for him to know what's going on in her head, but from what he's seen and heard, he can grasp part of what she must be thinking at the moment.

She's gone through something traumatic, Over There, and to this day, she's still dealing with the after effects. She must hate being so vulnerable right now, having no control over her body. It would be so typical of her, to think of herself as diminished because of it, unworthy, even. Broken.

She's expecting pity from him, because that's the only thing she thinks she deserves to get.

He's been aware of that major flaw of hers for months, years really, of that way she has of thinking herself alone against the rest of the world. What happened definitely isn't helping resolve her trust issues, but he wishes she would realize she doesn't have to be on her own.

Everybody is more or less broken, in their own way.

As the minutes slowly pass, they remain quiet. Peter is not only giving her time to calm down, he's actively thinking about what to do next, trying to come up with a way to get through to her. He realizes that some kind of trust has to be reestablished; to do that, he needs to bring himself to her level.

He's seen her breakdown, which, in Olivia's mind, would mean that Peter has "the upper hand". Given how miserable he's been feeling lately, it shouldn't be too hard for him to show her he's not doing any better.

We don't talk anymore, Peter. About anything.

And so Peter decides to talk, to talk to her the way he used to; honestly, without holding anything back. Because no matter what happened, whatever she may think of him now, there is no doubt in his heart about how he feels about her.

He still trusts her more than he ever trusted anyone.

"These past few months, I've had a lot of time to think about what it was actually like, growing up as a child kidnapped from another universe," he begins. "I know it sounds slightly overdramatic, said like that, but there really is no other way to put it."

Olivia doesn't move, her head still resting against the wall, eyes closed, but he knows she's listening.

"I'm a fairly intelligent man, generally speaking," he continues, "so I've been aware of my many character flaws for a long time. Until I understood what exactly happened to me during my childhood, though, I couldn't really explain the roots of my issues. For one thing, the fact that I actually cannot remember anything at all before age eight or nine is kinda disturbing. But like I said, I'm a smart guy. I've read a lot, I know what kind of brainwashing and trauma it takes for a child to completely block out part of his life. That's actually something I think we have in common. We were brainwashed by the same man."

She has reopened her eyes. She's still not looking at him, but that's alright. He's not really looking at her anymore either, lost in his thoughts.

"Andy, my childhood best friend, she called me last week, to invite me to her wedding reception, tonight. We met up a few days ago, for the first time in over fifteen years. We hadn't seen each other for that long, because years ago, as soon as I became legally free from my mother, I ran off. Officially, I would say I did it because I couldn't take the pressure of having to decide what to do with myself, and I probably even believed it back then. The truth is, I ran off because I couldn't stand being around my mom anymore. I think part of me already knew I was the reason why she drank herself into a coma every other day. When Walter called me to tell me she'd died, I hung up on him. I didn't even go to her funeral. I had just arrived in Europe, but I dropped whatever job I had at the time, and went to a completely different continent instead. My mother had just killed herself, so why not give China a go?"

Olivia has shifted, head turned, looking at him; he's the one not meeting her eyes, now.

"According to Andy, I have this annoying habit of 'pretending everything is peachy', especially when they're really not. Obviously, it would be a bit too easy for me to blame some of my most recent mistakes on being traumatized as a young child, but I cannot completely dismiss it either. I think it's safe to say it fucked me up pretty bad." He finally meets Olivia's gaze.

She looks calmer, now, although she's too pale. There isn't much emotion in her eyes, beside sheer openness; she's not judging him, or pitying him, or resenting him. She's listening to him.

"Do you remember me telling you I used to have terrible nightmares as a kid?" He asks.

She nods. "You conditioned yourself not to remember your dreams," she says, quietly.

Of course she would remember every word; she probably even remembers his mantra. It would have been so easy for him to ask one of these questions to this other her, to check just once, instead of justifying every little thing she got wrong.

Peter swallows hard, forcing himself to stay focused. "My biggest fear as an eight year old was to be kidnapped," he says. "That's what all my nightmares were about. In the most recurrent one, I dreamed I was being taken from my bed, taken from my family. How ironic, right?"

He's smiling, derisive, but she doesn't smile back, staring at him. Eventually, when it becomes clear he's not going to speak again, she averts her eyes, her temple falling back against the wall.

"Are you okay?" He asks softly.

Olivia shakes her head a little. She's stopped crying a while ago, now, but having done nothing to wipe her face, her cheeks glisten in the harsh elevator light, contrasting with the dark smudges of her ruined makeup. She looks too small, huddled up in that corner, pressed against the wall, holding herself tight. It's as if she's hoping the metallic surface will absorb her.

"I just want to get out of here," she whispers, her way of admitting how much it costs her, to be stuck in this tiny space, even though she's calmed down.

Peter has no idea, how anxious she still feels, how helpless.

She's been completely shaken by what happened, unable to fully understand it. It doesn't make any sense at all, for her to become so distressed that for a moment, she truly believed herself to be back in that Room, locked away.

In those moments, Peter's hands hadn't been his at all, but soldiers', grabbing her, trying to drag her to the lab, drag her to her death. Even when the light came back and she realized what was happening, that the hands she felt on her were Peter's, not enemies', her body still betrayed her, begging to be let go.

Begging not to be touched.

She's still shivering, but she feels a bit more like herself, now, a worn out version of herself. Listening to him talk had a calming effect on her. She wonders if he will ever know the memory of his voice is what kept her sane, Over There.

He's done talking, though. She's trying to take in everything he said, but she's still having a hard time breathing properly, too aware of the walls around her. She appreciates his honesty, almost relieved by it, but she won't feel better until she gets to leave this elevator.

"Have you told anyone what happened to you, when you were Over There?"

His voice is soft. Warm. She wants to hate the way the mere sound of it fills her with an aching need to move closer to him, to reach for the rest of him. But she can't.

She almost lies, then. She could just bring up the report she wrote, and that he probably read. What would be the point in lying, though? He's just opened himself up to her, without being prompted, without any real motive, although she guesses it had something to do with reestablishing the kind of dynamic and trust they used to have.

He's too good at this.

"No," she eventually answers with a shake of her head, keeping her eyes closed.

She hasn't told a soul.

When she wrote that report, she had to stop herself from saying too much a couple of times, realizing that her own experience was irrelevant to what her side really needed to know. Back then, she also naively believed she would be able to put it all behind, to forget the entire ordeal.

But the wound has festered. It's been slowly wearing her down these past few weeks, robbing her of her sanity, something even these people Over There hadn't managed to do.

She will always be her own worst enemy.

"Olivia," Peter calls out to her in that same quiet voice, and she tries not to look at him, but she's powerless. He looks almost as bare as she feels. "Talk to me. Please."

For a moment, she can hardly breathe again, her chest constricted with hurt, but with something else as well, something that is so tightly linked to him, and to herself.

There truly is no pity in his eyes.

Her own eyes are prickling, filling up again, but she doesn't care anymore. She needs to talk, and he wants to listen.

"First time I woke up, after the Opera House…I was in a room not much bigger than this," she finally says, her voice barely louder than a whisper, her eyes already drifting from his.

Given her state of mind and where she is, she could as well be back there again.

"The only thing in it was a metal bench. They didn't even bother with any kind of mattress. Or light, for that matter." She bites her lip, shaking her head a little, and a couple of tears slip out; she doesn't bother wiping them off, forcing herself to keep going, not to get sucked in the raw memory. "They would leave me in there for hours on end, in the dark. I had no way of knowing what time it was, or which day. But I know it lasted for a few weeks. They would only take me out to drug me, trying to make me believe that I was her."

She's unfolded her arms, now tracing the inside of her elbow; even after months, the faint scars left by their careless needles are still visible, and she remembers how it felt, to be strapped to that table, to have them pour their poison in her veins, over and over again

"After a while, I managed to escape. Unfortunately, whatever they did to me finally worked, and I became her. For a time, anyway. The effects didn't last, and I became aware of who I was again." Because of you, she doesn't add, because I held on to you. "So I did the only thing I could do. I tried to come home. That didn't work either. I failed, so they put me back in the room."

She feels her face constricting again, bringing a hand to her nose. "I thought I was going to die," she admits in a terrified whisper. "They drew these…marks, on my face and my body, because they decided my organs were too valuable for me to be sent back alive. The rest of me was just…expendable. I was supposed to die that day. They strapped me to a table, paralyzed me, and…I can still feel the heat of the bone saw against my skin." More tears are rolling down, more tears she ignores, her face contorted to the point of pain, now. "Sometimes, I feel like part of me is still stuck in that room, waiting to die. I just feel…cold, all the time."

As she loses yet another battle to her tears, she cannot bring herself to look at him, especially not after letting this harsh truth out in the open.

Believing so strongly that she was going to die is what had made her feel so elated, during the first few ignorant days following her return. Life had suddenly been bursting with possibilities, with colors and light. When all of it was taken from her, violently pulled from her grasp, she was left with nothing.

Thrown back into a tainted life, left to deal with the shame of a betrayal that was too intimate and humiliating, she could not understand why she had escaped death, if this was her reward.

Once again, they remain quiet for a while, after that. Her head is back against the wall as she slowly composes herself, the tears eventually stopping. She feels him, so close to her, yet not touching her. She knows how hard it must be for him not to reach out, unable to give her the kind of comfort that comes most naturally to him. She's glad he doesn't, not because she doesn't want to be touched, quite the opposite.

She's craving for it, now, for that simple human connection, and for the warmth that would come from it. But she's more afraid of how she might react. She can't stand the thought of her own body tensing and recoiling from him again.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," he eventually says, and his voice is hoarse, now, sorrowful.

She turns her head to look at him. He looks as he sounded. Miserable. Holding his gaze, she offers him one of her saddest smiles, shaking her head a little. "Don't apologize," she says, and she wonders if they're having the same déjà-vu. "What happened to me Over There isn't your fault."

When he swallows, she sees his Adam's apple moving up and down, his eyes reddening even more. Most of the rain has dried from his face, but his hair still looks wet, like the rest of his clothes.

"Isn't it, though?" He asks, in that same thick voice. "You would never have crossed over to come get me if I had stayed in this universe. I did what I always do, I didn't think about the consequences, I just…I followed him as soon as he offered me to go 'home' with him."

"I know," Olivia says, quietly. "I saw the video surveillance from the motel."

She remembers watching it, watching him disappear from her world, her universe, her life, in one flash of light. One moment, he was there, and the next, he was gone. No hesitation, no need to be persuaded, even after being told he would never be able to cross back over, never to see whoever he was leaving behind again.

Including her.

Such an abrupt departure hurt even more than finding out he'd checked himself out of the hospital and left Boston without a word, confirming what she had only strongly suspected in his hospital room. That he blamed her as much as he blamed Walter for her silence and her lies.

After what he said earlier, about the way he'd run from home fifteen years ago and never looked back, she feels like she understands him better, understands that it didn't mean he didn't care; it didn't have much to do with her at all.

Olivia shrugs a little. "If we're trying to put the blame on someone for this, then it could as well be my fault, for not telling you the truth the first time I saw you glimmer."

Even though the topic they're discussing is far from being 'light', she realizes that the stifling tension that has been hanging over them these past few weeks is gone. Not all tension is gone, but the one that remains isn't suffocating. It feels more…familiar.

"Was it after Jacksonville?" He asks then. In that moment, they're both aware this is a discussion they should have had a long time ago. In some ways, it feels like they're resuming the one they started months ago, after she found him Over There.

She simply nods, not elaborating. She has no doubt he remembers her behavior, that night they were supposed to go out for drinks, only for her to quickly give up and pretend she was suddenly too tired for it. He surely remembers the weeks that followed, too, the awkwardness he thought was caused by that kiss they almost shared, and his father's increasing distress.

What a mess. One of them should have just told him.

As if reading her mind, Peter speaks again, shaking his head. "I probably would have run anyway, even if you'd told me. Like I said, that's one of these things I do."

She smiles, tiredly, but it's an honest smile. "Then this conversation is chasing its tail. We would still be where we are right now." He stares at her, frowning a little in confusion. "I would have crossed over to get you no matter what, even if I hadn't lied to you," she explains. "I didn't come after you out of guilt, Peter."

She certainly hadn't.

Even now, she isn't sure she did it out of pure concern for his well-being either. When she'd learned he was in danger, the way she jumped on the opportunity was more than a little desperate. Seeing that drawing gave her a reason to go after him, to seek him out, to find him. When he left with his Father, he made his choice clear and definitive.

Going through the fabric of the universe because she missed a guy wasn't a good enough reason. Going through the fabric of the universe to tell that same guy that he might be responsible for the end of both worlds if he didn't come back with her sounded a lot more reasonable.

Ultimately, like she made it clear that night, she hadn't looked for him for the universes' sake. She sought him out because the day she watched him disappear, she'd lost a piece of herself.

Peter sees it in her eyes, what he had seen in them Over There. That certainty.

She hadn't come to get him out of guilt, but what he feels right now is most definitely guilt, closing off his throat and lungs, scorching his insides. She's too emotionally drained to even try and conceal how she still feels about him, and as he looks at her, looking at him, all he wants to do is scream.

"I should have known, Olivia," he manages to say through his constricted throat.

"It's okay," she says, and her voice is as soft as her eyes. "I do get it, you know. Probably a lot more than I did when you first told me about it. Considering I surprised myself that night when I asked you to come back for me, I guess it took you by surprise, too. Of course you would think things were going to be different, after that, especially once we got…together. And I can't really blame you for liking it, liking her. I was her. I know she's more…" she hesitates on what word to use, and he's not sure he wants to know what goes through her mind, "…lively."

He swallows hard, briefly closing his eyes. He cannot let her go on thinking this had anything to do with him liking her alternate more than her, in any way.

"Olivia," he says tentatively. "About her, and the relationship I had with her…"

But she shakes her head; already, her body is tensing again. "Don't, it's okay."

"No, it's not," he insists. "Please, hear me out. I need to say this."

She takes a deep breath, tilting her head, "Alright," she says, obviously bracing herself.

It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, aware that he cannot afford to screw this up by saying the wrong thing. "What I had with her," he starts. "I wish I could say it didn't happen, that it doesn't mean anything, none of it, but I can't. Because it did happen. I was in a relationship with her for the better part of two months. I was committed to it, to her, so I cannot simply make all of it…disappear."

Olivia has averted her eyes, and even though she doesn't say a word, barely moves at all, he knows he's hurting her. But he has to say this in order to get to his point.

"The thing is, despite it all, it still wasn't real, Olivia." Almost cautiously, she looks back at him. "I made myself believe that it was real, just like I made myself believe that these changes I noticed, they were because I was making you happy. I was arrogant. I rationalized everything. I spent two months with someone who wasn't you, but she wasn't even her either. She was…she was a projection of what I wanted to have, of what she thought I wanted to have."

She's not even blinking anymore, rapt in his words, and so he keeps going.

"Truth is, looking back at these few weeks, there was nothing, nothing beyond the physical anyway. The discussions we had…they were shallow. She was either telling me what I wanted to hear, or manipulating my actions, favoring…'distractions', over communication, and I let her. Not just because I thought she was you, but because I thought I had you. She used my feelings, those very real feelings I came to have for you over months spent by your side, day after day. She turned them against me, and I ended up hurting you in a way that I just can't-"

He stops, taking a steadying breath, never breaking eye contact; hers are too bright again. "She wasn't you," he repeats, more softly, using her own words. "I see that now. Too late, much too late, but…I just want you to know that I realize what I've lost when I lost you."

Before Olivia averts her eyes again, he sees the tears that are threatening to fall, her face constricting. She's trying not to break again, her breathing slow, a bit too loud. Another minute of relative silence passes before she's able to speak again; she doesn't look at him as she does so.

"I miss it, Peter," she whispers. "Whatever we had, before all this, I miss it. I miss…us." And then, after a pause, so quietly he almost has to read it on her lips, "I miss you."

His throat is too constricted for him to speak. Instead, his hand slowly reaches for hers, resting on her lap. His fingertips barely brush the top of her hand, the touch light, just like it had been a couple of years ago.

Back then, her excursion in the tank had made it so that he'd had no other choice but to touch her. This small contact on the bench had been different, though. It was the first time he truly reached out for her, letting her know she wasn't alone.

Tonight, he wants her to realize that he's still here with her, here for her.

When Olivia looks down at her lap, his hand has already retreated, falling back between them on the floor. As she raises her eyes to meet his, her heartbeat is already speeding up again, but it's not from panic or anguish, this time.

The feel of his fingers on her hand was so fleeting she could as well have imagined it. She knows it happened, though, shivers having traveled all the way up her arm. She hadn't recoiled from it.

Her body had not only allowed it, it longs for more, now, as she stares into his eyes, and sees nothing but kindness, and the reflection of her own pain.

"I miss you too…" he says, quietly.

She looks back down between them, and almost hesitantly, she's the one reaching out for his hand, then. Palm up, she slides her fingers under his, slowly intertwining them, squeezing gently. He returns the pressure, palm against palm, and Olivia closes her eyes as she feels the heat passing from his skin to hers, gradually warming up her entire arm. She feels him move, then, the air thickening around her. When she reopens her eyes, his face is closer to hers.

She almost awaits the panic that will grip her again at his proximity, at his fingers holding hers, but the panic doesn't come. What comes instead is different, a low, low warmth, an ache in her chest.

With the same slowness, his hand releases hers, bringing it up between them. He's tentative, not shy, but cautious, aware of how she might react; she's grateful for his concern, but the moment his fingers brush her cheek, she knows she will not recoil from his touch anymore.

The heat of his palm, the one she'd felt against her own only moments ago, that same heat is spreading over her face, now, his hand cupping her cheek. It spreads down her neck, to her chest, through her skin, flesh and bones.

She's almost overwhelmed by it, her eyes closing again as she brings her own hand up to cover his, increasing the pressure and sinking into his touch, the air rushing out of her lungs. Already, she's shifted, turning her body closer to his as his second hand comes up to cup the other side of her face, his fingers splaying over her jaw and neck, and every nerve ending he touches, he ignites.

She feels his hold on her, the gentle pull he exerts, quietly awaiting her permission. After weeks of sheer loneliness and cold, she craves for it, for this closeness, for more of him. She makes her consent known by moving, shifting yet a little closer, her other hand reaching out for his shirt. Her fingers close around the fabric, feeling the rain water that soaks it; she feels the same wetness against her bare skin a moment later, when she slips one of her knees between his legs, straddling his thigh.

His breath is on her face, then, and she forgets about the rain, she even forgets about the walls. His lips are butterfly wings upon her closed eyelid, upon the other one, brushing her skin. Slowly, they travel over what seems to be every inch of her face. Just like the initial feel of his fingers on her hand, his touch is soft, undemanding. With a hand still holding on to his shirt, her other arm moves, wrapping it around his shoulders to bring herself closer to him, always closer.

His fingers, like his lips, begin to move, over her face, her neck, sinking into her hair; that touch too is light at first, before it gradually becomes more pronounced. His thumbs stroke, chasing the last of her drying tears, while the pad of his fingers press into her flesh and bones, soon massaging her scalp. He's relaxing all of her muscles while awakening her every nerve.

The feel of his lips is more noticeable, now, as he puts more pressure into each kiss, lingering longer against her blushing skin. And that low, low warmth…it keeps on spreading, until it's thumping deep, slowly thawing the ice that kept her frozen to the core.

She clings to him, pressed into him, not caring about the damp coldness of his clothes, because he's not cold, he's not cold at all, his mouth and breath now scorching the side of her neck, with that same tender sensuality that is liquefying her every cell.

A/N: So, yes, I'm stopping here.

I had to split it because believe it or not, the next and last part is even longer than this one, and stopping any further than this would have been even meaner xD As you may have guessed the next part will most definitely be M rated, to make up for being such a tease.

In any case, I really, really loved writing this whole scene, so I hope you enjoyed reading it, too ;) Reviews are my favorite thing, my very favorite thing.