Carver: Well, here we are. The last chapter. Also, metaphorically, New York City.

Goren: (sighs) Well, at least this nightmare'll be over soon.

Eames: (deep breath) I don't know which scares me more: the possibility of me hating you, or the possibility of you kissing me with tongue.

Goren: Hold my hand till we get past the overwrought clichés?

Eames: What the—Goren, are you hitting on me?!

Goren: What? No! God no! I meant that in a completely chaste, platonic, and nonsexual way!

Eames: Oh. Well, alright then.

(they hold hands)

Carver: Awww…

Eames: A, that's completely out of character for you, and B, shut up or die.

He feels more than actually sees her hesitate at the foot of the bed before she slips in, fully clothed, curling away from him. And he tries to tell himself that it's good that the barriers are going back up because barriers he knows how to navigate, barriers are normal, but most of him is struggling to breathe against the hard fast punch to his lungs, the explosion of his heart slamming against his ribcage, a thousand shards, broken heart, and he's always hated clichés but it's just so fucking true.

He pulls off his shoes and slides in after her, but the air is heavy and full of things he doesn't understand, and he lets his hand fall a few inches from her shoulder instead of on it or around her waist.

Close enough to feel the heat off her skin.

Far away enough to feel like the Grand Canyon's been transplanted into the middle of the bed, a vast and echoing chasm amid the crinkled sheets and Blue Light Special blankets.

God, if he could just see her face.

"Eames?" he whispers. "I—I promise I won't…try anything."

She sucks in a sharp breath, disrupting the steady rising, falling rhythm. Reaches blindly behind herself until she finds his hand and squeezes it tight, pulls him to her back.

Puts his hand on her breast.

And holyfuckinghell his heart can't have broken after all because it's going a million miles a minute (so is hers) faster faster faster jackhammering out through his chest going to explode all over again ka-thunk ka-thunk this is completely impossible and she breathes and her breast presses firm into his palm and he is aching needing hard and dizzy falling his heart his heart is kathunkkathunkkathunkka—

"Eames? Wh—"

Her hand comes up against his mouth, glancing a little off his cheek because she's still not looking to aim, and then she presses her finger against his lips in a shushing motion. He quiets.

He breathes, feeling the air bounce off her skin and back onto his lips.

Her fingertips trail down his cheek to his neck, and then his shoulder, follow a winding path down his arm to his hand (ohGod) which she slides up, up, up, so slowly, until she hooks it in the front of her blouse collar, pushing his thumb in a slow circle to polish the top button.

She presses down a little harder, and the button pops free.

Oh God.

She tugs his hand down to the next button.

Oh God.

His fingers move like the neurons firing the commands are half a galaxy away, so slowly, slowly, and beneath the rumble of the traffic outside he hears the tiniest sounds, the minuscule squeak of his fingerprints against the plastic circles, the infinitesimal rustle of the light blue (grey in the dull light of a New York night bedroom) threads in the fabric of her shirt.

The pulse of her blood when his fingers slip and touch, just for an instant, her bare skin.

And his hand, guided by hers, meanders down the front of her blouse till it hangs open, and then she arches forward and he slides it from her, so mesmerized by the rippling of the muscles in her back and shoulders that it takes him a second to realize that his hand is back under hers and skimming down her taut stomach to rest on the zipper of her slacks.

And the clicking as its teeth tease apart echoes in his head, only to be drowned out by Alex's soft gasp as his fingers slip inside her waistband, ease the fabric down over her hips, her thighs, her knees and down down down until they slip past her toes and he is already mourning the fact that she has no socks for him to take off too.

Bobby moves back up, holding her loosely as he tucks his nose into the crook of her neck, breathes in. His eyes are wet."Thank you."

She takes his hand again, and puts in on the clasp of her bra.

Holy shit.

Air and time and the laws of physics are not happening right now.

At all.

"Eames—Eames, are you sure—"

"Shh…"

And his fingers are moving of their own accord, unhooking the clasp, and he can feel the cotton beneath his fingertips but it's all happening light-years away from any universe he knows and thank God she had to pull away a little for him to do this because otherwise there would be no way she could ignore how fucking hard he is for her right now, blood like lava boiling and shoving against his veins wanting to make him explode, a fireball bursting through his skin and consuming the entire bed, blowing off the roof—

And the fabric slides off and how beautiful she looks sandblasts away any imagery from his brain except the image of her, and she is easing his fingers down to her underwear and for the first time it occurs to him that maybe the reason this feels so unreal is that it's a dream, but then as he's pulling down her plain white briefs there is the tiny intimate rustle of silk against hair and he knows he could never dream a sound so perfect, so real and happening and fucking sublime.

She is melting reality with the warmth off her skin, the light glinting off her curves (breasts, hips, legs, lips), she is soft and warm and he is drowning in her just being next to her.

Alex pushes against him, signaling that he should turn around so he does, and she presses against his back (breasts legs lips hips—ooooh). He tries not to rock his own hips, because he still doesn't know what's going on, what this is, (a test, a gift, a promise, a beginning, an end?—don't think, just follow) and also because what's happening is hanging to reality by a thread and if he moves then it might snap, and they might fall and fall and never stop falling until they smack! into the hard pavement of the real world. She presses her lips (softwarmwet) to his neck, nips at his jaw, trails kisses upwards till she can tug gently at his earlobe with her teeth, snaking out her little tongue and oh she is going to kill him.

He groans low and helpless and her lips curve against his ear before her hands (oh God her hands her tiny strong perfect hands) rub across his chest. As slow as he was but far steadier, she undoes the buttons of his shirt and slides it from his arms, pulls his undershirt over his head. Her hands are hot enough to melt marble and they are slipping, sliding down his stomach and his pants are so fucking tight and just one finger (accidentally?) brushes against his erection and colors burst against his eyelids and he has to bite his lip to keep from moaning again.

His zipper snags but she wrests off the pants, tugs them down and he can feel her breath on the backs of his knees as she struggles with the fabric and eventually has to yank them off his feet. The ordeal either amuses or annoys her, because he hears (feels) a huff of air come out of her mouth, and then her fingers dart forward and mercilessly tickle his soles before peeling away his socks.

Alex slides back up, all bare skin on bare skin except for his boxers which her nimble little fingers are peeling away now, pulling down, and his cock springs up red and ready and throbbing and he can't hold still anymore so he helps her toe them off and then there is nothing, nothingabsolutelynothing between them at all.

She pulls at his shoulder again and he turns around but this time she doesn't turn with him and now, finally, they're facing each other, and her eyes are wide and serious but also smiling, a little, and her hair is messy and she is naked next to him and he has never seen anything so amazing.

She reaches up to cup his cheek, stubble against the smooth skin of her palm, and kisses him. He kisses her back. It's long and leisurely and warm and sure and her hand finds its way between his legs and he gasps into her mouth. He keeps kissing her as she strokes him languorously up and down, moves his own hand down to her coarse curls, stroking her clit and then sliding inside her (warmwet) and she squirms, making a pleased thrumming sound in the back of her throat.

"You purr," he murmurs when he comes up for air, and he knows he's got a stupid grin on his face and he doesn't care.

"You taste like Chinese food," she whispers, smirking. She closes the distance and her tongue flicks over his lips again, delves into his mouth to dance with his own. He crooks his finger and strokes a little faster inside her and she growls, bites down on his bottom lip as she clenches around his finger and her hand (ohsweetlordholyfuckingshit) clenches around him.

She shoves him onto his back, straddles him, kisses him fiercely as she forces his shoulders down and he is lost; he is lost and he is hers.

"Trust you," she says, like a secret, licking and kissing her way from his mouth to his neck to his chest.

"Trust you," he gasps as she finds that spot right beneath his collarbone, as he cups her breasts, presses against her nipples with his thumbs. "Always trusted you, always, never meant to make you think—"

She silences him with another hungry kiss, all tongues and teeth and scorching heat, and then she leans over towards the bedside drawer and fumbles for a condom and he helps her put it on him and their breaths are coming harsh and fast. And then she's moving, and he's guiding her, and she slides down onto him, and—

Oh god

So tight wet warm tight and her head is thrown back home hair thrown back moonlight streetlights through the window glinting off of her glistening skin I'm home and they are both holding so perfectly still and it feels (perfect) so good he just might die, but then she starts to move and he knows he's going to die with how tightperfectgoodsogood she feels, and she's moving and he's moving and he can't tell whose moans are whose and it doesn't matter anyway it's Eames (Alex) here with him and he's trying to tell her how (perfect impossible) amazing it is that she's here with him but no words have ever been made for how amazing it is that she's here with him and so he just moans and feels and—

She comes with a short, sharp cry and then a low moan that's almost despairing, and he's right behind her but his vocal cords have stopped working and all that's pulled from his mouth is a drawn out hiss like the breath being stolen from his lungs, and he doesn't ever want this to stop please time freeze again now forever please…

And Alex sprawls across his chest and he holds her, so suddenly small (she's always been small but never like this) in his arms, and kisses the top of her head while their legs tangle and her fingers make lazy circles in his chest hair.

xxxxx

"You're thinking loudly again," she mumbles several minutes later into his skin. They still haven't moved, other than to toss the condom in the wastebasket.

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fiddles with the end. "Just…trying to figure something out."

"Why I look so good naked? Thirty minutes a day at the gym and the secret preservative in Skittles."

"Ah. That explains it."

"Is it work? We can deal with that."

"I know." He squeezes her against him a little, hoping it's not enough that she notices.

She notices.

"Hey, Bobby." She pushes herself up on his chest. "I want to be here, okay? I'm not going to go. I'm staying. I want to be here with you."

"I want to be here with you too," he whispers.

"Good," she says shortly. She flops back down, then thinks better of it and scoots up to kiss him on the cheek before pressing her face into his shoulder. "Because I—I care. About you. A lot." She says it almost defiantly, like she's expecting him to disagree. "I care—for you."

"I c-care about—for, you too. A lot. For a…a long time." And he's glad she can't look at him right now, because his stupid fucking eyes are all wet again.

"'Kay. Good." She loops her arms around his neck and snuggles closer against him. A long pause, and then, very softly, "Love you."

He nudges her head to the side just enough that he can plant a kiss on her nose. "Love you too."

xxxxx

They're late for their first day back at work, but Ross tells them he understands and hands over a casefile.

Sometimes when things are broken, they get put back together in different shapes.

And sometimes that's okay.

A.N. Yeah, I went with a happy ending. Don't get used to it. :)