…

Summary: Post-Poster-Boy. She's seeking comfort and he's only too happy to oblige; even if it's something that's bound to be a crucial turning point in their lives.

A/N: #comfort sex# - especially needed after the way that episode ended; Gah! 'Nuff said. Hope you enjoy. =)

…

To fall

…

Certainly, this is not what he has imagined – and he's imagined it enough times to be able to come up with a variety of scenarios to indulge in and yet reality is so much more real, so much more absurd – it's so novel. That's the little thing about imagination and real life, it just doesn't add up. Fantasy and reality are just two very strange bedfellows when it comes down to it.

Otherwise she wouldn't be crying in the middle of everything; she wouldn't be choking on a sob, lips trembling and eyes suddenly closing as if she's afraid he'll see her vulnerability. He sees her clear, feels her – it's hard not to feel the small succession of breaths she takes, rapidly following each other, when her chest has collapsed on his, naked skin against naked skin. He feels every little shudder as clearly as if it is himself in distress; he feels every slip of air that leaves her lungs, every slip of air that follows her trachea back down again.

His hand catches her jaw, under her chin, acting before he can truly comprehend the situation, fingers soft against her skin. It pains him - green eyes covered by a sheen of tears, on the brim of leaking – pain deep in the color, pain contained within her irises. He seeks the connection, tries to hang onto a link with her but she looks away, turning her head to the side, cheek resting against his chest instead, her breath hot, her cheek suddenly wet with tears.

Shit.

"I'm - " her voice stops and she breathes deep, "I'm sorry."

"Shh," he whispers feeling inadequate, trying to recall that sensation of comforting others, trying to bring forth the feeling from the depths; he's been alone for too long – been in a dark hole when it concerns connecting heart-to-heart with another being.

He traces his hand down her back instead, traversing up and down in a pattern he hopes is calming, trying to let a tender touch pervade through her sudden onslaught of sorrow, the feel of her skin warm beneath his fingertips, beneath his palm. Strength leaves her completely, heavy as she lies on top of him, any notion of what they had been in the middle of a faraway realm. "Shhh, it's okay," he mumbles into the top of her head, hair obscuring his voice; he feels her hot breath against his chest, her cheek burrowing further down into his skin trying to compress away a sob, her nose cold and wet.

Certainly this is not how he has imagined sex would evolve between them but it is what he should have expected on some level, he thinks.

This is just wrong timing.

She's fragile – a state that had been easily perceivable and yet it had happened; he should have foreseen this. Maybe he should have stopped her when she snuck her hand to his groin, maybe he should have gently taken her wrist and instead tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and told her the lay of the land, comforted her the way a real friend would have comforted her – yet he had simply kissed her harder, enjoyed the feel of a warm hand against his crotch, pressing and exerting force, expediting arousal to coil in his spine; god he hadn't felt like this in years – when it came down to it he was simply greedy, oblivious to anything but his own release, his own feelings too overwhelming to consider the consequences.

It's just the way the world sometimes exists; spinning outside your control, shattering expectations. He's sure that she's never thought it would be like this either – it makes him wonder what she has imagined but somehow he thinks he'll never know. It's slipped past them now, no longer a possibility.

Heart wrenching; it's slowly killing him.

It kills the mood certainly, his cock no longer hard – soft and limpid as it slips out of her. She chokes back another sob and he rubs her back, trying to mumble something coherent to her, trying to soften reality.

Reality, however, is what it is. There's no turning the clock back, there's no comfort in what-if's.

The boy's gone.

…

Her mouth has a flavor of sweetness, the hint of something he's not quite able to categorize lingering on the tips of her lips, lingering in her mouth, on her tongue, heady and yet brisk, overwhelming as he traces his own lips against hers, as he licks the inside of her mouth, sure it's a gift to be able to kiss her at all.

Oh, he's imagined it – kissing her softly, kissing her hard, kissing her angrily – kissing her at work, in the elevator – kissing her in the underground garage, backed up against a concrete column, next to his car – maybe against the front door into his car, at his daughter's wedding when their eyes connected time and time again, in court sitting next to her; summarily he has imagined kissing her an infinite number of times, with an infinite number of emotions – in infinite places and yet this is novel; this is not infinity but reality and it's sweet and overwhelming, crushing his heart between two heavy objects, squeezing the life blood out of the beating organ, squeezing his lungs till they collapse and he has trouble breathing yet alone existing.

Who knew her lips were in possession of such controversy; of such a complexity – of being able to bring him to the edge; he's aching and hard but his heart is melting – who knew her lips were accompanied by a palm against his crotch, rubbing through the material of his pants; he might have imagined it but it's so different, so much more alive now than in his imaginations.

He moans into her lips and he finds himself savoring the returned whimper, the teeth that suddenly click against each other, lips that are pulled back when they smile self-aware at each other, at their own hurry to consume each other, at the way they stumble and hands find another purpose underneath clothes, changing directions, hanging onto the warm skin of another human being. Her fingers slide through his hair, slide into the strands, suddenly a tight grip, tilting his head and inserting her own lips in between his again, insistent.

They stumble into his bedroom, not bothering with turning on a light. It's dark and mysterious this way, secluded, his whole body tingling in anticipation. Excitement, liquefied, running through his blood vessels, compelling him to run his hands down her body, to cup her breasts through her blouse, the feel of her bra beneath, to guide her towards his bed, a leg between hers.

It's wet and rough, contact brimming with intention to build, to hurry along, to coalesce into arousal. Lips, teeth, hands – it's uncoordinated and wild, and yet there's something about it that he finds comforting. There's no 'we shouldn't', no 'lieutenant', no 'captain'. Frankly, he has already forgotten the numerous reasons why this is a bad idea, why they haven't ventured down this road before now – he's occupied, she's occupied. Her knees back into the edge of his bed, and she pull him against her, a leg going up high, around him.

They land, softly next to each other, out of breath.

Their lips latch onto each other again, within a heartbeat if not quicker, fingers roaming through clothes to dig into the contours of shape, to ground themselves to the feeling of another human being, fingers clamped around flesh and clothes. He rolls closer, his weight heavy on top, lips still sealed. She hums and he grunts; she kisses him harder and he gives back, fingers at the back of her nape, in her hair, a thumb along her jaw to keep her.

She invites him in, surrounds him with her legs around his middle till he's firmly on top.

He wonders how this came to pass at all; he'd gotten used to it merely being a fantasy in his own little world, had thought it would be an impossible scenario. He wonders if she's conscious of the fact that she's married, technically. They both know this is without a doubt a stupid transgression but he also knows what lies behind intentions and to be honest it feels too glorious to deny it.

His lips are glued to hers, and for the life of him he cannot unglue them. They are attached by a myriad of conflicting emotions, lust, grief – maybe a smidge of anger he thinks because if he's angry on her behalf then she's bound to be angry as well. Maybe in between this chaos there's also a little feeling of relief; of finally being able to express himself.

…

She has closed her blinds and in between the gaps light streams, translucent and bright. Her door is closed and if it weren't for the fact that it's been a lousy couple of days he would have thought nothing of it and merely gone home. Having been privy to the last couple of days however, having watched her usual composed expression falter and compress itself into steal that's been forged too hurriedly, he knows that beneath the surface it's not merely a closed door and closed blinds.

He admires her strength and her ability to let her curtains fall aside; there's something about her that beckons and intrigues him, the capacity to emit both vulnerability and strength in one little look. He knows she can take care of herself and that it's not his responsibility and yet he lingers at his desk, contemplating how he can help her.

It's a strange concept but he feels protective of her, not sure why or when this feeling surfaced. She's the last person he would have imagined feeling protective of and if you'd asked him years ago he would have laughed out loud at the notion and yet now that's the way he feels. She's genuine and it's a mystery to him why he did not notice this before she took over the division.

He gently knocks on her door before he can reconsider, opening it and stepping into her office at her soft 'Yes'.

He smiles, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her chair turning in his direction; there's a small pile of folders on her desk, her computer in front of her and a little bowl of carrot slices.

"Lieutenant," she smiles back and even though it's not forced or artificial he senses the edges of sorrow in the lines around her face, in the tired green look in her eyes.

"I'm going home," he says, "You alright, Captain?"

She tries to compose herself but doesn't really succeed.

"I'm fine."

He corks his head and arches an eyebrow in disbelief.

She smiles self-consciously and it touches him, an ache within at the sight of her. He looks at his watch – 9 pm – and then with a soft smile, "It's late and everyone's left – let's call it a day, huh."

"You're ordering me to go home?" she says it with a low tone, standing upright, her expression becoming composed within a flicker; it's a fluid transition and he wonders when he has become so familiar with every little nuance she presents with a simply blink of an eye, with a simple miniscule movement of her lips.

"I'm a reckless, disobedient hothead – haven't you read my file?" he shrugs with a half-smile, enjoying the way he's able to make her smile and relax, her shoulders not so rigid anymore, the lines around her mouth softening.

It works and she shakes her head, a smile playing at her lips now, "Now you mention it, you've been awfully well-behaved as of late."

He smiles wider, "Yeah – but let's go home before I run into trouble"

"Trouble – I'm sure you find trouble without running."

He grins.

She looks at the slice of carrot in her hand, the folders on her desk and there's a veil suddenly over her eyes, the humor gone and darkness seeming full in her irises when she regards him again; "I'm just going to finish up and then I'll get out of here – I promise."

He looks at her with confusion, not understanding her answer fully until she's fiddling with her hands, a distant look. She's stalling, he realizes. She's trying to avoid going back home. He understands why she would not like the notion of coming home to an empty apartment.

He nods, "That's your dinner?" he puts a tone of disbelief in his voice.

She hums; "I'm going to go grocery shopping on my way home – find something edible."

"You can eat leftovers with me," he smiles nervously, the invitation slipping from his lips before he can think, "I mean, if you want to. I have vegetarian lasagna from yesterday – enough to feed a whole army."

She smiles, "That actually sounds delicious – better than any half-tired attempt I would have gone through."

He nods, and she nods back.

He thinks maybe she needs to talk about it; talk about how horrible it is. He only wants to comfort her in some way, and if helping her avoid her own home for the time being is the thing to do, he's happy to help her. If she wants to pretend nothing's wrong then he'll follow along and pretend everything's perfectly normal.

…

She makes the first move, a hand sliding up along his jaw, cupping it and bringing him closer to her – he moves along with her motion almost hypnotized, feeling entranced; he had only given her a soft, encouraging smile, a little joke about leftovers. The oven hums with a warm sound, the light softly illuminating in his kitchen and her lips connect with his before he can fully understand what is happening or why it is happening. She's close to him, the feel of her small body pressed against his, his kitchen suddenly not his kitchen anymore but someplace else that feels surreal.

For a brief second he contemplates and ruminates but then something else washes over him, a feeling of excitement and serenity; he wants her desperately – he has wanted her for such a long time it's become a constant companion within him; he kisses her back, hands bringing her body against his own.

…

She sighs into his ear, fingers under his shirt, travelling up his back, legs around his middle. They are still fully clothed, in a heap on his bed, breathing heavily in the silent room. He slants his lips across her mouth again, catching her breath and the little moan that follows. She grinds up against him, impatient, fingers skimming down his back with a harder momentum than before.

He looks into her eyes when the kiss ends, trying to comprehend what they are trying to tell him.

She speaks in a voice he finds captivating and new, "Don't go all tender on me, Andy, okay. I just want," she stops, a little wide-eyes look he takes to mean she's a bit embarrassed; she seems a bit lost as well, green eyes catching the darkness, "You're looking."

"You want me to close my eyes?" he asks, a bit confused.

She shakes her head in the negative.

"I just don't want it to become too," she stops again and he thinks she's finding it hard to compile her thoughts into words, "I want overwhelming and rough," she whispers and he understands what it is she wants.

"You just want me to fuck you," he says, his own voice rough but he pushes a strand of hair away from her face, his thumb along her temple, going tenderly down to her cheek.

She nods, a little breathless. Her lips fall apart and he lets his thumb catch the bottom lip, the tip of his finger on the mound.

"I can do that," he tells her, lips close to hers again, he bypasses her lips and goes along her cheek till he reaches her ear, "But I am going to be looking at you no matter what – and I cannot really change the fact that while I want to fuck you I also want to simply hold you."

She gives another little nod, "I'm not sure – it's, - I mean I'm just feeling a bit nervous," she stops, an inward look as if she's exasperated with herself.

"You tell me what you want and I'll -"

She turns her head, catching his lips again, swallowing his voice; it humid and forceful, lips attached to each other, sucking, licking and biting – tasting, arousing.

"Just this," she says in between another kiss, "I just want this."

She's unbuckling his pants, hands having sneaked in between their bodies, her legs spread and he grips a thigh, running up under the skirt; he slips her underwear down with more force than he would have done under different circumstances but she wriggles under him, hips moving and another moan leaving her lips, and he understands the motion behind her request.

"Just make me forget everything," she whispers in between a kiss, their lips lingering close still, hot air and wetness separating them. She shoves his jeans down over his hips; her back arching and he feels the press of her lips once again on his, feels the pressure of her breasts surging upwards against him, "I just need to stay in the moment, for now. Nothing else."

"I'll make you forget your name," he smiles into her mouth and he catches the vibration of a small chuckle, her hand warm and gentle against his jaw; he wonders if she sees the contradiction in her words and actions. She smiles a shy smile when he leans down and kisses her again – there's no need to tell her he sees through her all the way to the dark bottom. She might seek an abyss and yet she wants solid ground; he can give her both, he hopes.

"Maybe you'll forget yours," she smiles.

…

It's difficult to understand she's naked beneath him, naked legs around his waist now, breasts pressed up against him, full naked breasts that cling to his own chest, a full naked arm that moves with his hand around her wrist – he grips her other wrist, his hand around the pale flesh, bringing both arms over her head, keeping them above her, pressed into the mattress; she sighs, a noise low in her throat.

They stay above her when he lets go and moves down, lips on the curve of her throat, mouth attached to skin, blithe and ecstatic, soft lips and hard teeth interchanging; the slope of a breast appearing, the nipple that he sucks into his mouth. His hand play around her thighs, squeezing and tracing patterns, on the inside, inching upwards as he flicks his tongue over her nipple. She tightens her grip in his hair and he acquiesce; moving his mouth down her stomach, leaving behind a trail of wetness; he reaches the junction of her thighs and settles her legs over his shoulders, disappearing. Repositioning his hands on the sides of her stomach, just a little spot above the jut of her hipbones, he splays out his hands, fingers in a caress into her skin.

Her breathing changes, hitches with anticipation, a breath of release when he lands his mouth on her, tongue in between her labia, exerting force against her clit. She wriggles, coming closer, her pelvis tilting in a more satisfying angle; the fingers in his hair changing between gripping hard and softening, fingertips gliding into his scalp. Her inhalations convey a thousand words, a little hum painting an even more vivid depiction.

He flattens his tongue, flicks it, presses it, circling that sensitive bud, lips moving in and covering, kissing and devouring; meanwhile he listens to the hurried intakes of breath, feels the way her hands leave his hair and goes someplace else – he looks up briefly, seeing her head arched back, exposed throat and the underside of her jaw pale, her arms stretched up above her as if she's reaching for something unseen; he's certain her eyes are closed.

She shudders when she comes, his tongue still on her, hands flying to his hair again, uncertain whether she wants him to continue or stop, tightening in his hair and her hips moving. He moves up along her body again, attention to her breasts with his mouth as his fingers stay on her, thumb along her labia waiting for her to come back down – he sucks and nipples on the soft flesh of her breasts, alternating between the two mounds. She sighs, a tone of content in the air that leaves her lips and slips beneath his skin; he reapplies pressure on her clit again and he enjoys the way she's completely languid beneath him, legs falling more and more apart and her hands soft and encouraging on his back, digging into his muscles.

…

She slides down onto him, hand around his cock guiding. It feels like release at the same time it feels like coiled tension; a curious feeling inside him. Her thighs warm on either side of him, his back on the mattress. She sighs, eyes closing for a brief second – when they open she looks down at him with an inscrutable expression, mouth half open and a little sheen of redness on her cheeks, blotches of color down her throat, her hum of pleasure surging through him.

He traces both hands up along her waist, hips and ribcage beneath his palms, watching as she rocks against him, tilting her pelvic and grounds herself to his chest with her hands.

He watches her above him, breasts moving, his cock buried in friction, her hair falling in a mess. He cannot stop himself from caressing her skin, fingertips lingering on her with reverence and beguile, tracing invisible patterns and adhering to her body – she only steadies herself against him, hands burrowing further into his own flesh, her eyes alight.

He touches a spot on her spine, pushing her to come closer and she leans down their chests aligning as she meets his lips, his cock still embedded. They settle their lips, lingering and breathing in between kisses, sealing and embedding into each other in this way as well – he simply wants an imprint of her lips continuously on his, wants the feel of her body so close to his own, so warm and so animated.

She relaxes against his chest, her head turning to the side and her lips lands on the spot where neck meets shoulder; he can feel the reverberations of her small breaths, the humid air that tickle his skin before her lips follow – a kiss that turns to a bite.

He brings their groins flush against each other, holding her hips, guiding as he trusts, a fast rhythm that makes her bite harder on his shoulder, her fingers digging into his biceps all of a sudden. Small whimpers vibrate against his skin and he grunts, exertion in the air he breathes with. He savors the feel of her body on his own, the weight of her and the feeling of burrowing into her with a fast rhythm – release coming closer and closer within view, everything tensing and coiling and burning.

There's a shift in her, tautness twisting through her and he stops every motion able to differentiate distress from pleasure.

She sits up again, surprised at her own reaction he thinks, eyes vivid with sudden realization of sorrow. It was bound to happen, he thinks, only it was not supposed to be in the middle of this. She looks struck with horror in among embarrassment, sadness vivid to depict from the two other.

…

She has stopped crying and for a brief moment he thinks she has fallen asleep, heavy on top of him, her breaths slow and deep, evening out their rhythm as if they are on standby. But no, she trembles a bit and inhales suddenly and deeply as if she's trying not to start crying again.

Softly, he's able to turn their bodies around, bringing along a cover across them. It's easy to situate himself behind her, spooning her, pulling her up against his chest, her ass against his groin. She sighs, pulling his arm over her hip and encasing it in between her breasts, her own hand around his.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the soft skin just behind her ear, lips lingering with a kiss.

She makes a sound in her throat and then takes a deep breath; "Don't – don't apologize. Please."

"Okay," he whispers, uncertain.

Her ass backs up against him, her fingers tightening around his hand between her breasts; he press into her, her skin cold but welcome – he thinks maybe she needs to be submerged in contact. He would gladly cover every inch of her body if he could. He would do anything for her in this moment.

He bestows another small kiss behind her ear, merging his legs with hers, pressing his chest against her back, holding her tight against him. She sighs at the contact.

It a strange emotion within him; he'd long ago given up on finding it again, had long ago discarded the notion that it would be waiting for him. It's so light within him and yet it's heavy; like lead that floats, the notion of loving her seeming to be wrapped in nothing but contradiction. It is love; that he has come to terms with a while back. It's not just lust – it's not just excitement or a simple infatuation; it's heart wrenching, aching, giddy and absolute bewildering.

He bestows another little kiss to the side of her head, lips resting on her skin for a long moment. It's an emotion he's just recently acknowledged himself and under any other circumstances he would share it with her but not now, not this night. He thinks just the idea of them lying like this is enough for her to fathom and he knows that she's preoccupied by other thoughts than the thought of him.

Strangely enough he does not mind waiting, does not mind telling her another time – when she's ready for words. That and he thinks she can read what he's feeling; she's able to understand their actions today and what it means, he thinks. Otherwise she would have found some other way of coping – he hopes she feels comfortable with him and that's the reason she sought him out, the reason she fell into him.

"You can stay as long as you like," he tells her, sincerity in his voice.

Her hands tighten around his again, "Thank you."

He kisses her cheek and a little spot on her neck, lips on her skin, the feeling of wanting to soothe away her sorrow with nothing but touch a vibrant one inside him. Her skin is warm and her back is now hot against him.

They lie like this for a long time, silent and breathing; he's trying to synchronize with her movements, with the way her chest rises and falls, his lips on her pulse point on her neck. It's a transformation and he's able to tell she slowly falls into a rhythm of synchronization with him as well.

"I haven't slept next to someone in some time," she mumbles suddenly, her soft voice sounding loud in the darkness. He feels both curious and content, able to place the small note of not wonder but something that sounds close to wonder in her voice.

He hums, "Me neither." She breathes deep and he slides his lips closer to her ear, "I have to warn you though, I'm a furnace, I snore and I'm possibly going to treat you like a blanket."

She makes a little noise as if she's amused.

He settles his lips against her skin again, another little kiss because her skin beckons.

She sighs but it sounds half content and he only tightens his arms around her a little.

"You'll see him again," he says and he knows instantly that it's a topic she's not willing to touch upon, the way she stiffens in his arms, the way she suddenly stops breathing, rigid. But it needs to be said and she needs to talk about it.

"Don't," she warns but she stays close to him, still pressed against him.

"I know you don't wanna talk about it and I get it, okay. But you'll see him again, someday."

"Just don't, Andy," she sounds choked up, her voice trembling.

He sighs, "I want you to know I'm here. For whatever you need or want. Heck, I'll even help you find him if that's what you want."

Her head tilts and she fixes him with a strange look, green eyes vivid, "He's in a witness protective program. That's where he is."

"Yeah, and I'm saying that I'll help you no matter what."

Her eyes turn soft; "We're not going to tamper with a witness program just because I feel," she stops, eyes watering up. "I've said my goodbyes, and he's said his. It's just – I miss him and I worry about him so much."

He nods, understanding the dilemma, "You worry about?"

"I worry he's going to run away, I worry there'll be no one who understands him. I worry he'll think it's my fault this is happening. I worry someone will hurt him – I worry whoever's sending all those letters will find him anyway."

He tightens his arms around her, her eyes avoiding his. He kisses the edges of her lips and finds her eyes once again on him, pain vibrant.

"Rusty knows it isn't your fault – he knows you want him safe and he knows you love him. He's going to fine, protected," she gives a small nod and he continues, "We'll nail whoever's sending all these threats and Stroh will be put away for life on death row and you'll see him again, Sharon."

She smiles again, a little sad hue to it. "You think so."

"I do."

She turns her body fully around, facing him and tangling her legs with his.

"You would do anything?" she asks, her voice sounding odd again.

He nods.

She moves closer, their chests pressed against each other now, a hand on his hip. He thinks maybe that she's not used to another human being declaring they'd do anything for her; he thinks it might be a novel thing.

She presses her lips against his.

He kisses her back, hands at the back of her head instead.

It feels familiar and yet novel.

…