The Things I Never Told You

The weeks after the Mayflower explosion were long and trying. In the absence of being able to get directly involved with the investigation into the explosion, I used Angie Carson's case as a focus, and reopened the Gary Lewis case as a possible homicide. I'd go into the office early in the day and stay well into the night, pouring my time into trying to find out what had happened. I scoured our records for any murder or suicide involving mirrors, and the more I looked, the more I found. When I finally managed to get my hands on the employment records for the Mayflower, I could confirm that every single person to hold the night watchman post had come to an untimely end - usually drowned or cut up, and their families with them. How could something like this happen? How did no-one notice the connection?

Outside of the office, I kept at it. I'd recovered the records I'd given to Ben from Angie's apartment, along with more papers that he'd had on the Mayflower fire, along with records and newspaper clippings. They were spread out all over my coffee table, pinned to the wall in my living room as the murder case records and photos were pinned to the walls of my office. People had started talking at work, I knew. Talking about the fact that my office looked like a mini crime lab, that I was stretching myself to work this case on my own over and above my duties to the department. I was running myself ragged, running on coffee late into the night every night compiling data, similarities. Looking for clues. Looking for an explanation. Dead or alive, I needed to know what had happened to Ben... and most of all, why they'd never recovered a body.

A month after his disappearance, we held a funeral service. It angered me that Amy had given up so easily. She needed closure, she told me. She needed to be free to mourn. She'd always given up on him far more easily than I, after all. I went to the service, and tried to ignore the man at her side, a coworker that stood closer to her than strictly necessary. Instead I held Michael in my arms, let him cling to me as I watched them lower the empty casket into the ground. It didn't mean anything to me like it did to her, it didn't give me any sense of closure. If anything, it made me work harder, search harder, sleep less. This wasn't the end of things, I was sure of it.

I shouldn't have been surprised when I was called into the Deputy Inspector's office one Thursday afternoon. We had a good working relationship, he and I. I kept a tight team, and he let me have free reign to take care of my people as I saw fit. He looked up from his desk with a sigh as I appeared at his door.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

He nodded. "Come in, Larry. Shut the door, have a seat."

I did so, a little worried at the tired, resigned look on his face. "Something the matter, sir?"

He frowned a little, leaning on his arms on his desk. "I'm not going to mince words, Larry. I'm also not going to accept working yourself to death as a form of suicide."

The words shook me. "Sir, I haven't been - "

"Everyone can see it, Larry, and your team is worried. Even before I pulled the swipe card logs in and out of the office I could tell that you were running yourself ragged just by looking at you." He stopped, and sighed. "Look, I know the Mayflower incident has been hard on you. For my part, I'm sorry I didn't push harder to get him reinstated after he got cleared. He was a good man and a good cop. But you working yourself to death isn't going to bring back Ben Carson."

I glanced away, feeling my eyes sting from emotion, and blinked hard. "I'll be okay."

"Yeah, you will. But you're going to take some time off."

My head jerked back to meet his gaze. "Oh no. Sir, the department needs me - "

"CSU will survive, I can pile your paperwork on a couple others and have Captain Jaimerson keep an eye on your crew. You need to take some time and put yourself back together, Larry. Now, I'll give you a choice. You can either take an immediate two weeks paid bereavement..."

"Or?" I asked weakly.

"Or it'll be two weeks paid suspension, with mandatory trauma counselling."

I closed my eyes for a moment. The thought of two weeks without work to focus on filled me with dread. And yet, I'd still have some access to police records and resources. I could take the records and photos in my office home with me....

"I'll take the bereavement," I said, my voice hoarse, and signed the paperwork he passed to me.

I had a few hours before the end of the work day, and started to put my things in order, packing up the material that I'd pinned up inside my office in bits and pieces. About an hour later I heard a soft knock at my open office door, and when I glanced up, Alice was standing there. "Hey... can I come in?"

I set down my pen and sat up straight, stretching a little and feeling the vertebrae in my lower back pop. "Yeah. Just trying to finish up a few things before I head out... they've put me on a mandatory two week vacation."

"I know," she replied with a slightly bemused smile. "News travels fast. Don't take it too hard, Larry. They're just concerned about you, that's all. Work can survive without you for a little while."

"We'll have to see if I can survive without work," I joked, forcing a half smile, and she shook her head.

"Take some time for yourself. You've gotta have a hobby or two." The sad thing was, I didn't. I'd thrown myself into my work for the past few years as a substitute for not having anyone in my personal life. And before that....

My mind returned, unbidden, to old times. To times before Amy - living with Ben, hanging out with Ben, watching and playing hockey, going to bars... loving Ben, making love.... I shook my head. "Afraid my hobbies are work and more work."

Something of my reminiscence must have shown in my expression, because she moved forward to stand by my desk, leaning on one hand that held to the edge. "You have anybody to talk to, Larry? You ever thought about seeing someone here?"

I glanced away with a soft, noiseless laugh. "That's not my style, you know that."

I saw her worry at her bottom lip out of the corner of my eye, silent for a moment. "Then maybe you should talk to Ben."

My eyes snapped back to her, looking for an explanation, and she gave a little sad smile. "It's obvious you're not ready to let go. Maybe there's unfinished business, maybe something you never told him. Talk it out, Larry. Say it to his photo if you need to. Get it off your chest so you can move on." She reached out to let her hand rest on top of mine on the desk, and I didn't pull it away.

"I can't explain it," I said slowly, "I just... I can't accept that he's dead. Maybe it's denial, maybe there's something wrong with me, but... I can't."

"Look... everyone goes through this. But at some point you have to accept things and move on. Use this time to do that, Larry. You know he wouldn't want you to let this keep hurting you. Don't you?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, and pulled my hand away from her. "... Yeah. Yeah, I know." She was silent for a moment, and I looked up to find her watching me, looking very much like she wanted to say something, and I quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Forgive me for asking this, but...."

I suddenly understood the look. "Then don't. Whatever you're thinking, don't."

Her eyebrows raised. "You... you did have something with him, didn't you?"

I pushed my chair back and stood, looking out the window into New York and folding my arms across my chest. "Don't be ridiculous. He was married. We were just room mates. Anyway, he's not my type." I didn't care whether or not she saw the lie for what it was, I didn't want to talk about it. I never could, but especially not now.

"All right, Larry. Didn't mean to upset you." I saw her claim a pen off my desk, writing a phone number on a post-it pad and sticking the note on my laptop. "Promise you'll call me if you need something, okay? We can do coffee or something?"

I smiled for real then, and nodded. "Thanks, Alice."

"I'm not just saying this. I mean it. You promise me."

"I promise," I replied, folding her number and putting it in my wallet. Finally satisfied, she let the office and left me alone to my thoughts.

It was strange, arriving home and knowing I wouldn't be returning to work the next day. Strange, and left me feeling a little hollow inside. Or maybe it was my thoughts from earlier. Despite myself, I kept returning to Alice's words. To move on. That Ben wouldn't want me to live like this. I stared blankly at the papers on my coffee table for a long time, but my mind wasn't on the case. Finally I gathered them up, setting them in a neat pile on the corner of the mirrored surface of the table. Then I went to the kitchen and free poured some Jack Daniels into a glass over ice, sipping it slowly and looking out into the city beyond my apartment.

Maybe Alice was right. Maybe it was just me not being able to let go.

I finished the drink in slow sips, staring out into the twilight. In all truth, Ben hadn't been a big part of my life for quite some time. I'd slowly eased my way out of his life after his marriage, and apart from being godfather to the children I hasn't had much contact with him outside of brief encounters at work. The handful of exceptions were times that I still had trouble admitting even to myself, when things first started getting rocky between him and Amy, a few years after Michael was born. He'd come over, we'd drink, watch the game... and shamefully, end up in bed. Was it just my own guilt that had me convinced that he wasn't dead, that kept me in this crazy investigation?

I stood at the kitchen window for some time after I'd finished the alcohol, feeling the whiskey warm my joints, calm my mind. Finally, I set the glass aside and went back to my living room, taking the photo off the mantle and sitting down on the couch with it, leaning over the coffee table with the frame in my hands. It was the same photo as I kept in my office at work... Ben and I in younger days. Happier times. I traced his form on the glass with my thumb and sighed.

"I'm sorry," I murmured softly, and as I heard the words leave my mouth, came to the reluctant conclusion that Alice was right. I closed my eyes for a moment, and let the anguish that was ever present in my heart become my focus. "I'm so sorry, Ben. There's so many things... god. I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me, even if you didn't ask for my help. I should have... I don't know. I should have have made you come stay here, I should have pushed harder to get you reinstated, I.... I shouldn't have pushed that fucking job on you. You'd still be... god, you'd still be here if it wasn't or me. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for that."

I set the photo down on the table and covered my face with my hands, raking them over my skin and through my hair. "I don't know if I can do it," I voiced, hearing my voice crack. "I don't know if I can let go. I know I have to, but I just... I loved you too much, Ben. I never told you, but you... you were the brightest point in my life the whole time I was with you, and I... I was so fucking in love with you. I loved you more than anything, and I don't know what to do now that you're gone." I let myself laugh, harsh and bitter, hearing my voice echo in the room. Fuck, what the hell was I doing?

I stared down at the photo in agony, at his face. "I don't know how to move on," I whispered brokenly, and pressed my hands together, index fingers against my lips, as if my admission was some kind of desperate prayer for guidance.

Then, as I stared at the photo, something pulled at my awareness, a kind of cold shiver that ran down my spine. Something was out of place, something that the forensics cop in me screamed at me to notice despite the blur of alcohol. Suddenly it came to me in a rush, a shock that made my stomach drop to the ground. My reflection was staring back at me... but its hands were resting on the glass, no where near a mirror image of my pose. And the expression on my face....

It was as if my reflection came to this shocked realization at the same time as I did, and I watched its lips part. Its hands beat against the glass, and it started to speak, though I heard no words.

I couldn't do anything but stare in mute horror as my reflection spoke again and again, looking more and more upset, pounding harder on the glass. Hearing Michael and Daisy talk about this was noting compared to the horror of seeing it, compared to....

"Ben?" I finally forced myself to whisper, and my reflection nodded frantically.

"I can't hear you," I whispered, and shook my head, pressing my hands to his on the glass. "Ben? Oh god. Oh god...."

His lips were forming the same thing over and over, I realized, his eyebrows knit, expression more lost and sorrowful than I'd ever seen myself. I stared, trying to match the form of his lips. Don't... don't....

"Don't give up," I understood suddenly, and my reflection gave a somehow weary, relieved nod. It seemed to fall forward a bit, as if staggering, and when I blinked, suddenly everything was completely normal again.

I sank back into the couch numbly, and realized my breath was coming in quick, sharp pants, my pulse racing like I'd run a marathon. But then, as I slowly caught my breath, as my heart began to calm, the most blissful sense of relief came over me. Don't give up. It really was as Michael had said. I hadn't been chasing a ghost. And with that relief, the agony of the past weeks broke away, and I began to feel... hope.

"I won't give up," I whispered, and closed my eyes.

That night my dreams were disjointed, and when I awoke the only thing that stayed with me were memories of a world of twisted glass with deformed reflections of myself staring at me, chasing me. I buried my face into my pillow and groaned. Maybe I was just loosing my mind.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for a time, moving, examining myself from every angle. Nothing strange happened, nothing unexpected. Had I just imagined the night before? I shook my head, stripped down and got in the shower, letting the hot water sluice over my body as if it could wash away stress and worry and uncertainty. When I stepped out, however, I glanced at the mirror and slipped on the floor in shock, grabbing at the shower curtain to steady myself. I felt one of the rings pop off and cursed, but caught my balance, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around myself, still staring at the mirror, at the words written there in the steam.

'Here still. Not dead. - Ben.'

Well. Fuck.

It wasn't the last time Ben tried to talk to me. After a few days, I started to get used to seeing my reflection suddenly move independently. It became less disorienting, and my stomach stopped dropping down to my ankles every time I saw my reflection move on its own. Now my stomach just flipped a couple of times, and that wasn't entirely from fear. It was still Ben, somewhere in there. I could see it, now that I looked, in his mannerisms - the way he moved, the way he held myself. It was beyond strange, seeing those tells on my own form. But at the same time... it was strangely comforting.

Part of me still held to the opinion that I'd finally lost it. Suffered some nervous breakdown brought on by Ben's death, that I was hallucinating. But could any part of my mind have ever thought up something like this for me to hallucinate? Real or no, all of me agreed that the only thing to do was to see this through to the end. To find out what happened, and find some way to free Ben.

We learned to communicate, at first just with words drawn in the steam on the bathroom mirror. He could hear me without a problem, it seemed, but I couldn't hear him. I'd never wished for the skill of reading lips so much before in my life. We tried Morse code next, but it was a slow, cumbersome process, and though he could stay with me longer and longer as the days went by, it still wasn't an effective way to communicate.

Finally I bought a package of looseleaf from the dollar store on the corner, and pulled one of my mirrors off the wall, setting it up on my desk and angling it down to clearly show the surface of the paper. Then I sat down, pen in hand, and waited.

I felt the shiver run through me almost immediately, and in the mirror my hand moved, forming letters on the paper that didn't exist in real life. 'This works,' he wrote, backwards, but it was easy enough for me to read. Finally we could talk.

My questions poured out, almost too fast for him to reply. Where was he? What happened? Was he dead? But he didn't seem to know much more than I. His story matched Michael's - of falling into water, of pushing Michael towards the light, and then passing out. Waking up behind the mirrors, unable to be seen or heard, with no reflection of his own.

"You're safe, right? That thing that..." that killed your sister, I was about to say, and quickly corrected myself at the last minute. "That was haunting your family - what happened?"

'It's gone. Everything that was trapped here before escaped. I killed the demon in the real world. I'm alone here.'

I gave a sigh of relief despite myself. "Are you physical? You can touch things, right? Not like a ghost?"

'Yes,' My hand in the mirror wrote. 'I can move objects, drive cars. I still get tired and hungry, but I can eat the food here. And I'm still me, when I'm not... like this talking to you. It's more like the people around me are ghosts. You, too.'

"Then how are you controlling my reflection?"

For a long moment he was still, and I thought that perhaps he'd left, though I didn't feel it. Then he wrote again.

'It was an accident. I was trying to shake you. There was a kind of woosh, and then I -was- you. It was very tiring at first. It's easier now. I just kind of step into you.'

I nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. "But why were you here, Ben? Why are you watching me? There must be a hundred other, better places you could be - "

In the mirror, my reflection lifted his free hand - my left, his right - and cupped his face, running his fingers over it wearily and pinching the bridge of his nose. I could feel it, and I started, staring hard, but he didn't seem to notice.

'I have to go,' he wrote, and then I was only staring at my own reflection again.

I snapped pictures of the reflection of the notebook with my cell phone, but when I went to get the Polaroid and came back, the writing had vanished. I left the camera on the desk.

I couldn't help but think about it as I ate, staring at my reflection in everything - the utensils, the surface of the table, my glass. Finally I opened a bottle of red wine, and put away three glasses before forcing myself to re-cork it. I ignored my research for the night and tried to lose myself in the meaninglessness of prime time television, but my thoughts kept returning to Ben. Finally I went back to my office, hoping he'd be there.

I felt the shiver as soon as I entered, and saw my reflection cross the room to sit at the desk. I followed more sedately, sitting down and watching him. The wine made me more relaxed than I had been earlier, and it was somehow easier to deal with this, with watching him in my body, with watching him write.

'I'm sorry,' Wrote Ben-as-my-reflection, even before I'd picked up the pen. I didn't need to, it seemed, though I could feel the slight pressure of holding it in my fingers. 'I've been watching you for a long time, Larry. There's so much I want to say and I don't know how to. I can't stay with my family, it's not - Amy would be so frightened. The children don't need that. But I needed someone.'

"How long?" I managed to ask, and his gaze was sad.

'Weeks. Since before the funeral. I'm so sorry, Larry. I didn't think that things would ever be... like this. I didn't mean to behave inappropriately. To eavesdrop on you.' He stopped writing, and I glanced up to find him looking at me, lips parted slightly as if to say something. Then he glanced away, looking almost embarrassed, and I suddenly remembered all too clearly all the things that I'd said that night to his photo.

"I'm sorry," I forced myself to say, trying to ignore the ice cold fingers that had clenched around my stomach. "Oh fuck. I didn't - I didn't mean for you to find out like that. Fuck, I never meant for you to find out, it..." I swallowed fumbling for the words to explain myself, ignoring whatever he was writing. "Ben, you were my best friend for so long, and I needed that, I didn't want to fuck it up, I didn't want you to have to live with the pressure of knowing, I - "

He'd been casting frustrated glances at me, and finally threw down the pen, both hands pressed to the glass. His mouth clearly formed the word "Stop," several times over, until I shut up. Then he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, and turned his attention back to the paper. He'd written 'Stop' on it several times in big letters, so I pulled away the top sheet to give him a blank one underneath.

'I'm sorry,' He wrote again. 'I'm not angry. There's so much I want to say but I'm afraid I'll just make things worse for you. I just wish I'd known before.' He set down the pen and leaned back wearily, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, and I flinched at the sensation.

"I can feel that, you know."

His head jerked up, and he stared at me wide-eyed for a moment, lips moving slightly as if saying something to himself. Then he raised a hand to his cheek slowly, cupping it and stroking his fingers down his jaw almost curiously. It translated to an unintentionally tender caress on my skin, and I shivered despite myself, closing my eyes for a moment. "Yeah, I feel that too."

When I looked back up at him, he was watching me contemplatively. He leaned forward to pick up the pen again.

'I need to think about a few things. Maybe then I can tell you want I need to. Or show you. Goodnight, Larry.' And then he was gone again.

I stared at the page for a long moment, as if it would bring him back. Then I snapped Polaroids of it, and left my desk for another glass of wine.

I finished the bottle as the evening grew later, sitting at my kitchen table and staring at down it. Taking sip after sip of tart wine, until I watched the last few drops of crimson fall from the lip of the bottle and into my glass. "Fuck," I muttered under my breath, and drank it. I stood, feeling the world slosh around me, and made my way carefully to my room. I flicked on the lamp beside my futon and stripped off my shirt, not caring when it hit the floor instead of the hamper. Then I turned to stare in the full length mirrored closet doors, pressing my hands to the glass and letting my forehead fall against it with a soft thunk.

"You in there?" I asked, the words feeling thick on my tongue from the wine, and laughed softly. "Oh god. I fucked up, Ben, I never meant to fall for you. Never meant to tell you, and it... 'swas my burden, not yours. Was one of my rules, an' I broke it. No falling for... goddamn straight men. Regardless of fucking. But if you'd ever asked me... fuck, forget I said that. Fuck."

I sighed, and closed my eyes against the increasing feel of drunkenness. "You still there? 'm sorry, Ben. Come back. Don't leave again. Don't leave, Ben."

The cold shiver that ran down my spine was a sharp contrast to the feeling of drunken warmth, as was the tingle of sensation against my mouth. My eyes snapped open, and I straightened to find my reflection looking at me, fingertips pressed to his lips. He lowered his hand and gave me a soft smile - Ben's smile, not my usual lopsided grin.

"I'm sorry," I said again, only to see him shake his head. Then his hand moved, slowly but very deliberately, to cup his cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. It felt warm, and vivid, and it was almost disorienting to see my reflection doing this, and feel it, but not to be taking the action myself. I wet my lips, watching him gaze at me intently, lips parted slightly. Then my reflection's fingers slipped back, stroking through my hair to almost rake across the back of my head, moving slowly down my neck, caressing - caressing?!

The shock cut through the haze of drunkenness. "What are you doing?"

He paused for a moment, then lifted his hand to my lips again, running the pad of his thumb over his lips slowly, then again. A tingling caress... like a kiss? I sighed despite myself. He smiled, an expression that was undoubtedly salacious, and I felt my pulse quicken in response. "What are you doing?" I whispered again, only to see his other hand move to his - my reflection's - shoulder, fingers curling around it, kneading gently, his eyes falling half closed in pleasure.

"Oh jesus," I murmured, and swallowed hard, feeling a shudder of arousal run down my spine. "You're going to molest me while I'm drunk."

He gave a visible laugh, and I echoed it despite the oddity of the situation. It wasn't like drunken molestations were anything new between the two of us. He smiled, and quirked an eyebrow, questioningly. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the hand on my shoulder gave a soft, reassuring squeeze.

"You don't have to do this," I said, only to see him shake his head again. His lips moved, something that looked like, 'I want to.' Or maybe it was 'I want you.' Either way, the look in his - my eyes - was so dark, so intent, that I drew a sharp breath between my teeth. Before I knew it, I'd nodded assent. I could never say no to Ben.

"I've lost it," I muttered, turning my back to the mirror, and felt a firm press to my lips in reply. I moved to the bed and started to undo my belt with trembling fingers, glancing back over my shoulder. My voice was rougher than I expected when I spoke again. "I didn't say I didn't want it too."

That was how I ended up stretched out on my futon, completely nude, watching my reflection - feeling my reflection - molest himself. He was hesitant at first, his eyes not moving from mine as he stroked his hands over his biceps - my hands, my arms. Too skinny, too wiry from years of working too hard and not eating right, but he didn't seem to care. My reflection's fingers lingered on my bicep, tracing over the tattooed band with a little smile, and I remembered vividly going under the needle with him at my side, getting his own band inked as I was. I saw a flash of a smile in my reflection, and then his hands moved down, rubbing slowly over my chest. If I closed my eyes, it was as if the hands were physically there, actually touching me, stroking over my skin, toying with, then pinching a nipple. It drew a soft moan from my lips, and I felt the hands on my chest tighten briefly. A shiver ran through me and I wasn't sure if the origin was me or him.

I opened my eyes to look into the mirror again, wondering if I was really as flushed as as he looked, lips parted slightly and eyes heavy lidded. His eyes opened fully again when they met mine, gaze darkening a little as one hand moved lower, smoothing over my stomach. His fingers traced down his thigh, and I watched them rub slow circles on the muscle there, caressing, teasing, making my half-erect cock jerk a little in response even in the mirror.

"Please don't tease," I heard myself half beg, and his eyes closed briefly at my words, lips parting in a silent moan. The knowledge of his pleasure was so intoxicating that I'd almost given in and reached down to touch myself before he did. I forced myself to hold back, and finally my reflection ran his fingertips up the underside of my cock, then cupped it, squeezing gently. The sensation was so unexpectedly real that my hips bucked off the bed in response, as if to encourage more. "Oh fuck, Ben - !"

He bit his lip, and I watched my reflection's fingers curl around his cock, stroking slowly from root to tip. I could feel what he was doing like I was doing it myself, but I so vividly knew that this was not me. This was how he'd always touched me, these long, slow, almost tentative strokes, fingers twisting fluidly around the shaft of my cock as he did. I felt more than saw the swipe of his thumb over my head, circling, teasing before returning to stroking, firm and slow.

As good as it felt, it was just as arousing to know that he was on the other end of this, doing this intentionally to please me. My fingers tangled in the sheets under me, clenching at the cotton, and by now I was almost achingly hard, shivering under the attentions of his fingers. "Jesus, Ben, that's good. Oh fuck, don't stop." I saw his other hand rest on my hip, squeezing my hipbone briefly as if to reassure me that he had no intention of doing so. Then it slipped between his thighs, and I felt him cup my sack and squeeze gently, toying with his fingers and tugging ever so gently. It made me absolutely wild, and before I knew it I was almost arching off the bed, writhing, trying to press into hands that only existed in the mirror.

My reflection's fingers were moving faster now, his touch warm and firm, sending pulses of pleasure through me with every stroke. He brought his free hand up to his mouth, and I mirrored him, groaning as I sucked hungrily at two fingers and saw my reflection do the same. It was no distraction from his touch, pleasure building hot and fast in my core, surging as his fingers coaxed me closer to release. His legs were bent, hips rocking just a little into his touch, and as I watched, he pulled one up a little higher. He moved the fingers from his mouth to press down between his - my thighs, stroking slick behind my cock, then back further, fingertips circling and tapping against the sensitive pucker, pressing against me. "God - Ben!"

Part of me wanted to close my eyes and just give in, but I didn't want to take my eyes away from the mirror, my breath in sharp gasps as the sensation surged. I bit down hard on my fingers and choked back a cry, unable to keep my eyes open as he pulled me to climax, continuing to work me even as ecstasy overwhelmed me, nerves singing with pleasure. Finally his touch slowed, and I forced my eyes open to meet his gaze, seeing my reflection as sated and breathless as I was.

He gave me a smile, sweet but exhausted. Then he relaxed, and I felt the soft shiver of loss run though me and knew he was gone.

I tried to catch my breath, mind reeling from what had happened. I couldn't help but wonder on his intentions, his motivations, but I knew that even if he'd stayed with me, I was far too drunk to make it to my office to see his answer to anything at all. It was easy to fall into sleepy exhaustion in the warm aftermath of orgasm, and I only just managed to stay alert long enough to wipe my stomach of with a couple of tissues before burrowing into my blankets. "I'll forgive you for rolling over and going to sleep," I murmured muzzily, then closed my eyes and let sleep take me.

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