This was the last time, he'd told himself, as he looked behind him and saw her. In someone else's arms. It hurt - he didn't know why he kept doing it. It should've been Pavlovian by now because every time he looked, it hurt so damn much, that he could've and should've stopped - but it was a different brand of pain, not one caused by fatigue or even a wound, it was pain deep inside his core that ached, and for some reason, he kept coming back for more.

This was the last time, she'd say to herself, as she'd catch his eyes for a second - a silly second - and flames would reignite in her body. Whether it was self-consciousness, burning shame, or the dying embers of what was once a love that had consumed her wholy, she didn't know. She didn't bother differentiating. Whatever it was, it was trivial, because she wouldn't have to feel it. She wouldn't have to if she didn't look - and it wasn't hard not to look. Other people, other things, other obligations, obscured her view. So why did she look at him once more?

This was the last time, he'd thought angrily, as her voice raised in retaliation as they fought once more over the reason why they were through. It wasn't like they hadn't gone there before, in fact their very breakup was due to an argument not unlike this one, and as she'd insisted he was stubborn - well maybe he was stubborn, and as he too raised his voice, yelled the summation of his feelings and how they were through, the hurt in her eyes still wasn't satisfying. Still wasn't right. As he heaved for breath and she suddenly shrunk, tears in her eyes, nothing was right. But the time for apologies had long come and gone, and though he knew whose bed she'd be going to for the night, he also knew that this fight was not over. Not while it still felt wrong, not when, during those moments of anger and yelling and screaming, it felt -just a little - like the passion they once had for each other.

This was the last time, she thought to herself, as she - almost shamefully - asked Dick about his whereabouts. It wasn't exactly shame that she felt, nor revelation that drove her. If anything, there was a shred of hopefulness, a tiny tiny shred of hopefulness, that she herself didn't even think she deserved. She wouldn't ask again - she'd get resolution but she wouldn't ask again. Her conviction only grew stronger at Dick's response, a new, ugly - yet resigned, feeling to only add in the palette of emotions smattered across her psyche. It should've been the last time that his personal affairs mattered to him - and yet it only took one, fleeting glance, to have it all return. And it returned so fast she felt as if she could hardly breathe.

This was the last time, he thought, as he quickly disengaged his arms from her all-too-familiar frame, as she, too, unwound herself with a quick cough. The worst part is that it felt right, achingly right, especially after that semi-shy, unfairly coy smile she gave at his confirmation that he and Wendy were nothing. And as much as he loved it, wished he could live in those brief seconds, if that, over and over, that was all there was to it. That was all there should've been to it. They had grown apart, have become different people, and though they've reached understanding, two puzzle pieces couldn't be forced to fit together. He only knew that too well.

This was the last time, she'd thought as quietly as she could, which was an ironic statement considering she'd just used her telepathy in the first place. It still felt wrong, doubly so considering who it concerned. They'd begun to reclaim speaking terms, but their small talk was nothing but that, small talk, and it was a momentary lapse of judgement as she spoke her goodnights through her mind. She'd slipped up before, with other people, but with him, it was so much different. She blew it. That was it. His response should be, if he granted her one at all, angry, repulsed. Affronted. And that would be it, the last time, because she was horrible and ignorant and hell, he probably did deserve someone better than her. But then his voice, surprisingly quiet, rang out in her head, and for another brief second, she didn't know if she should laugh or cry.

This was the last time, he'd thought to himself, but he knew that all the previous times had been lies, and with his current streak, this one would be too. But it didn't matter. He sat down beside her and, as it broke yet another one of his promises to himself, he felt drawn to her side once more, like a dangerous magnetic pull from which he couldn't escape. It was probably all in his head, he figured, as their TV flickered on, and their movie continued. Movies were easier. They didn't really have to talk. It was easier than before but still strange, and their silent conversations had ceased to exist save the one instance nearly a month ago. But she'd visibly relaxed by him, even allowing herself a laugh at the on-screen antics, and before he knew his finger skimmed hers.

She froze in her tracks. She so desperately wanted to turn. But she didn't, for she feared what she'd see there - and she didn't want to go through it all again. It'd felt good, brief, like a streak of fire that had spread like ice along her veins, but it was gone, as fast as it'd come, and she missed it. Once again she was reminded of how much she missed his touch, and she missed him.

But this was the last time.

(How they both wished it were a lie.)