title from "anywhere but here" by safetysuit.

this might be a bit familiar.

It's the middle of the winter when you realize you might love her. She's long since twined her fingers with yours to keep her hands warm, and you watch her breath float by in clouds that you wish you could keep in jars. (You want to hold on to this because you know it won't last. It never does.)

And you've never really put it into words, that you might be in love with her. It was always just a feeling, and now you realize that it has a name and you've just been afraid of the truth. (You're in love with her and she's not in love back.) But she doesn't take her hand away when her teeth stop chattering or when you finally make it back to your apartment, and you know the heat is fully returned to her by the time she curls up beside you with reruns of The Munsters, but you really don't mind.

(You just want to know if this is yes or no or somewhere in between, but you like the warmth of her body next to yours and when she falls asleep, you don't wake her.)

Your thoughts are lost in drifting whispers, chased by her dreams and hidden by your lips, and it's never been a maybe kind of thing, you love her. You love her. (And she can't know, not now, not yet. You can't risk it, you can't ask for a yes or a no or a maybe because you'd rather have her than any of those things, you'd rather have her than anything else).

She looks so calm when she's sleeping, and you wonder if she prefers it to being awake.

» » »

"Eric, that's cheating!"

"Last time I checked, there was no rulebook for Mario Kart, Nell," you're laughing as your Yoshi darts in front of her Princess Peach, flipping her cart over and bumping you up to first place. She hasn't even made her first lap when you reach the finish line, but she usually blows you to smithereens and she's smiling.

"That's not fair!" she laughs, some sort of failed attempt to sound angry. She's not actually upset, but you're not going to tell her that you're in on the secret. If she knew, she might try to change. You don't want that. You want her to just be pure, unadulterated, Nell. You want her to smile when you do something brilliant, when you say something geeky, when you make her feel loved.

(You're trying to keep them quiet for now, the little things that keep her smiling.)

"Guess you aren't the world champion anymore," you bump your shoulder against hers, and she shakes her head and tries not to smile. She fails.

"But you cheated. That doesn't even count," she says. She's trying her hardest to sound upset again, but you still see right through it. (You don't always; there are a lot of times when she could be heartbeats away from changing everything, and you aren't even looking.)

"Maybe you're just jealous," the end of your sentence trails off, and you don't know why but her face is so much closer to yours. This is dangerous. This is dangerous, there should be so much more space between you, only there's not and you don't even know how it happened but you're kissing her, you're kissing Intelligence Analyst Nell Jones in your living room at one in the morning and you shouldn't be but you can't stop. (Can't stop, or don't want to?)

And maybe this is going to be a thing now, you think. Maybe now you'll be able to kiss her whenever you want, and maybe now you'll finally figure out what you are to her because you know what she is to you and she's everything. Maybe things will be different in the best way that things could be different.

Her skull almost cracks when you push her up against your bedroom door, and you don't even remember when your clothes hit the carpet, and something about this just feels off but you can't be bothered to figure it out quite yet. (There's something about the noises escaping her throat that push you to keep moving, don't slow down; "don't stop," and don't slow down.)

But when you wake up in the morning, she's gone, and it suddenly hits you that you're nothing to her, nothing, nothing more than just Eric, her partner and her friend; and this was just a one time thing, this isn't going to happen again, this was an accident.

To her, you were just an accident.

« « «

She's curled into your side, and if you were to try to move, you know she would find some way to stop you. So you don't, you trace faint fluttering patterns against her skin with your fingertips and watch the corners of her mouth turn upwards. This is your favorite time, when she's your Nell. And even though you don't know if you're just lying to yourself, it's a perfect lie to be a pretend truth. It's the best kind of pain, probably: not knowing. Sometimes, you'd rather not know, you have sides of her that nobody else gets. Why isn't that enough for you? It should be enough.

(But sometimes, you want it all.)

"Hey, Eric," she whispers, her breath feathering against your neck, and you smile. You've never heard her voice so heavy with dreams, and it's something you could easily get used to, but you won't let yourself. One day she's going to find someone worthy of having all of her, and you're going to lose everything. (No, you won't, because she would never let that happen. You'll always be her best friend and if you would just pay attention, you could be so much more than that.)

"Yeah?" you respond quietly, and you hope she's too drawn into herself to notice that everything you've ever wanted is right there. If she would just listen. Her eyes open, the most gorgeous shade of curious; but she's only looking at you, and if you're about to be caught she doesn't show it. But there's a tone of terrified that you've never noticed before; and there's some part of you, however small, that knows what it means.

"Have I ever told you how nice you are?" her voice is low and quiet, and you can see the stars in her eyes, and if you were allowed, you would kiss her and it would feel like the universe. But you can't.

» » »

The second time, it starts with a bit of flour thrown across her kitchen.

It was just a handful, and it wouldn't have even been a big deal if she hadn't been trying to bake with it. But she was. So it is.

"Eric, I'm this close to being out of flour!" she pouts, trying to get it out of her hair even though she knows she won't. And you try to hide your joy at getting a rise out of her (at being able to be with her like this, together for no reason but to be together), but you aren't doing it very well. Half laughing, half still trying to look upset, she grabs the measuring cup of flour sitting on the counter and tosses its contents in your direction, grinning when it lands right in your face, and you only stare at her. She knows what this means. This means war.

You manage to get the last of the flour that started this whole mess, but she's got the brown sugar, and most of it ends up in your hair by the time the bag runs out. (You can't stop smiling and she can't stop laughing; such a beautiful laugh). Her dress gets smudged when you grab her by the waist, trying to pull her away from the carton of eggs, but she's tiny and she slips under your arm and smashes one into your chest.

And then she ends up pinned between you and the counter. (You're reckless, and you really need to start making better decisions. Maybe you'll wear closed-toed shoes and pants this week.)

And her head just happens to tilt upwards just as yours tilts down, and you just sort of meet in the middle. She tastes like brown sugar and honey and cake batter and this is perfect and you swear, you had no idea that this was going to happen again. You've never spoken of what happened last time, when she kissed you or maybe you kissed her or maybe both, because really, it didn't mean anything. At least, it didn't to her.

(It meant everything to you, she means everything to you. It's probably not safe, but it's the truth.)

But if she didn't want even just this, she wouldn't be pulling at your shirt, and she wouldn't be letting you work at the buttons on her dress, and she wouldn't be making that sound, and at least she wants something of you. And if she's willing to offer up even just this much of herself, you'll take it. You'll always take it. You're too far gone to deny her much of anything, and you'll take what you can get, even if it's only physical and she couldn't love you, not really.

She's still not beside you when the daylight hits, and it only reaffirms what you already knew.

She doesn't love you.

She never will.

« « «

"Not really, no." you smile, and maybe it'll cover up how badly this is hurting you, how badly this has always hurt you. Because if there's one part of her that you can't lose, it's this one. Best friend Nell, open book Nell; the one you tried so desperately not to fall for, the one you fell for anyway. The one who keeps you falling. The one who's anything you could ever want, and you can't lose her, even if she falls in love with someone else and you're alone for the rest of your life.

She blinks sleepily, snuggling into your side, and your arm ends up wrapped around her tiny shoulders. "Well, you're really nice. I don't think… I don't think anyone's ever been as nice to be as you have."

As softly as she's speaking, you can hear the quiet betrayal haunting those words, and you just wish you could take it away. Things were always hard for her, growing up in a world where she fits comfortably in a range of intelligence occupied by almost nobody else.

Things are still hard for her, dead bodies and missing children and bomb threats, hours and hours and hours of security footage.

"Only as nice as you deserve," you whisper, lips pressed to her temple. You're getting reckless again, you need to reel yourself back in before you do something stupid. Boundaries, Eric, there are boundaries, and this relationship is close enough to breaking them already.

(You want to shatter them against your bedroom floor. You want your voice to echo off of the fragments; "I'm sorry, Nell, I just couldn't pretend anymore.")

» » »

You like the way she sounds when she's working. Focused. Consumed. Even when she's not speaking, she breathes in measures like she's keeping herself tied together with fraying strings, and her fingers move across her keyboard like the world will implode if she stops.

And you like the way it sounds when you're working with her. The way it sounds when you're sitting side by side, typing at your computers and sometimes breaking codes and always information chasing. You remember when it was just you up here, before she came along and changed you, before she let herself loose on you with blind faith in your ability to understand. (Later on, you learned that that was so incredibly difficult for her, and you wonder why she chose you). But things are different now.

There's a deafening silence pounding in your ears, and you don't know why. Nell is sitting right beside you, just like always. She's smashing her way through this firewall with you, just like always. Only it's not. Because there's something about the way she's holding herself that's so carefully guarded and when has she ever guarded herself around you?

You're so used to the sounds of fingers against keyboards, and as soon as you get used to this (whatever this is, and whatever it is, you don't like it), her hands slam flat against the desk and the actual noise nearly knocks you out of your chair. You really don't like this.

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, and you should really be wary of the way you're looking at her but you can't help it.

Her face goes a shade paler than usual, in the exact way that you're afraid of, and she shies away from your heavy gaze. Silently, you hope it's just something else, but you saw the way her eyes turned dark like her heart had been crushed and what if you've done something wrong, what if you've hurt her in some way?

"Nothing," she mutters, wincing, and your breath catches in your throat, something's definitely wrong, "I just…" her fists clench and she goes painfully quiet. There's that silence again, and now it's even worse than before. Your fingertips feather across her cheek and you're pushing it, but you have to know she's alright, she has to be okay.

"Nell. What's wrong?" you whisper, forcing her eyes back to yours. And there's something just so completely broken in them that terrifies you, because you have no idea what's caused it. You probably have no right to be so concerned, she's only your partner, your best friend and your partner and that's it, but you can't control yourself.

"I think I'm going to be sick." she says, and before you can even complete another thought, she's out of Ops and your ears trace her footsteps down the hall and around the corner until you couldn't possibly hear them anymore. Quietly, shakily, you count the minutes until you can legitimately ask someone to go after her.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

You're on autopilot as you find your way to the balcony and muster up the will to interrupt the usual mid-case flow with a shrill whistle. "Kens," you call out, and the rest of the team throws looks at each other as the lone female agent bounds up the stairs. (But really, you're past the point of caring and you just need to know she's okay, you need to make her okay and please let her be okay.)

"What's up?" Kensi asks, two-toned eyes flickering across your face in the way that only an agent's could. Like you're a suspect and she's trying to find your weaknesses, and you know it wouldn't take much for her to figure it out. If she hasn't already.

"Nell, umm… she just, a few minutes ago, she said she felt sick and ran," you gesture in the general direction of the bathroom, "could you…" you're impressed with the small amount of composure you manage to contain (if you can consider this to be composure) and she seems to understand what you're asking. You can worry now, right? She's been gone long enough for you to be reasonably slightly concerned for her well-being. (But really, you're just making excuses, and you know it.)

"Yeah, sure," she nods, and she can see straight through you but you don't really care. "And Eric,"

You look up, trapping your breath in your lungs. "She's gonna be okay."

Nell's going to be okay. She'll be okay.

(You don't think about how this is taking a toll on both of you - you want more than just painful kisses in dark bedrooms and she wants more than just late nights that turn into early mornings because she's not brave enough to see your face when she wakes. And both of you want to say something about it but you're both too busy thinking it'll ruin everything to even consider that it might not.)

« « «

She doesn't reply to you now, and you think she might've fallen asleep; and you're glad, because you can't give yourself away if she's not paying attention. You've reached the point where the only way to avoid this is to never look her in the eye and to never say a single word. But it's all shot to hell when she whispers, again, "Hey, Eric?"

And her voice sounds like stars but it's different this time, lighter and heavier and a bit more tethered, like the Sun. The center of the universe.

You mumble some sort of sound of acknowledgement, because you're afraid of what words might come out if you open your mouth. And you feel her tilt her head to look up at you and you want to cry, you're so terrified. You can't hide it anymore. You're going to get caught, and you're going to lose her, and you would run but that's her job.

"Can I kiss you?"

» » »

Sometimes, you like to torture yourself by looking at her when she's not paying attention. Learning the way she moves, small nervous habits that she probably doesn't even realize she has. She gets restless when she can't quite crack a code as quickly as she would like, she wrings her hands when her patience wears thin. She starts biting her nails when she's worried. She tucks her hair back behind her ear when she feels awkward, out of place. And she spaces out entirely when she's trying to hide something, like she is right now.

"Whatcha thinking about, Rockstar?"

She turns to the left and you're standing beside her, watching her carefully, trying to hide the fact that you're studying her small movements and her facial expressions and things that just-a-lover shouldn't know but a partner should. You've been blurring the lines and you know it scares her. (You can see it in her eyes.)

Because sometimes, you're partners. Here, in Ops, you're partners. And then sometimes, when she's at your apartment or vice versa, or out at the street market or at the beach, you're friends. You're best friends. At least, until something else takes over entirely, and you can still hear her meaningless whispers long after she leaves you alone in your bed, and you've never spoken about it but you aren't sure why.

There's always been this spark. You know that. This small flicker of attraction that burned slowly, slowly, carefully because you don't want to set the world on fire. You also know that this is all there is for her. Just the one small spark that's gotten a bit out of control. Nothing more, nothing less. But she's looking at you like she wants you, and it makes you think that maybe you're wrong.

You, you've always had that spark and so much more because you just want her. You don't just want her sometimes, you want all of her, you want everything, you want her mornings and her nights and her afternoons and then you want to go home with her and fall asleep to her voice and wake up to her eyes and tell her she's beautiful just because you can. But you can't. You get that spark, and you get her friendship, and that's all you're ever going to get because she's too good for you, and you're not good enough for her. And what you have now is more than enough.

Until you realize that she's still looking at you, and her eyes are saying something different than what her lips are saying - "Nothing, just..." - and you really just want to know what she's hiding because she's hiding (and you're hoping, always hoping.)

"Just what?" you ask, brow furrowing, and her eyes light up like she's solved a case, like she's just fit the two most important puzzle pieces together. Pieces of a puzzle that she's been working on for as long as she can remember.

And she presses her lips against yours for reasons you aren't quite sure of, not really, and you would ask but you're too busy being kissed by a beautiful girl whom you may or may not love. (The real question is if she loves you too). And you try to stop thinking before you kiss her back because if you're going to do this, you aren't going to feel guilty about it, and if you think, you're going to feel more guilty than you already do. (You'll take all that she'll give you, and if she's going to kiss you in the middle of the day, in Ops, you're not going to stop her. Even though you should.)

It doesn't occur to you that you aren't taking advantage of her - that maybe she's kissing you at work because she wants to kiss you at work, and at the street market, and at the beach when you're trying to teach her how to surf, because you're the highest standard to her and she couldn't imagine ever being with anyone else. Because maybe she wants you too.

You should be paying more attention to the details, Eric. Number them like facts in the deepest depths of your mind. This is a one time thing, after all. It probably won't happen again. (She doesn't love you, she doesn't love you, she doesn't love you, and you need to stop hoping and remember this before you lose it.)

(One.)

You reach towards her uncertainly, hands sliding around her waist with agonizing tenderness. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat, her muscles tensing, her body shifting against yours. You're afraid of breaking her, even though experience says she's much more resilient than she appears.

(Two.)

She smiles against your lips, fingers threading through your hair and you think that you would be an incredibly happy man if you could do this always, every day.

(Three.)

Slowly, you're pulling her towards you, and somehow she's pinned up against the island, and all you can focus on is the way her body feels when she has clothes on and she's still kissing you and you still don't know why.

(Four.)

You want to remember every single second of this, the way her hands are holding your face to hers, the slant of her lips against yours, the fire in her eyes right before she kissed you in the middle of the afternoon.

(Five.)

Her breath turns into yours, and you're never going to get enough. No matter how many moments you share, they'll never be enough. If you get a million, you want a million plus one. It's never going to be enough. You're going to smother her until she runs for good, and then you're going to realize that you need her more than you ever really wanted her.

(Six.)

Your time is running short, you think, but there's no way that this means nothing to her because this is Ops and this is a sacred place and this partnership is a sacred thing and maybe you've actually just been missing something. (She could find casual sex anywhere but she chose you.)

(Seven.)

You don't want to let her go, but there are footsteps down the hall, and you force yourself away from her just as the double doors slide open.

"What have you got for us, Miss Jones, Mister Beale?" Hetty glances between the two of you and you've got your tablet in your hand, the usual spiel spilling from your lips. (Lips which moments ago were entirely occupied by hers, which are still on fire, and it makes it hard to speak such unimportant words.)

"Petty Officer Anderson was caught pushing drugs through Pendleton, but the report was hidden in an encrypted file when he offered his supervising officer a cut of the deal." and your voice isn't quite as smooth as usual because two seconds ago you were kissing Nell, because you wanted to, and it didn't just happen, it was her, she kissed you, for no reason other than that -

Well, you still haven't figured out what the reason was, and maybe it's better that you don't. (If she only kissed you because you were there, it would hurt more than you ever thought you could hurt, and if she kissed you because she loves you then you're better off just waiting anyway.)

You're focused enough to be paying attention, but not enough to notice how wrinkled her clothes are, how disheveled your hair is, how her lips are parted like she's having trouble breathing, because she is. But the team notices. They don't say anything, but they notice.

Kensi is smirking because she's known since a long time ago, and Deeks keeps quiet because he likes the both of you too much to rat you out to Hetty. (But Hetty has known since the very beginning). And Sam and Callen exchange glances behind everyone's backs because they noticed as soon as they stepped through the door that something was off. They notice, but you don't.

"His name is Davis. Jonathan Davis." Nell's voice is unusually steady, and you know that she only spoke because on a normal day, she would've finished at least two of your sentences by now. You would probably be able to see the panic on her face, but your eyes are trained on the floor, and the corner of your mouth turns upwards because you know exactly how hard she's trying to hide it. She's shocked at herself. It only makes sense, that you know her just as well as she knows you, and something is going to give soon.

(You're going to get a yes or a no or a maybe, and you aren't sure which it'll be, but it'll be something, and that's better than an empty kiss that wasn't really empty at all.)

« « «

She doesn't even wait for you to answer before she's pulling your face down to hers, and it's not like you've never kissed her before (you've kissed her so many times before, too many times for just friends and just partners and just lovers) but you've never kissed her like this. She's kissing you, and you think that maybe she'll mean it this time. Maybe she'll let it slip from her lips into yours - "I love you."

But she won't. You know she won't. She never does. She's the one who keeps the words trapped in her head until she gets so scared that they come pouring out of her eyes instead of her mouth. (You still know everything.)

Just as a safety precaution, she keeps her eyes closed as her fingers curl into your hair, as you pull her body closer to yours. She's beside you, she's in your lap, and then she's above you, a slight smirk playing on her lips as they meld into yours.

Her kisses are slow, cautious and observant; you think she's trying to let you know that this time is going to be different than any of the others.

You drop items of clothing one at a time as you stumble down the hallway; your hoodie, your hoodie, her tank top, your t-shirt, her shorts, your shorts. Boxers covered in miniature DeLoreans. More delicate, fragile lace. By the time the backs of her knees hit your bed, there's nothing left but you and her.

The heat generated between you presses wrinkles into your sheets - wrinkles you won't be able to wash out right away, for fear you'll never see them again. Her lips trail down your neck, across your collarbone. She's almost smiling, she's halfway between there and crying. You take her face in your hands and bring it to yours - she looks you in the eye for the first time in what seems like forever.

And it's like your world is in slow motion. Her kisses are overwhelming, sometimes nothing more than the brush of her lips over yours. Her fingers trail a fire across your skin that burns like it'll never go out. The moans you draw from her lips are half as loud as you remember, but she's making you wonder if you've ever really done this before at all.

Her back arches her body into yours, and it takes her twice as long to let your name escape with her breath.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, she's curled up against your chest, maybe sleeping, maybe not. This is how it always ends. You keep yourself awake for as long as you can, just to look at her, until you fall asleep and lose her again. She's always gone in the morning.

You close your eyes.

(Maybe it'll stop hurting so much if you stop looking, stop reminding yourself of what you almost have.)

"I wish you weren't so afraid." you mumble into her hair, and you might feel her tilt her head just slightly. Her breathing is slow but uneven, and you still aren't sure if she's asleep; you don't know whether she can hear you or not. You almost wish that she's listening, that you're catching her so off guard that her defenses aren't up, that you'll get through to her.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you realize that this has to be it. If you can't say it now, you might never.

"I wish you loved me."

It's barely a whisper, but it made it into the air. Maybe even into her ears.

And you might just be hearing things to fill in the silence, but you swear you hear her heart skip a beat.

Maybe, you think, maybe you won't wake up alone tomorrow. Maybe she'll stay; or maybe, she'll just forget to leave.

(Maybe, perhaps; she'll tell herself that she loves you, and she'll realize that she's not as afraid as she was, and she'll stay because she wants to wake up to sunlight filtering in through the curtains and your warm body wrapped around hers.)