Disclaimer:  Ain't mine.  But good job, hacks, for handing fic writers a golden opportunity to shine.

Author’s Note:  This is a “missing scene” fic set during Separation Anxiety.  So, um, spoilers I guess.  It's also told in the first person.

Thank you:  To my beta baby bijal.  I would have given up a long time ago on fic writing if not for you.  And my ego.  But mostly you.

Rating:  P/Jo PG-13

Distribution:  Ask me.

Feedback:  Yes, please! 

Her eyes are my undoing, they always have been. 

I’d like to look back at this moment and know that I had the strength to stand by my decision to leave her, and not prolong the agony by loving her for one last night.  But those big hazel eyes of hers, tearful and pleading . . . how can I say no?  I can’t.  I never could.

"One night," I say, trying to sound strong and resolute and ending up somewhere between defeated and grateful.  And I'm about to try again when she raises up on her toes, leaning in to kiss me. 

Her lips brush mine in the faintest of carresses, and there's a hesitancy in her kiss that makes my heart ache, pained all the more for knowing that it's my fault.  After all the stupid things I screamed at her in the middle of that goddamn prom, it kills me to realize that she's not sure if I want her. 

It sickens me to know that because of my irrational outburst, not to mention my behavior lately, she's afraid that any moment now I`ll recoil.  It was never a question of wanting to be with her, because the day will never come when I don't.  It was never that I didn't want to touch her or be touched by her. 

It's just that I don't deserve it.  But she has to know that I want to be with her, that I'll always want to be with her.

Threading my fingers through the silken warmth of her hair, I tilt my head to deepen the kiss and I'm thankful.  Thankful when her mouth opens beneath mine and our tongues tangle together, thankful when she breaks away only to kiss me again with renewed confidence.

These past few weeks, my world has deteriorated into a jumbled mess of confusion, self-hatred, and stubborn pride.  I don't know up from down, black from white.  Night from day.  But as her hands slip under the hem of my shirt and over my stomach, as I relearn her taste by exploring the depths of her mouth, I know that this feels right when for so long now it hasn't.

The way she slides my shirt up and over my head with fingers that tremble just the slightest bit and the way she looks up at me with a mixture of love and a good deal of fear warring inside her . . . I’m reminded of our first night together and how her expression was very much the same.  For very different reasons.

She loves me still, but where once there were hopes and dreams in her eyes, now there’s heartbreak and despair.  Where once she’d been afraid of the physical act and the intimacy involved, now she only fears tomorrow. 

There’s no way for me to reassure her, either.   I can give her tonight, I can give her a better ending.  But I can’t give her more.

And she’s brave, she’s so much braver than anyone gives her credit for.   Because she’s going into this with those tearful eyes open, knowing.

“Let’s go to your bedroom,” she says softly, taking my hand in hers.  Breaking our gaze, she turns and leads the way.  When we get there, she shuts the door behind us and kisses me, slowly backing me toward the bed.  My calves hit the boxsprings and with gentle hands, she urges me to sit and stands between my legs.

When I’m old and tired and sitting alone comfortable chair somwhere, I’m going to remember this night when I remember no other.   When my eyesight has faded and I‘m nearly blind, I’ll be able to close my eyes and remember the exact shade of grey the room is bathed in.  When I can see nothing else, I’ll still see her as she is right now, lit by the moonlight pouring in from the opened window and more beautiful than she’d ever believe herself to be.

And even if I go deaf, I’m going to hear the sound her zipper makes as I reach around her and slowly tug it down the length of her spine.  In the loneliest of moments, I bet I catch myself listening for the whisper of silk as her dress slips away from her body and pools around her heels.

I try to commit each and every moment to memory, so that when I look back on tonight I’ll still be able to feel the touch of her hand on my shoulder as she steadies herself while taking off one shoe and then the other. 

I know that I’m going to recall, with the sharpest of focus, the way she tenderly takes my face between her hands and kisses me as though she fully realizes that this night is all we have left.  As I sit here, I hope I can always lose myself in the memory of wrapping my arms around her hips and burying my face against her body.

With vivid clarity, I’ll always be able to remember the way we fall back against the mattress in a tangled mass of limbs and loss and love.

It’s afterward, when we’re lying entwined together and catching our breath, that I realize she’s crying.  Quietly, almost silently, her shoulders shaking beneath my arm.  Her head is resting against my chest and I can feel the tears as they course down her face. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you anymore that I already have,” I begin softly.  “I’m sorry, Jo, I shouldn’t -”

“Don’t,“ she interrupts, her voice thickened with tears.  The sound is enough to break my heart when I thought it couldn’t shatter any further.  “Be sorry that we didn’t work out, be sorry that this is it.  But don’t be sorry that we made love.  I‘m not.”

Stroking her back in soothing circles, I hold her as she cries.  I want to cry with her, but one of us has to be strong here, and for once it’s me.  I’ll cry tomorrow, when I have nothing but time to do so.

It’s awhile before she cries herself out, her racking sobs quieting to sniffles, her body relaxing inch by inch against mine.  “I’m so sleepy,” she whispers, long after her breathing has evened out and I was sure she’d drifted off.  “But I don’t want to sleep.  I can’t, when I have so much to tell you.”

“Tell me,” I say, whispering because she is.  Or maybe because it’s hard to speak around the lump in my throat.

She shifts in my arms so that she’s lying beside me sharing the same pillow, her face illuminated by the moonlight.  She stares at me for the longest time, her eyes shining with old tears or new tears, I can’t tell which.  Finally, she takes an audible breath and says, “I want you to know that when I’m with you, I feel like I’m some sort of goddess, when I’m not.  You’ve treated me like I’m a princess when I don’t deserve it.”

“Joey, when I said -”

“And when I‘m with you,” she continues, pressing a finger tenderly against my lips.  “When I’m with you, I feel as though I’m intelligent, when I’m so obviously not.  A smart girl would have seen how bad you were feeling, and would have done something long before you reached the boiling point.  I’m not a smart girl, Pace, because I didn’t see it coming.”

She sniffles a little before continuing, and I literally ache for the pain I’ve caused her. 

“And I have one more apology to make.”

I kiss her fingertip and gently move her hand away so that I can say, “You didn’t need to apologize before, Jo.”

“I did,” she argues resolutely.  “And for so much more.  I’m sorry that being with me makes you feel as though you’re nothing, Pacey.  You’re not.”

Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, I let my fingers trail along her jaw until I’m gently grasping her chin in my hand.  “Look at me, Joey.”

Her lashes are wet and spiky from the tears, and the hazel depths of her eyes are startlingly clear in the faint light.  “What I feel is grateful,” I tell her, trying to make her understand.  Frustrated when it seems as though she doesn‘t.  “When I’m with you, I feel . . . grateful.”

Her lower lip trembles and I pull her into my arms, stroking her hair as she buries her face against my shoulder.  “I never answered your question,” she says after awhile.

“Which one?” 

“Why I was with you.”

Was.  How can one single, solitary word hurt so much?

Minutes tick by before I can bring myself to ask. 

“Why?”