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The townhouse looked much the way it had the last time Fletcher had been there. Really it hadn't changed a whole lot the entire time she'd lived there, other than the sunroom being converted at some point. He wasn't sure when that was, despite having memories of it happening, the living room being a mess for weeks on end, months maybe...time was tricky. A thoughtful frown had formed as he'd tried to work it out in his head but he had to give up after a moment or two as he realized Lacey was heading upstairs.

Slipping white shoes off his feet he nudged them up against the wall neatly before following, dropping his bags and bass in the kitchen as he walked through it.

Admittedly it was nice view as he climbed the stairs after her swaying hips but he knew the nature of that walk, and knew there was anger laying coiled just beneath the surface, waiting to come out. Anger at him.

At what he'd done, and what had had to be done.

He stopped when she turned and the look on her face had him drawing in a bracing breath, pale eyes widening a touch as he looked down at her. Rules were expected, and a wordless nod followed the first, obvious one then the second. The third made him blink, surprised, and he opened his mouth like he might have questioned it but decided against it. If she was going to let him into her bed he wasn't going to dissuade her.

But of course she saved the most important for last. The one he knew was coming, and with it the anger he'd sensed in her from the moment she'd met him at the door of the clinic. He'd already had his second chance with her, with life...

"Yes." It was easy to agree now because he didn't want to ******** it up. He wanted to stay sober, clean. He wanted to continue writing music and recording. He wanted to stay with Lacey.

He wanted...

No.

"I understand." His fingers twitched at his sides with the want to wrap his arms around her but he didn't know how she'd take that right now. Though that didn't stop a flicker of a smile from tugging at his lips. "Did I mention you're really pretty when you threaten bodily harm?"

It was the reaction he'd been hoping for, half expecting, and he grinned down at her as she rolled her eyes up at him. Possibly the first real smile he'd cracked in a while, and it helped to erase a little of that lost, kicked puppy look he'd been wearing for...well, a while now. He'd seen that little tug at the corner of her lips, and it helped to loosen the hard knot of unknown and dread that had settled inside of him and roosted there since he'd kicked the meth sickness in the clinic.

And as she turned he did follow, though he didn't seem as at home or comfortable in this room as he used to be, back before. Before Mal, and before he, and just...before.

But it didn't really matter, because the sound of the zipper jerked Fletcher out of his self deprecating thoughts and back on the drummer as the dress she'd been wearing slid down tanned curves and present an awful lot of skin framed by black lacy. Now that's just not ******** fair at all..

He swallowed as he watched her, very aware of what he wanted to do but not knowing if he should, or was even allowed to at this point. And then, with that note about ******** other people he was even more confused and all of it showed in freckled features because he was now, and always had been, a completely open book.

Starving men looked at food the way he was looking at Lacey.

It was a poisonous, sugary smile she leveled up at him and Fletcher hardly managed to reign in a whimper as he padded quietly across the room to where she was leaning in the door of the closet. But he didn't touch, still. His hands sunk deep into his pockets, closed tight enough he could feel his nails digging into his own palms.

It was a tease, and a test, and maybe even a trick, and because he wasn't in the least bit certain of which he didn't have a clue what to do about it.

"Yes," he answered honestly, and it could have been to the question itself or the implied innuendo. Shoulders rounded, he leaned against the wall beside her, socked toes curling into the carpet.

"Thank you." It'd been there on the back of his tongue since she picked him up, just waiting to come out. Needing to come out. There was subtext in those two little words for miles. Thank you. For finding him, for saving him, for pushing him to clean up his act, and after all of that, all the pain and trouble he had to have caused her, for being there when he got out and taking care of him. "For everything."

She sighed and Fletcher tensed. That was the wrong thing to say. He'd been in her house for less than an hour and he'd already managed to ******** up and piss her off.

Except...maybe not?

He watched her arms loosen and lift out from her body in an invitation and ginger brows furrowed as he pulled his gaze up to her face. He only hesitated a second, as if he half expected her to change her mind, but when she didn't, arms still stretched out and open for him he took the invitation.

Lacey was a tiny thing, curvy but petite, and Fletcher pulled her into his arms with the sort of desperation reserved for people clinging to life preserver in the middle of the ocean. God, he'd missed her. He'd missed the way she felt pressed against him and the smell of her hair, her skin. She felt so warm.

He'd stooped to curl his arms under her's, and after a moment he straightened again, lifting her right off the ground as he held her too him, half turning to rest his back against the wall. He'd pressed his face into the crock of her neck so with every deep breath he drew her in, replacing the to sterile smell of the clinic that'd filled his senses for months now.

If she'd let him Fletcher would have stood there holding her for hours. Soaking in the warmth of soft skin, soft curves.

When he'd been at his worse, the lowest of the low, there'd been others. Meaningless dalliances that'd served only to temporarily scratch an itch, but they'd been empty, disappointing things. Unsatisfying.

He'd worried that he'd forget what she felt like, what he felt like, but how could he ever forget? They fit together like puzzle pieces, and just holding her against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, drained what was left of the tension tightening his body.

Well, most of it.

The tap made him blink, drawing slowly from the warmth of her neck to meet violet eyes, obedient. Arms tightening around her.

Baby blues never left her face as he waited for her to do or say whatever it was she wanted to say to him. Despite the tight, almost desperate grip his expression was one of endless patience. There was no demand from Fletcher, no entitlement or possession. It'd always been that way, from that first meeting with Mal, to the day they'd found Lacey and she'd joined them as more than just a band mate.

Especially with Lacey and Malaise.

Her hands were a warm weight at the sides of his neck, and he tipped his had just to feel them resting there.

When she sighed he thought for sure it'd be followed by a request to set her down and that would have been alright. She'd let him have this, it was more than he'd been expecting. He couldn't blame her for the anger he knew she still carried for him.

But she didn't ask him to set her down. Fletcher blinked at her, surprised at the permission she was giving him. But surprise wasn't enough to keep him from dipping his head to catch her lips in needy kiss. He remembered how it felt to lay with her tucked in against his side, her head pillowed on his arm. He remembered the taste of her kiss and the way her hips felt in his hands when she moved. It was all so painfully familiar and he just wanted some sliver of that all back. Needed it.

He wouldn't never drop her, but he would let his back slide against the wall until he was sitting beside the open closet door with Lacey in his lap, those lovely legs still wrapped around his waist. His knees weak and his head buzzing.

And he absolutely knew the rules, was content with them. The rules were like a security blanket he could pull around himself when things became complicated or confusing. The rules were simple, and for as complicated as Fletcher's music was, or as ******** up as he'd made his life, he still longed for simple.

Or maybe he just liked being told what to do, found comfort in having his choices made for him. It'd keep him from ******** up.

Again.

God, please let it keep him from ******** up.

He let his arms loosen now that she was in his lap, hands slipping down to cup the familiar curves of her hips, thumbs brushing along the lacy tops of the panties. When he'd gotten past the sickness, when the reality of what had happened had finally settled over him like a cold water rising around his feet, he'd wondered if he'd ever get the chance to do this again, to hold her like this again.