Chapter Text
I would go out into the world with this enormous hurt. And I have carried mine for so long I now know it's nothing special.
It's just the fall and the sound of her sirens. It's the agony of being human.
- Eileen Myles (Smile)
I
3.05 a.m.
It’s the end of the world. Or so they say. And you’re in a bar.
You've never been to Joe’s at this late hour but you had just spent the better part of your time since permanently closing down the station five hours ago, just walking around the city. You have never been the type to walk so aimlessly, always going somewhere on purpose, with purpose. You were also usually running too. For whatever reason your feet led you here and there didn't seem to be a good excuse to not indulge yourself for a little while.
But this isn't where you're seeing the end of everything. It’s more… the prologue of the ending. After all, seems fitting to say goodbye with top-shelf whiskey burning down your throat before the world burns the rest of you. You’re not much for poetry but that feels pretty damn poetic anyway.
If anybody were to ask you how you're feeling right now, you'd tell them that you're mad. You’re really fucking mad. You only just made Captain a few months ago and you've barely had a taste of that leadership, barely sunk your teeth in to leave your mark in this male-dominated field. There's no field to dominate now. And you know it's petty to be so mad about something as inconsequential as a promotion at work in the face of what’s happening now, but considering the things that you lost because of it, you figure you're entitled to be at least a little angry about it.
Because it is the end of the world, and it's just you on your fucking own. You don't know why that seems to surprise you upon realizing it but it does, as if there was some part of you that still hoped that at the end of everything, your mistakes wouldn't matter. But then you see Andy leaving with Jack, Vic with Travis and you know that both Dean and Ben are with their own families.
Why would any of them be here at all when they could be surrounded by love?
Your brother was the first person you thought of and your heart lurches painfully at the idea of where he could be right now. Is he safe? Should you go look for him? Would he even want you to find him, to spend the last few hours on earth together? Even with the impending apocalypse, would he really be willing to forget all that you both went through together with your father?
The answer is that you don't know, and that might just hurt a little worse than truly knowing for certain.
“Hi, white wine, please,” a familiar voice utters beside you and god, speaking of things that hurt a little worse.
You think about ignoring her presence, as if the very nearness of her doesn't affect you in the slightest. As if your body doesn't already immediately recognize just who it is that’s within your proximity. You think about pretending that she's not there but then you breathe in and her scent is all that invades so deep into your lungs that even the whisper of denial fucking suffocates you.
So you brace yourself before you turn your head to look and there she is, taking the seat beside you as if she's completely unaware that she has done it at all. It’s obvious that she doesn't even realize it. She looks much too relaxed, so oblivious and distracted by whatever thoughts are going through her mind as her fingers trail over the bar top in a lazy manner that has you flashing back to the hours that she did the same thing over the smooth expanse of your skin. You try not to scoff in disgust at how your body shudders at the phantom memory of her touch.
For a brief, singular moment, anger and resentment beat rebelliously in your chest at how she hasn't noticed you at all. Has she already forgotten what it's like to be near you? Forgotten everything about being with you? Has she forgotten you?
It has been months since you last saw each other, months since she last walked out of your apartment, slamming the door behind her. You stayed on the floor of your bedroom, sitting with your back against the door so you didn't see her leave—but you imagined her still crying when she finally stormed out, taking everything she ever left in your apartment with her, along with all the mangled pieces of your heart.
And you've seen her from time to time, brief glimpses whenever you dropped off a patient at the hospital. But you've always been so good at avoiding and running that she never even noticed you were there in the first place. Maybe that's how it is for her now. You pushed her away, ran away from her life so fast that you’re barely a speck in her memory.
The bartender catches your eye when he comes back with her drink, positing it in front of her. He gives you a look as if he’s remembering a similar moment in time and you don't blame him. He was there the night you met her, and you can't help but think about other events like yours that he has been unwittingly witness to. The funny part of it all is that it was most likely just another work night for him but for you, your world was never the same again.
Awkwardness starts to itch under your skin the longer that seconds pass by and you don't acknowledge her. Every inch of your body rages against you, screaming at you to just fucking say something. You pick up your drink, tipping your head back as you finish what remains inside the glass. A fire has been lit in your chest as you place your glass back, tapping on it to let the bartender know to pour you some more.
You turn to her while he does as you silently requested and you allow yourself a moment to watch her, following the smooth lines that her fingers make across the wooden surface. Her hands have always been breathtakingly graceful. She’s still distracted though, still tracing whatever imaginary map she's trying to traverse over the bar top.
Is she wishing that she’s back home in Italy? Is she wishing that she could be anywhere but here in godforsaken Seattle? Hell, you do too.
Your mouth opens when you realize that you have no idea how to actually start this. Even just saying her name seems too familiar, too intimate, too much like something you shouldn’t be able to say with any kind of ease. It’s while you’re deep in thought over what to say that she finally does notice you.
“Oh,” she softly murmurs, her brown eyes widening slightly at seeing you. But the shocked expression leaves her face and just as quickly, her guard comes back up, quicker than you have ever seen her do before. Her lips purse into a tight line. “Hello.”
As greetings go, it’s more cordial than you expect, more than you probably deserve, and you can’t help but scoff a quiet chuckle that she’s not immediately rearing back and away from you. “It really must be the end of the world if you're actually choosing to stay sitting next to me.”
Her eyes narrow at your reply and you watch as her jaw clenches tight. “I can still leave.”
You shrug your shoulders, averting your gaze as you pick up your drink. “You can,” you permit, taking a quick sip of the amber liquid. “I’m not going to stop you, and you probably shouldn't be spending what could very well be the last few hours of your existence next to someone you hate.”
“I don't hate you,” she replies, her frown deepening.
“Mm,” you chuckle, dark and heavy. The crooked smirk you give her is laced with mockery and you gain nothing but pleasure from the look in her eyes that tells you just how much it annoys her to see it. Good. That’ll teach her to ignore you. “Lying before an apocalypse? My my, Dr. DeLuca.”
Her gaze immediately moves to the glass in your hand. A suspicious glare takes over her face. “How much have you had to drink already?”
“Not enough,” you tell her, sighing in remorse before you down the rest of the whiskey. You raise your glass to the bartender, waiting until you see him nod in acknowledgement.
The bartender has your complete attention as he pours more alcohol. Maybe this should be your last and then you can go right back to your apartment like you planned on doing. This is meant to be the prologue of your last night on earth, not the entire story of it.
“Is this how you want to spend your final hours?” you hear her asking right after you make the decision. The judgement is ripe in her voice and you think, god, how fucking hypocritical.
“Isn't that why you're here?” is your retort, shaking your head when a faint blush spreads across her cheeks.
“I was just going to get a drink then go back to my apartment,” she attempts to explain and you know she means it too.
She’s not the type to get mind-numbingly drunk. But then again, neither are you and getting mind-numbingly drunk was exactly your plan. You just wanted to do it in the privacy of your own apartment where you can be alone and nobody will be around to pity you for not having anybody with you to see this through. So to discover that Carina has a similar plan is a little jarring to you.
“What about your brother?” you ask, realizing that she hasn't mentioned being with him at all.
You try to hold back your surprise when she huffs out a bitter chuckle. It sounds so strange coming from her. “He flew off a few days ago to be with the woman he loves.”
“Ah,” you murmur, watching as she finally takes the first sip of her wine. “Lucky for some, I guess.”
She chews the side of her bottom lip, letting out a breath before she turns to meet your stare. “Yes, lucky.”
You ignore the pointed gaze in her eyes. “How come you didn't fly back home?”
A strange look crosses her face and once again, it disappears before you can even make a comment about it. She shakes her head. “I was needed here,” she answers with a shrug. Carina looks around the bar. “Where’s Jack?”
You quickly look away from the sharp smile on her lips, feeling your cheeks heat up with shame. “With Andy.”
She hums, knowingly. “I see.”
“You see nothing.”
Her brown eyes flash angrily at your statement. She lets out a laugh so derisive that you feel a shudder run down your spine. Stupid fucking body. “No, Maya. Your problem was that I saw everything.”
You suck in a sharp breath. You hate how aggravatingly attractive that smug look on her face is when you don't respond right away. You hate it even more that she’s right. You really fucking hate it. “How's this for an idea? You drink your wine and I’ll drink my whiskey, and we just don't talk?”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes at you. “No talking? I am shocked that is what you want.” Despite the heat that curls in the pit of your belly, you don't let yourself react to her dig and so she nods.
“Fine.”
3.08 a.m.
At the sharp sink of her teeth in your neck, you let out a shameless groan.
“Not so hard,” you harshly tell her even though you know it's already too late to do so. You can already tell that your body’s going to be littered with marks that she will leave just for you. A shiver runs through you at the very thought that you are going to leave this earth forever branded by her.
“Why?” she rasps, dragging her tongue roughly up the side of your neck. “It's not like any of us are going to be alive to see any of it tomorrow.”
You concede to her reminder, digging your nails into her shoulder blades. Tipping your head back, you arch yourself into her as her mouth continues to journey along the column of your throat. Her hands are firm as they cup your breasts, making you moan at how recklessly rough she’s handling you. She blinds you with stars at the tight pinch of your hardened nipples between her fingers.
Her hips push suggestively against yours and you oblige her pointed hint by jumping up onto the sink behind you. Neither of you seem to really care anymore about the noises you're making together or the fact that you can definitely be heard outside of this very public bathroom. It's not even locked so anybody could very easily walk in on you both.
You don’t even really know how it happened, how you find yourself at the mercy of her stupid, glorious wine-soaked mouth and her stupid, fucking skillful hands. One moment you were getting up from your stool, to use the restroom and the next thing you knew, she was following you inside before the door could close behind you. All it took was one look into her eyes and here you are now, moaning and whimpering like some needy little thing that's never been touched so good in your entire life.
You think about persuading her to move into one of the stalls that you can lock behind you. But who really even cares about keeping decorum when the end of the world is so close? Your orgasm, hopefully, will be much closer than that. It’s been a few months since you were last together, before you fucked everything up between you. But it's clear that she still remembers your body so very well.
You can't wait to show her that you still remember her body too.
You suck in a breath when she effortlessly pops the button of your jeans, unzipping it just low enough to give her room to shove her hand down your underwear. She groans shamelessly into the crook of your neck at the touch of your wet heat, and god, isn't that just sweet music to your ears.
“Did you miss me, baby?” you ask her.
It's arrogant to ask that, you're more than aware. But the way she's touching you right now, you can feel just how much she desperately needs to be doing so. It's like she wants to crawl inside you, to fuse the both of you together somehow and god, if you could choose to die right now and in this moment, you would.
You think of future generations possibly finding you and Carina like this. How they would make up stories about the two of you. You wonder what they would say. Would they even try to find out the truth?
You bite down the whimper climbing the back of your throat as she answers you, tries to shut you up with her palm pressing solidly against you.
But your body is weak, always so fucking responsive to her touch. “Fuck,” you moan out, digging your nails into the back of her neck.
You hear her laugh, dark and smug, as she brushes her fingers through the damp curls of your pussy, tugging lightly at them. “It seems like maybe you were the one that missed me, Maya Bishop.”
You reach behind you, needing a spot to rest your hand and lean your weight on as her fingers glide easily between your drenched folds. Her hot panting breaths are sweeping across your collarbones when she pushes inside you and god, you can't help the filthy groan that escapes you then. It’s just one finger—just one long, slender digit—but you allow yourself a moment to savor the fact that Carina is inside you again, that she can feel you pulsing hot and fast around her. And you can feel the way you clench around her, tight and desperate and so fucking needy. Shit, you hate how needy you are.
Then she starts fucking you, and you mean fucking you in the sense that there is no tenderness to be found in the manner in which she pounds herself into you. Not that you were expecting it anyway. You welcome it. You're encouraging it. The noises that she’s making you let out are noises you've never, ever heard yourself make before. Something primal that she’s excavating from deep within you and you're giving it to her.
You've always known that she was capable of being with you like this, always knew that if she ever let herself do it, she could take you and wreck you at the same time. Just like she's doing now. She’s four fingers inside you and god, you feel so fucking full of her, so exquisitely stretched that you black out gasping breathless for a second.
You can tell that this is doing something to her too, from the way her own body is moving against you like she wishes that she can feel the way you are too, the way her teeth are sinking themselves to the plump flesh of your breast now like there’s something inside that she’s wanting to let out. And if your brain isn't already being fucked out of you, you'd be cognizant enough to touch her in return.
Your quaking legs are locked around her waist as she licks the glaring bite mark on your breast. You tighten your fingers in her hair when her mouth moves down to suck on your nipple, the pressure around it making it harden even more. Her hand on the small of your back pulls you closer to her just as she slows down the thrust of her fingers and she lets you feel every breathtaking inch of her fingers as they move in and out of you. She knows you're close, rubbing the base of her palm hard and unforgiving against your clit when she pushes back inside you.
A rumbling groan claws its way up and out your throat as your pussy stretches eagerly around her.
3.14 a.m.
Your legs are still shaking by the time you're taking your seat back at the bar.
There was no resistance in you when you realized that Carina was buttoning your jeans back up and straightening your shirt so that you'd look less like you had been fucked within an inch of your life, and you silently watched through orgasm-dazed eyes while she diligently washed her hands. Her eyes remained on you while she dried them. But before you could even utter a word about returning the favor, she walked right out of the bathroom. You had just about enough sense to not do something completely desperate, like asking her to come back.
And it shouldn't surprise you at all that she’s nowhere to be seen when you finally scramble enough energy to walk out yourself. You try to convince yourself that it doesn't sting that she left without even saying anything to you. Rejected and abandoned. Not even a simple ‘thank you’ for letting her fuck you the way she did. It's almost pathetic how much that actually turns you on even more.
So here you are, alone again and this time with your underwear completely drenched and ruined that you can barely sit still. You can barely focus through your cunt stubbornly throbbing between your legs, like it still needs more. Like you need more.
This has to be what rock bottom feels like, right?
A frustrated sigh escapes you as you run your fingers through your hair. It’s time to head back to the apartment. You need a cold shower or maybe you need to dig out some toys to spend the rest of this final night with. You snort at the thought of leaving the world with a bang.
Getting up from your stool, you pull out cash to leave for the drinks you had and as you do so, the bartender approaches you. “You don't actually need to do that, y'know. Seems kind of pointless now, right?”
You shrug. “Maybe,” you quietly murmur. “But pointless things still matter.”
Maybe he's right. Maybe things just don't matter anymore. What is the point in making sure you leave a 20% tip? Is it really going to make his night that you did it anyway? Is it really going to make much of a difference to him? To anyone? It’s not like he can take that 20% tip with him to wherever it is he’ll end up when all this is over.
But the end of the world shouldn't mean the lack of decency, the lack in taking care of others. You don't particularly believe in karma or whatever but it doesn't sit right with you to just leave as if this bar hasn't given you some of your best and worst memories. It doesn't feel right to think and act as if things have no meaning anymore just because time is limited.
Snatching up the glass you had left behind earlier, you tip back what remains of it, paying no mind to how it burns going down your throat. It pales in comparison to the heat of your orgasm that still lingers in your body. You set the glass back on the bar top, licking your lips and you give the bartender one final nod. “Thanks, Frankie.”
With that, you turn around and walk out of the bar.
3.16 a.m.
But you don't get very far.
You’ve barely pushed the door open when you see her there, standing across from you. She has her arms folded across her chest, a firm set to her lips, as if she has been waiting for you this entire time. As if you've been keeping her waiting. Her eyes meet yours, unapologetic for the way that she walked out on you. But you're not holding out for an apology anyway—especially not from her—despite the relief that goes through you at seeing her outside the bar. She must have caught that relief, her face softening as she lowers her arms to her sides.
You wonder if she has been waiting because she does want you to touch her, because there's some part of her that longs for you to be inside her again. She just didn't want it to be in the restroom of Emerald City. If that is indeed the reason, she's not telling you though.
Instead she gives you a pointed look, loaded with words that you somehow still understand and words that you don't. And then she's walking away and—well, you don’t even give it a second thought.
You follow right behind her.