Under the Blacklight.

She sleeps, a little bit of fuzz on her head and her thumb in her mouth, her ankles crossed and her face pressed against a little, purple horse. Brooke tugs the blanket up over her and runs a lone finger across her forehead. She's careful not to wake her. She looks so precious and breakable lying in that expensive crib. Brooke wants one. She wants that love and that need. God, she fucking wants one.

The little girl keeps sleeping, peacefully, and Brooke pulls away. The baby's leaving tomorrow with two good hearts- her own and Brooke's. And the brunette is so tied around the feeling of loss in her chest that she stares for a while, memorizes the tiny girl's face, wonders if she'll ever see her again. Knows she won't.

She steps back. She eases herself onto the couch and looks out the window. In a few long minutes, the front door clicks open. Brooke's eyes don't even flicker.

People always leave.

Peyton slides onto the couch beside her. She holds that careful position- just close enough to ache, but not close enough to ease it. She's perfected that position. She's chiseled and changed it into an art. Brooke's eyes remain focused, caught somewhere Peyton can't see. The blonde stills her fingers by her side.

Finally, after Peyton has curled her legs beneath her, has studied Brooke's far away look, has fallen just a centimeter further and she didn't think that was possible, Brooke turns her head toward the blonde. Her heart thumps a little faster, like always, and maybe forever.

They are so alone. So left out by a world composed of solid(rocky) relationships, and marriage and careers and love (cliches), and they're here, in their shared apartment with a borrowed baby, with borrowed time. They're utterly unconventional. Brooke knows what it feels like to feel forever- and she knows what it's like to lose it. She's worn, a bit scarred, and she's learned hesitation.

Peyton tilts her head to meet Brooke's eyes.

But sometimes they come back.

Brooke smiles an absentminded, sorrowful quirk of her mouth and leans forward, resting her cheek on Peyton's bony shoulder. She doesn't remember the time passed between them. Peyton doesn't pull, doesn't tug, just places her arm over Brooke's shoulder in that way no one else can. She has perfected her position.

Brooke leans in, closes her eyes, and drapes her arm across Peyton's stomach. A tiny ache blooms in her chest; it's almost tradition. Peyton smells like Lucas. Brooke knows she smells like baby powder. Brooke loves her desperately. Somewhere deep and torn, she wonders if it will always be like that.

"I want one." Brooke says, lips moving against Peyton's neck, her words muffled. The thought has been floating through her head for days. It means something else now.

"I know." Is the murmured reply. Peyton presses it into Brooke's soft hair. Here in this silent living room, that tiny life fast asleep, their desperate love entangling every emotion, Brooke tilts her head up, kisses Peyton on the lips softly. Peyton kisses her back, surprisingly, slides a couple fingers along her face. Brooke flushes.

"I forgot how it felt to kiss you." She breathes as she shifts positions, moving on top of the blonde girl. She's perfected this position. She leans back in, every kiss as soft and fragile as a single white petal, every movement illuminated by dim, warm lights and invading moonshine. She halts, suddenly, and bends her face into Peyton's neck, feels the girl's pulse racing against her cheek. Brooke chuckles a little.

"What?" Peyton murmurs, trying to get a look at her. Brooke shakes her head and pulls back. She stands and offers her hand.

"We have an audience." She smirks, tilting her head back to the child sleeping behind her. Peyton smiles her own tiny, amused smile. Brooke grabs her hand, yanks her up, and kisses her hard. "I love you, P. Sawyer." She states, she demands, as she presses kisses along Peyton's jaw.

"God, Brooke, I love you, too." Peyton manages, a lilt of laughter in her tone. They make it to the bedroom. No lights, no street noise, no loud silence. Nothing reminiscent of a lifetime of shielded feelings and smothered kisses. Nothing that needed to be quiet or calm or even controlled. Nothing hidden.

And, yet.

Brooke kisses Peyton beneath her ear. Tugs the girl closer, slides her leg over the blonde's. Peyton rolls even closer, burying her face in Brooke's dark hair. Its well past two in the morning. They're still fully clothed, fading off to sleep.

It's anticlimactic, honestly. It's anti-them and they know it. They embrace it. They wrap and tug and smother, because they've been separating for a long time. Because they need something different these days. Something final.

They've found it.

They've been Brooke. And. Peyton. for years.

Almost as long as they've been Brooke and Peyton.

But what they really need, what they really want, what they've managed for only a few short years, a few long, scattered moments, a few lifetimes of memories, is to be BrookeandPeyton.

They are, right now; and will be for longer than they know.