“What are we going to do?” Dean says, his hand firmly on Pascal's chest, spooning him. It's still in the dark of morning, but they can hear a rise in vehicles hitting the road, the heavy engines of buses. All of the windows are open, so gauging the time is easily done with the lively ambiance of city life.

“I didn't plan on doing this.” Pascal says, almost mournfully. “I have to go home.”

Pascal rolls out of bed, and heads straight for the closet, pulling out an assortment of ironed clothing with fluid precision.

“I'm sorry if this causes complications.”

“It's not your fault, Dean.” It was the last thing Pascal said before briskly leaving the apartment, still pulling up and putting on pieces of an opulent business suit as he turned the final door-knob.

Dean falls back asleep, and wakes up five hours later.

“I love you.” Dean says to his lonesome, sitting bedside, almost shocked that those words left his lips when they did, the catalyst for everything that unfolded, the jet-fuel for their atmospheric passion. Every movement was filled with years of emotional agony and guilt, guilt that spiraled into every single direction, with a multitude of reasons, all different, some polar opposites.

Yet they floated at times, a turbulent ocean stabilized by one single word.

It made three hours feel like five minutes.

Remember what you're here for. Dean is now sitting at the kitchen island, face stuffed into his palms, groaning with a thumping headache that constantly reminds him of the decision to rekindle the soldering bundle of plywood that was their relationship, now a burgeoning flame that will likely leave everyone in the vicinity with third degree burns.

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Dean grabs the first cup he sees, and fills it with faucet water, drinking it all and doing it again, submerging his feelings to the depths below like a bad baby-sitter.

He decides to do a little cleaning to meditate his mind which is now becoming lucid, the prospect of working on his groundbreaking story at this time fills him with a worry that he'll do something dumb and impulsive that'll cost him ten-fold in revisions, and so he stows it away. Starting with the bottles of alcohol strewn around, he stuffs them into the pantry, putting away the cleaned dishes, rubbing the tiled-floors with a washrag laced with soap. The blinds had collected an ample amount of dust, bits of charred food by the burners, nothing he can't handle.

After a good hour, he decompresses and goes to the single coffee machine, one that uses pods, no option for drip. Looking at his options for morning black, there's two, and a whole lot of them: five rows of coconut caramel crunch and highlander grogg. They taste sweet and he hasn't even brewed them yet. “I see your taste in coffee has stayed the same.” Dean says, it reminds him of the dual-occupancy dorm they shared for two years, non-stop caffeine heads, always something flavored.

He sits at the dining table, mug steaming coconut goodness that makes him feel younger. Dean wonders what Malcolm would say at this moment, likely something that's blunt, rude, and wise, all at the same time. And then he wonders for the first time what Pascal had in mind for him regarding the job, janitor or errand boy depending on his mood that day, he laughs.

The phone rings, and goes to voicemail. It's Margaret, and she's speaking like Pascal's ear is to the box, as if he's done this before, which equates in Dean's mind, to Pascal being derelict of duty, likely still at home and getting hell from Macy. The prospect of Pascal frequently having men over in his private-quarters, being this apartment, doesn't feel right to Dean, but it's clearly a possibility. Which spurs the question of Margaret's closeness to him, and how she even knows the number. Dean remembers a Macy from school, but doubts that his wife is that Macy, just by temperamental comparability alone, but goes entirely blank on a Margaret. Who is Margaret? He wonders.

“Damn-it.” Dean shakes his head, and realizes that it's time to get some air. Being alone often means getting lost in your thoughts, and sometimes your thoughts lead to no-where, and no-where means the bad ones probably have reservations.