"Strip."

Yeah.  Right.  And then for my second trick I'll wind back my watch and start the day afresh.

Stupid fucker.

Just because everything's stacked in his favour doesn't mean that I have to play nice...  Or bend over and take it.

I stare at Colton impassively, my cold-eyed gaze hopefully hiding the obliterating sense of dread I'm feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Fuck you," I hiss icily, not caring if I'm playing with fire.  Not caring whether I live or die either for that matter.  He shoots me, I'm dead.  Sam dies and I might as well go into the ground with him.  Save on the burial costs that way.

Assuming -- hoping, praying -- Sam's still alive.

"You're not in the position to make promises you can't keep, Mr Keel," Colton smirks, his close-set eyes glittering with evil intent.  "Now, I'm only to tell you one more time before I lose my tempter and lodge another bullet in your partner.  He's still alive... for now.  It's quite ironic if you care to think about it.  You CI5 agents are so loyal to each other, a bit like stupid slobbering dogs really, blindly following the other and ending up in places where you've got no right to be sticking your noses, and now you hold your partner's life in your hands.  You play nice, he might live.  You push my buttons and what remains of his life will be spent in even greater pain than he's currently in.  Do I make myself clear, Mr Keel? Now that I've had my say, *strip*!"

Colton, like every petty criminal with delusions of grandeur, likes the sound of his own voice.  I think the sick bastard gets off on it.  Probably even talks to himself while jerking off.

I hesitate, not knowing what to do.  Do I believe him when he says Sam's still alive and play whatever games he has up his sleeve or do I dig my heels in, all but asking for death?

Under, for the extreme want of a better description, normal circumstances it would take more than staring down the barrel of a Smith & Wesson held in the hands of a borderline sociopath to make me seriously consider taking my clothes off.

This however in no way falls into the category of anything that could possibly be construed as normal.  Not even fucking close in fact.

The Smith & Wesson in Colton's podgy paw is *my* Smith & Wesson, and the same gun that was used to shoot Sam.  Colton's two henchman, both who have to be ex-forces and who'd be lucky to have an I.Q. point between them, could snap me like a twig.  There's no one home behind their eyes but that doesn't mean I'd be able to successfully take them on.  Although I can't see through their bulk I know that somewhere behind them, lying on the cold concrete floor, is Sam.  I also know that if he's not already dead then he's slowly bleeding to death.  Two shots hit him in the chest.  Two shots from my gun, the one I lost in a fight with a middle-aged fucker called Colton.

Christ.  As if my failure and humiliation wasn't complete already he now wants to add the icing on the cake by making me strip.

Great.  Just fucking fantastic.

There's a whole chapter in one of the many training manuals I've got littering the bookshelves at home devoted to the psychological impact of enforced nudity.  I almost wish now that I'd read it.

Okay, okay...  I take my clothes off and he stares and belittles me and... And what?

I don't want to know.

I really don't want to know.

"Not one for snap decisions are you, Mr Keel?" Colton queries conversationally, closing the distance that separates us and trailing the barrel of the gun down my cheek.  The feel of the cold metal causes me to involuntarily shiver.  I can't even look him in the eye.  If there wasn't a brick wall behind me I'd throw pride to the wind and take a step back.

"How do I know Sam's really still alive?" I demand loudly, moving my head away from the gun and forcing myself to glance at Colton.  Impotent rage mixes with the fear and worry, causing my knees to feel as though they want to give way beneath me.

"You can't stall for ever, Mr Keel," Colton replies, nonetheless stepping back and gesturing to his arguably house-trained rock apes.  "Jackson, Peters, show our friend here that his beloved partner is indeed still in the land of the living."

Jackson and Peters, proving that even brain dead thugs can be taught to obey orders, shift apart, allowing me to see the crumpled body of my partner. And the blood...  Oh God.  So much blood.  Swallowing the nausea I can feel rising in my throat, I watch with mounting horror as one of the men lumbers over to Sam and none too gently kicks him in the thigh.

"Oi!" I exclaim, outraged and wanting to do nothing more than run over to Sam and take him in my arms.  "Tell your pet gorilla to be a bit more careful!"

"You wanted to see whether your partner was still alive, Mr Keel," Colton responds cheerfully, calmly pointing the gun at my chest.  "You did not specify how you wanted this proven to you.  Look.  He moves, sluggishly I will admit, but he is however moving.  If you were to concentrate you could possibly even hear him moaning through the haze of pain in his head."

"You're dead!" I snarl, what little remains of my control fracturing at the hopelessness of the situation as I see that Colton's correct.  Sam *is* moving, if that's what you call trying to curl up into the foetal position. "You're fucking dead!  When I get my hands on you I'm..."

"Now, now, Mr Keel," Colton interrupts smugly.  "Once again you're attempting to make promises that you have no hope of keeping."

"Fuck you," I snap angrily.  "Fuck you and fuck your gorillas too!  Kill us and CI5 will be even more determined to chase your useless asses to the end of the Goddamn earth!"  I'm so worked up that if I was sure I'd reach him before he had time to pull the trigger I think I'd be able to kill him with my bare hands.

Colton makes 'tut-tutting' noises and shakes his head.  "Language, Mr Keel," he sighs melodramatically.  "And to think we mere plebs are led to believe CI5 are the best of the best.  Perhaps they are and it's just you two that are inept, is that it?  I'm sorry.  That's presumptuous of me.  Your partner, if he hadn't changed direction to save you, seemed to have everything under control.  That in turn leads me to believe that it must just be yourself bringing the good name of CI5 down..."

That hurts.

And the reason it hurts is because it's true.

If I hadn't been distracted by the cat or whatever it was running along the warehouse floor Colton wouldn't have been able to catch me by surprise.

It's all my fault.

I got into trouble.  Colton got my gun.  Sam came to rescue me.  Colton shot Sam.

Simple.

Sam's going to die and it's all my fucking fault!

Is there any wonder I don't particularly care if Colton kills me?

"I..." I have nothing left to say and Colton knows it.  He's so weasely that he can most likely smell my defeat in the air.

"You're really trying my patience, Mr Keel," Colton states, the tone of his voice darkening.  "I can see that you know things are hopeless but I don't know whether you are truly aware just how utterly hopeless they really are. As you know, I know how CI5 operate.  Radio contact between yourself and base is down and by my reckoning the cavalry will be beating down the door in a little over thirty minutes.  The helicopter that will take my men and I far away from here will be here in just less than thirty minutes.  Allow me to do the math for you, Mr Keel, that gives me twenty-five minutes for you to earn your partner the best chance of survival he has.  You behave and Jackson and Peters will leave him alone.  You play games and I let them kick him around a bit.  Think about it.  You don't want your partner's bleeding body to be used as a football by my, as you call them, gorillas, now do you?"

"No," I whisper, not even having to think about my answer.  Colton's right. About everything.  CI5 are probably in the process of mobilising right at this very moment but it will still take a while for them to get here.  They know where we were going, to the disused warehouse on the docks where intelligence thought Colton was storing the drugs, but it was only supposed to be a surveillance mission.  Colton wasn't supposed to be here.

Fuck!  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

What a Goddamn fucking disaster.

"I take it then, Mr Keel, that you are ready to play nice?" Colton prompts, making a point of tapping the gun on his watch.  "Time is of the essence I hope you realise."

"Yeah, whatever," I sigh defeatedly, reaching for the buttons on my shirt. There's nothing else for me to do, I *have* to play Colton's nefarious games in exchange for any hope Sam has of surviving.

"Good boy," Colton murmurs condescendingly.  "You may be slow but at least you finally made the right decision."

I ignore him, wearily accepting that getting angry isn't going to achieve anything and resigning myself to what's to come.  He's not going to kill me, I know that.  It's true that Colton, ex-DI Aaron Colton of Special Branch, knows how CI5 operates.  Just as he knows if they have dead agents on their hands that they'll move heaven and earth until they have justice.  No.  Not justice.  Retribution.  They won't stop until they have Colton's lifeless body on a slab in a morgue somewhere.  The death of an agent is not taken lightly.  Torture, assault... rape... however comes part and parcel with the badge and gun license.  We survive, we get the best treatment money can buy until we're suitably patched up and ready to fight another battle.  Justice will still be sought, only not so fervently.

Rape.

Is that what he's got in mind?

Oh well.  So be it.  I'm fucked as it is so why not take it to its logical conclusion.

My fingers not wanting to obey my command to work, it seems to take me ages to undo my shirt.  Colton for once remains silent, his beady eyes watching me intently, his thin lips pressed into a smirk.

A bullet would be too good for the bastard.  Right now my loathing for him knows no bounds.  His blood, still warm as it flows out of his dying body, on my hands would be like Christmas coming early.

I undress quickly, forcing my fingers to do as they're told.  Colton doesn't want a strip show; he just wants me naked and vulnerable.  His gaze on my bare chest as I throw my shirt to the floor makes my skin crawl even before I bend down to take off my shoes.  Jackson and Peters are watching too.  I'm not shy but I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

Shoes off, I pull my socks off as well before straightening and reaching for my belt.  Just because I don't feel it doesn't mean I can't at least *pretend* to be in control.  Inanely, as I undo my belt and unzip the fly of my jeans, I'm struck by the thought that I hope I'm not wearing embarrassing underwear.  Not that it'd matter a damn, but I just don't want to give them any more ammunition than I have to.

Pushing my jeans down, I suppress a sigh of relief when I see I'm wearing a pair of black cotton 2X(ist) briefs.  Silly, I know, but at the moment I'll take any hint of a silver lining that I can get.  Bending down, I pull my jeans fully off and kick them across the floor to join my shirt.  Knowing that I have to I then, without pausing to have second thoughts, swiftly take off my briefs.

Naked in the cold air, my body reacts accordingly.  Some parts stand to attention while others shrivel.  I tell myself it's only natural, that I can't help it, and defiantly lift my head to look Colton in the eye.

Oh God...

Gross.

He's leering at me.  Please don't tell me he likes what he sees.

Come on.  Get it over with.  Turn me around and make me grab my ankles. Insult me.  Laugh and point.  Whatever.  Just fucking get on with it!

"Very nice," Colton purrs appreciatively, his eyes roaming across my body. "Very nice indeed, Mr Keel.  I can see that what you lack in intelligence is made up for in beauty.  Beautiful but stupid, your life would nonetheless be

easier than that of the ugly but intelligent.  Tell me...  How did you manage to get into CI5?  Did you allow Malone to sodomise you in exchange for becoming one of the chosen ones?"

Wonderful.  He's just managed to make everything just that little bit worse. Urgh.  What an awful mental image.

"CI5 headhunted me," I mutter, shrugging insolently.  "Believe it or don't, I don't really care."

"I do find that incredibly difficult to believe, Mr Keel, I must admit," Colton replies, suddenly gesturing for his gorillas to close in on me. "Cuff his arms behind his back and put him on his knees," he commands as I'm grabbed roughly by the shoulders and my arms are wrenched painfully behind my back.  Metal cuffs, warmed by being in Jackson's -- I think -- pocket, are then snapped tightly around my wrists.  Quite frankly I don't know why they're bothering.  It's not like I'm going anywhere.  A booted foot kicking me in the back of the knees sends me toppling inelegantly to the floor. I've barely had time to catch my breath before I'm being dragged into a kneeling position, my face on level with Colton's flabby paunch.

My heart beats a tattoo of disgust as he reaches down and unzips his fly. The cock he lovingly pulls out very nearly makes me laugh.  If not for the dull sense of self-preservation still coursing through my veins I would have.  Typical though.  I think there's a correlation between having a small cock and suffering from extreme delusions of grandeur.

I know what he expects but don't so much as move a muscle.  He'll have to tell me.  Although I know it's inevitable I want him to command me to take his cock in my mouth.  Again it's only a small thing, but I don't want to be seen as though I'm -- God forbid -- doing it willingly.

"Go on, I think you know what to do," Colton grunts, pushing his half-erect and still tiny cock further in my face.  "Blow me or I lose interest and watch Jackson and Peters kick what's left of your partner."

"You sure say the nicest things," I murmur facetiously before, with extreme reluctance, doing what I'm told.  His cock at least is clean.  I note this clinically, trying to do everything in my power to detach from what's happening, what I'm being made to do.  Nothing works though.  I've got the cock of a man I despise in my mouth and there's nothing I can do to escape it.  Although I know how to pleasure a man I don't waste any expertise or effort in blowing Colton.  It's hard enough controlling the desire to bite the bastard without actually having to think about what I'm doing.

"Oh yeah...  You're good," Colton grunts, thrusting blindly into my mouth. If he was even a normal size he'd be choking me, but he's not.  Small cock for a small man.  "Should have known really.  The beautiful ones always know what they're doing.  It's what gets them through life.  You are good though, I'll grant you that.  Know what you're doing too.  I don't like men as a rule; prefer a nice juicy cunt and a big pair of titties to grab on to myself.  If I closed my eyes though you could be anyone.  I'm not going to however, the look of hatred in your eyes is actually adding to the experience.  You really loathe me, don't you?  Good.  Do you know I once tried out for CI5 and the bastards knocked me back?  You lot think you're all so fucking perfect.  Well let me tell you..."

For fuck's sake!  On and on and on he goes.  Prattle, prattle, prattle.  So he's humiliating me because CI5 humiliated him.  Excellent.  Good to know. Drowning Colton's ravings out, I suck that little harder and pray that the combined effort of my mouth and the sound of his own voice is bringing him to the edge of completion.  To my relief it appears to be working and I sense that he's near climax.

Hallelujah.

Not wanting him coming in my mouth, I try to pull back but rough hands closing around my shoulders hold me firmly in place.  I struggle but it's to no avail.  His seed spills hotly onto my tongue.  I start to gag, wanting to spit it out.  The same rough hands clamp down over my mouth and nose, forcing me to either swallow or black out.  Lack of air makes me panicky.  I swallow harshly, his taste burning a path down my throat.  He tastes like acid.  I now hate him more than ever, knowing that I'll forever carry his taste in me.

Their task completed successfully, Jackson and Peters abruptly release me and I slump to the floor, retching pathetically.  It's too late though. There's nothing left in my mouth.  For the first time I want to cry.

Sam...  Oh God...  I'm so sorry.  I'm sorry for everything.  Please don't die.  Even if you don't want to have anything to do with me ever again you've got to live!  Please...  I need you live.  I can't have your death on my conscience as well as this.  I just can't.

"My compliments, Mr Keel," Colton states grandly, zipping himself back up. "You really are a man of hidden talents.  Hidden talents that I insist you must share with my men here.  By my watch we still have fifteen minutes, plenty of time."

What?

You've got to be fucking kidding me.  CI5 fucked Colton over and he's fucked me over in return, isn't that enough...

No.  Obviously not.  The hands dragging me once again into a kneeling position and the already erect cock appearing in front of me tells me that no, it's not enough.

"Liked what you saw I take it," I sneer, glaring up at the man I think is Peters.

"Shut up and suck, faggot!" Peters grunts, truly eruditely as Jackson takes matters into his own hands.  Hitting me on the back of the head, I lurch forward and up nose deep in Peters' pubic hair.

Fine.  I can do this.

And I do.  I blow both of them while Colton watches.  For once he's silent. Either he's ran out of things to say or, and this is more likely, he knows he won't be heard over all of the grunting and groaning coming out of his gorillas.  They've both watched far too many pornos in their time, that's for sure.  Not being as... special... as their boss, Jackson and Peters aren't allowed the honour of coming in my mouth and instead make a performance over shooting all over my neck and chest.  Watching their seed drip and slide down my body is almost worse than having had to swallow Colton's.

I'm now too numb to even want to cry.

My mouth tastes like a sewer and my knees are so cold that I can longer feel them.

Please...  Leave me alone now.  You've all had your fun now just fuck off and leave me alone with my shame.

"Hmm...  Five minutes to go until the helicopter arrives," Colton murmurs, walking over and standing above me.  "What shall we do?  Aaah...  I know!" he exclaims, smiling triumphantly.  "It's only fair that we return the wonderful favour Mr Keel's just so generously shared with us all, don't you agree men?"

I have *got* to stop thinking things can't get worse.

"I ain't blowin' him," Jackson scowls, glowering at me, disgust written all over his piggy face.

Colton shrugs, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at me.  "Bring him off by hand then," he mutters, "It's of no consequence to me how you do it, so long as you do it."

His orders given, Colton steps back and waits for his gorillas to obey.  He doesn't have to wait long.  Peters grabs me under the arms and hauls me upright while Jackson stalks over to a metal column running from the floor to the ceiling.  Apparently sharing the same thought, Peters laughs approvingly and drags me across to the column.  My defeat all-consuming, I put up no defence.

What will be will be.

The cuff is taken off my left wrist and I'm pushed hard up against the column before my wrists are re-cuffed behind me.  I'm now on display for all to see.  I can see Sam but don't even know if he's still alive

Jackson and Peters, who don't appear to have mastered the game of 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' hesitate over who's going to draw the short straw and do as Colton's commanded.  It'd be an outright lie to say I cared who loses.

"Honestly!" Colton explains impatiently, striding over and standing directly in front of me.  "You two are really quite pathetic," he adds, scowling at his men.  "Surely you both know all there is to know about hand jobs!"  With that, and without waiting for a response, Colton reaches out and grabs my cock in the palm of his hand.  He squeezes and rubs it, all the time looking at me smugly, as I fight arousal with every fibre of my body.  Not even knowing it's reflexive makes me want to give the bastard the satisfaction. His touch is neither gentle nor too rough.  He knows what it is he's doing.

"By fighting you are merely extending my own pleasure Mr Keel," Colton murmurs, smiling.  "The longer you hold off the longer your torture continues and the more I get out of the experience.  Think about it.  You know I'm right," he continues, all the time slowly jerking me off.

He's right.

Again.

Fighting him is achieving nothing.  He'll enjoy himself whatever I do.

Closing my eyes, I give up control and am hard within moments.  For a second I toy with imagining that it's Sam touching me but quickly push the idea out of my mind.  Dragging what we have... *had*... into this sordid arena is just wrong.  Given that I know it will now be a thing of the past I can't tarnish the precious memories that are all I'm going to be left with.

Control gone, it doesn't take much to bring me to climax.  I come silently, my seed joining that which already on my chest.  There's none of the familiar pleasure.  Colton laughs and he wipes his hand across my thigh.  I don't even have it in me to open my eyes and look at him.  They're going to leave me here to be found like this, I know it.  The final touch.

The sound of the helicopter arriving is like music to my ears.  I listen to the sounds of footsteps running across the concrete floor until I can no longer hear them.  Only then, with the hum of the helicopter rising overhead, do I open my eyes and look over to Sam.

My relief at seeing that his chest is still rising and falling as he breathes laboriously is muted by the fact that his eyes are open and he's staring at me.

Me...

His partner and lover...  Seemingly uninjured yet strung up naked like some sort of scarecrow and covered in semen.

A lone tear falls down my cheek as I see through myself through his eyes.

I told you Sam...

I told you loving me was a mistake, that I'd only let you down...

~*~

Slumping heavily in the proffered chair, I avoid the paid for gleam of concern in the psychiatrist's pale blue eyes and sigh loudly.  "Okay, let's get this over and done with," I state dismissively as Dr Jenkins shuts the door and takes a seat behind his pretentious mahogany desk.  "I have places I'd rather be."

"Such as?" Jenkins queries calmly, his Mont Blanc fountain pen poised over his sheet of crisp white paper.  "Where would you rather be, Mr Keel?"

"Call me Chris," I mutter, not adding that being called Mr Keel reminds me of Colton.

"Okay then, *Chris*, where would you rather be?" Jenkins' repeats, watching me closely and writing something no doubt telling about my posture on his paper.

"My partner is fighting for his life in surgery," I scowl, annoyed at the stupidity of his question. "I'd rather be in the waiting room waiting for the doctor to tell me whether he's going to make it or not.  Where do you think I'd rather be?"

"I can arrange for news to brought here as soon as there is some," Jenkins replies smoothly, hoping to placate me.  "Would that assist in making you feel more at ease?"

"No," I reply bluntly, "It wouldn't."

It goes without saying that I really don't want to be here.  I argued, that this was nothing but an exercise in pointless futility, but Malone insisted. So here I am.  Being assessed.  Again.  If I had a car for every time I've had to jump through hoops placed in front of me by psychiatrists I'd have a fleet to rival that of Avis'.

"What then would it take to make you relax, Chris?" Jenkins asks lightly, his years of training making feigning interest in me come to him naturally. When our session is up he'll complete his report and promptly forget about me.  I fail to see why I have to talk to him.  He means as little to me as I do to him.

"Nothing," I respond flatly, scrunching myself further into my seat. "Nothing will make me relax as I don't want to be here and should be there for my partner when he comes out of surgery.  This is merely wasting your time and mine."

I don't add that I would give everything I own for a hot shower and a toothbrush.  Close to two hours have past since we were rescued from the warehouse and I still haven't been allowed the time to shower and clean my teeth.  Dried semen still clings uncomfortably to my chest and I can still taste Colton in my mouth.  I feel disgusting.  And the fucking medical I had to endure didn't help either.

I'm beginning to think that somewhere along the line I suffered a blow to the head and am now speaking in Latin.  No one listens to me.  I may as well be mute.  I told them that I wasn't raped but they insisted on performing an anal examination anyway.  It was like having salt rubbed into a still weeping wound.  When the young doctor with the latex gloves confirmed that while I was correct -- funny that -- in respect to not having been raped I nonetheless showed signs of not being... and let's use his exact words here... 'factory fresh'... I wanted yet again to disappear into thin air. It's now forever in my medical records and there's nothing I can do about.

Just like there's nothing I can do about erasing what took place today from my memory.  It's mine now, like a permanent tattoo.

"I do not believe this to be a waste of time," Jenkins replies, flashing me his practised smile.  "What happened today will be weighing heavily on your mind.  It will do you good to talk about it."

My -- not exactly factory fresh -- ass it'll do me good to talk about it.

"Talk about what?" I retort, making a point of yawning insolently as the psychiatrist makes another note on his paper.  "There's nothing to talk about."

"I beg to differ, Chris," Jenkins murmurs, fixing me with a cool stare, "You were raped..."

"God!  Doesn't anyone fucking listen to me?" I interrupt angrily.  "I wasn't raped!  Haven't you lot ever heard of communication?  Ask the doctor with the cold fingers, he can tell you.  I wasn't raped.  Trust me on this."

"You were made to perform sexual acts against your will," Jenkins responds calmly, unperturbed by my outburst.  "In the eye of the law that can still be construed as rape."

"Fuck the law," I snap, my temper rising by the second.  "Why can't you just accept that I wasn't raped?"  Pausing, I shake my head agitatedly and glare at the psychiatrist.  "Fine.  Put down denial in your notes or whatever it is that you're no doubt going to write whether it's the truth or not.  I simply don't care," I mutter querulously.

Jenkins once again ignores my outburst.  "You were made to perform three acts of fellatio against your will before being forced to climax yourself," he states gently, "It's only right that you'd be upset by..."

"Upset?" I snort, scowling at the doctor.  "It's in the past.  I'm alive, I'm not hurt and I don't want to be having this conversation.  It was only psychological and I'm strong enough to put it behind me."

"There's absolutely no need for you to be so defensive, Chris," Jenkins murmurs, moving his piece of paper to one side and starting on a fresh page. "Whatever you're feeling is perfectly okay.  I want you to know however that you were *forced* into pleasuring those men and that there is absolutely no reason for you to bring your own sexuality into doubt over what happened."

Christ.  This honestly can't be fucking happening.  Haven't I been through enough crap for one day?

"My sexuality?" I sneer, leaning forward and glaring at Jenkins. "You lot really don't communicate, do you?"

Jenkins blinks at me, confusion written over his face. "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand where you're..."

"My medical report!' I interrupt drily. "Don't know if it was written in quite these terms but it confirms that I'm not exactly factory fresh."

"Excuse me?  I really don't know what you're talking about," Jenkins replies, looking at me blankly.  He's so behind the eight ball that the fountain pen is motionless in his hand for the first time since he picked it up.

I sigh, disbelief at the situation doing nothing to calm my temper.  "I'm on the homo side of bisexual," I drawl matter-of-factly, "Or, to put it in your language, I'm a four on the Kinsey Scale.  I like men and I take it up the ass by choice.  I may not have wanted to, but I *knew* what it was I was doing.  If I'd wanted to I could have given them one of the best orgasms of their life.  But I didn't want to.  They forced themselves into my mouth and then jerked me off.  Shit happens.  I'm alive and I did what I had to do. And before you ask, I'd do it again. Is that clear enough for you or would you like me to explain it in a little more detail?"

There.  Now he's *really* got something to write up in his report.

What's more, I don't give a flying fuck.  There's only so much bullshit that I can take and today's quota is me done for the rest of the year.  I'm tired, I'm filthy, I can still feel the chill of the warehouse on my skin although I'm clothed, and I have nothing left to lose.

It's all gone.  Everything.

I'm not lying to Dr Jenkins so much as I am concealing the truth.  What I just told him is fact.  What I'm keeping to myself however is how useless... and used... I feel.  I did what I had to do to keep Sam alive and, yes, I *would* do it again if push came to shove.  It doesn't mean that I don't hate myself though.  By now everyone at CI5 will know.  Backup won't have told anyone about the state they found me in but Taylor will have.  I thought we were friends but he actually laughed as he uncuffed me.  If I hadn't been so desperate to pull my clothes on and to run over to Sam I would have hit him.  Bastard.

"Mr Keel... Chris...  I..." Jenkins stammers, obviously flustered, "I never knew..."

"And that's because it's none of your Goddamn business," I mutter, shrugging.  "What I do in my private time is my business and no one else's. I was merely telling you so you could stop bleating at me that being forced to suck a couple of cocks didn't make me gay, nothing more."

"Point taken," Jenkins replies, his composure quickly returning.  "Now that we're clear on that matter I'd still like to talk about how you're now feeling.  You were still rape... *violated*... against your will and that has to be affecting you."

"The thought of my partner nearly dying is effecting me more," I sigh, the desire to get up and simply walk out of the office becoming nearly overwhelming.  "Get over it doctor, I am."

"I have to insist we talk about this, Chris," Jenkins swiftly responds, his pen once more flying over the paper on the desk.  "Mr Malone was adamant that I be able to provide him with a clear report in respect to your mental state before declaring you fit for duty."

Ah.  So that's what this crap's really about.  I should have known.

"In that case I hereby declare call this meeting closed," I state coldly, standing up and making a beeline for the door.

"Chris!  I insist that you sit back down and think about what you're doing," Jenkins beseeches.  "You clearly don't know what it is you are doing.  If you walk out of here..."

"If I walk out of here you won't declare me fit for duty," I finish for him quietly, pausing by the door.  "I know exactly what it is I'm doing, Doctor. Put this in your report to Malone - I don't *want* to return to active duty. Not now and possibly not ever.  I'm a liability.  It's my fault Sam almost died today and I don't want the same fate to befall the next sucker who gets lumbered with me.  There's nothing you can say to change my mind, it's made up."

"I honestly don't believe you know what it is you're saying, Chris," Jenkins murmurs, putting his pen down and giving me his undivided attention.  "Why don't you take a night to sleep on it and come back tomorrow?  Everything will seem better in the light of a new day."

Opening the door, I shake my head and dredge up a wan smile to flash at Jenkins.  "No it won't," I state softly.  "Goodbye, Dr Jenkins, it's been a complete waste of time talking to you."  With that I step out of the office and into the corridor.  Jenkins calls after me but I ignore him and head in the direction of ICU and Sam.

Having been here far too many times, both as a patient and a visitor, I know my way around the Queen Victoria Hospital and it only takes me a couple of minutes to reach the intensive care unit.  Spotting Backup coming out of a room, I call her name and she turns to face me, her expression one of relief.

"Chris," she greets me warmly and squeezes my shoulder.  "Finished with the shrink already?  That was quick."

"Nothing to tell him" I mutter dismissively.  She'll find out soon enough that I've all but handed in my resignation and, gutlessly, I don't want to be the one to tell her.  "How's Sam?  When I got dragged away he was still in surgery."

"It was touch and go for a while," Backup replies softly.  "If he'd suffered any more trauma or we'd taken longer to get there it would have had a very different ending.  You'll be relieved to hear though that that's a moot point as given time and rehabilitation he should be able to return to full active duty.  While blood loss was an issue the bullets miraculously didn't pierce any major organs.  He'll be in hospital for a while and in pain, but he'll live."

"Thank God," I sigh, my relief lifting some of the weight off my shoulders. "I...  I don't know what I would have done if..."

"Shhh..." Backup interrupts gently.  "You don't have to say it.  You've been through enough for one day, Chris.  Why don't you come and see Sam for yourself before heading off home?  He's in the room just over there and isn't scheduled to wake for hours.  I'm going to stay here but I really think you could do with a rest."

I nod, not responding as I follow the direction of Backup's finger and hesitantly walk over to the door of Sam's room.  Machines monitor my partner's vital signs, and he's almost as white as the pillowcase, but he's alive.  I want to touch him but don't dare to.  Even unconscious I'm sure he wouldn't want me touching him.  Not now anyway.  I can't even kiss his cheek because my mouth is so tainted.

Sam...

Why did you make me love you?  I never wanted to.  I even fought against your presence in my life.  Why wouldn't you take no for an answer, huh?  I told you I wasn't worth the effort you were putting into catching me.  Yet you persisted, loved me regardless of my faults and somehow made me love you in return.

And now look where it's got us.  You're in a hospital bed after having nearly died and I'm...

And I'm freefalling.

Again.

~*~

"Keep the change," I murmur, handing the cab driver a twenty, thankful that I can finally see my own front door.  I don't know where the Nissan is, that Sam drove to the warehouse, and can but assume someone's driven it back to HQ.  Not that I particularly care.  Given how numb I feel I was actually relieved to have to catch a cab home.  I can't even remember the drive from the hospital and shudder to think what I would have been like behind the wheel.

"Are you sure mate?" the driver queries hopefully, barely disguising his glee at the prospect of a ten pound tip.

"I'm sure," I mutter, forcing myself to smile at the man as I open the door and start to get out.  It's only money, something -- unlike everything else -- I have in abundance.  "Thanks for the ride," I add blandly, shutting the door and waving cursorily at the driver.  He watches me as I slowly make my way to the front door before putting the cab in reverse and backing out of the driveway.  Pausing at the door, I watch him drive up the street until his backlights disappear from sight, wondering what he thought of his pale and silent passenger.  I'll say one thing for the cab driver, he's the first person I've met all day who didn't feel compelled to talk at me.  I ignored his comment about it being a beautiful spring day and he promptly shut up. For that alone he was worth the tip.

Ferreting my keys out of my pocket, I unlock the door and go inside.  Being home at an unusual time, my super intelligent, whiz-bang heating system hasn't turned itself on and my apartment feels like a morgue.  I start to shiver even before I've shut and locked the door.  Outside the sun is shining brightly and it is actually, as the cab driver said, a beautiful day.  A day to be enjoyed with friends and family, perfect picnic weather.

I wish I'd never woken up this morning.  Surely it would have been the best for everyone.  Sam wouldn't have been shot.  I wouldn't have been...

I wouldn't have been used like some sort of common whore.

That'll do.

It's better than the other words I can't get out of my head.

Used.  Abused.  Humiliated.  Violated.

Not wanting to think about the fact that my life has disintegrated around my ears, I move away from the door and slowly make my way up the stairs. Although I'm essentially uninjured I move like a very old man.  I have no life in me.  My bones ache almost as much as the hole in my chest where my heart used to be does.  As much as I long for a shower I don't have it in me to hurry.  It's only mid afternoon yet I feel as though I haven't slept for days.  If I sit down I doubt I'll get up again.

Reaching the top of the stairs, autopilot kicks in and sends me in the direction of the heating controls.  Overriding the timer, I turn the heat up almost as far as it will go.  Warm air immediately begins to blast out of the concealed vents but I can hardly feel it and still goosebumps prickle my skin.  Perhaps I'm destined to forever feel the chill of the warehouse.  In light of how low I feel it wouldn't surprise me.

Listlessly leaning my back up against the wall, I survey the living area and feel at a complete loss as to what to do.  I want a shower and I want to sleep but some invisible force field stops me from moving.  I'm in my home yet I feel like a stranger.  My belongings surround me but I derive no comfort from them.  I'm home, I'm safe, Sam's going to live... and I know that if I give into the tears I can feel welling in my eyes that I'll cry until I pass out.

I've never felt so alone.

After the wedding I had a constant stream of well meaning baby-sitters with me for what felt like weeks.  I was under constant supervision.  Even my trips to the bathroom were monitored and timed, lest I attempted something stupid.  At the time my lack of freedom annoyed me.  I thought, grief obliterating my ability for rational thinking, that all I wanted was to be alone.  Only now, now that I really am alone and have no one to turn to, do I realise that I was wrong.  To have someone with me now would be to have hope.

I wish Sam...

What's the fucking point?  Wishful thinking is only going to succeed in making me feel worse about things.  And God knows things are bad enough already.

Alone, dirty, cold, sore...  I'm like my own personal rain cloud of despair and misery.

Blinking away the tears, I spot the Churchill autobiography that Sam had been reading while I'd been watching television last week, causing a fresh injection of pain to shoot into me.  I can't remember what I'd been staring aimlessly at but I can recall with searing clarity the feel of Sam's arm around me as I snuggled against him on the sofa.  Although it mustn't have been easy he'd even mastered the art of turning the page single handedly so as to not disrupt me.  It had been a good night.  In hindsight I could even go so far as to call it precious.

The book opening the floodgates, everywhere I look I see signs of Sam's presence in my apartment and my life.  An issue of Time Magazine on the coffee table, the Dunoon mug with the alley-cats on it that he surprised me with one day sitting precariously close to the edge of the dining table, his leather jacket draped casually over the back of a chair, a slowly dying vase of lilies near the answering machine that I bought for no other reason than I knew they were Sam's favourite flowers.  Although I never wanted him to he's ingratiated himself into every aspect of my life.  I don't even want to think about how much of Sam I'll find in the bedroom and bathroom.  We made love in my bed last night.  I'll be able to smell him in the sheets.

Last night...  A lifetime ago.

I felt loved.  Clean.  Safe.  And very, very happy.

I should have said it.  I should have told him that I loved him, that despite my best intentions to the contrary I loved him with all my heart and soul.  He deserved to know.  Especially now.

Now that I'll never say it.

Wanting more than ever to slump down to the floor in a crumpled heap and cry, I force myself to get a grip and, logic not exactly being my strong point at the moment, rapidly come to the conclusion that I have to pack all signs of Sam away.  The shower can wait.  First I'll clean my apartment of anything that can taunt me and then I'll clean myself.  If I can't see anything to remind me of my partner I'll be able to put him out of my mind quicker.

Of course I will.

My new best -- and most likely *only* -- friend Denial says so.

Cold, bordering on clinical determination dictates that I start to move and I sluggishly push myself away from the wall, an eerie sense of calm descending on me.  Packing Sam's things away needs to be done and, really, the sooner the better.  It's for the best.  There's no other way of looking at it.  I won't have to deal with seeing what's no longer mine and it'll be done before Sam asks.  My mind made up, I throw myself into the task at hand like a man possessed.  Blanking my mind of all thoughts, I don't think about what I'm doing and just do it.  If I allowed myself to think about the items -- and their associated memories -- as I carefully pack them in boxes I know I'd break down.  Worthless though it might be, what little remains of my pride clings tenaciously to the fact that I'm still going, that while Colton's turned my world upside down he hasn't finished me.  I don't want to waste tears on the prick.  Knowing that I want to cry is going to be all that he's going to get out of me.

He's changed the course of my life and taken from me everything I took for granted, but he's not going to beat me.  If he thinks his little party trick in the warehouse is going to result in me becoming the pet project of CI5s army of in-house shrinks then he's going to be sadly mistaken.  Loss has caused me to change my life before and God knows I can do it again. Retreating is one of the rare things I'm actually good at.  Happy with my life, I hadn't wanted to ever do it again, but know that I can...

That I will.

That I have to.

It takes over an hour to hunt up all of Sam's belongings littered around my apartment.  Leaving no cupboard or drawer unopened, I even find a cookbook in the kitchen and a tie in the study of all places.  I even change the sheets, throwing them straight into the bin as opposed to washing them, and make the bed.  By the time I've finished there are two boxes and three full plastic bags neatly stacked at the bottom the stairs.  Walking wearily up the stairs I note dully that my apartment now looks as flat and as lifeless as I feel.

The fine-bone china mug with the illustrations of quaintly decrepit alley cats on the dining table is the only thing left to demonstrate Sam's presence in my life and I hesitate over what to do with it.  Through the void in my head I can still remember the shy, embarrassed expression on Sam's face as he surprised me with it and the way he'd all but held his breath as I unwrapped it.  "Well, you said you were a pussy cat," he'd murmured nervously as I'd laughed, touched by his gesture and loving him for having thought of me.  I don't want to see it at the moment but nor do I want to give it back.  It means too much to me, even now, to lose.

Deciding for the time being at least I'll wash it and hide behind the rest of my mugs in the kitchen, I pick it up, realising too late that I'm trembling.  The mug crashes to the floor, shattering on impact.  It's the equivalent of the straw that broke the camel's back.  I stare at the pieces, for a second barely able to comprehend what happened.

Idiot.  Complete and utter worthless fucking idiot.

I then, as it hits me that I can't do anything right, spin on my heels and bolt for the bedroom, my desire to shower and sleep now overwhelming. Reaching the bedroom, I throw the contents of drawers around searching for a pair of pyjama pants -- that I know have to be somewhere -- as I can feel myself becoming more and more dithery.  Finally locating the errant pants, and thus saving a whole two drawers from being emptied onto the floor, I grab a t-shirt from the pile by my feet and lurch into the en suite.

Clearly not up to multi-tasking at the moment, all I can think about is getting clean.  Dumping my sleepwear on the vanity unit, I turn the shower on and strip off my clothes.  I'm now shaking so badly that it takes me longer to undo my shirt than it did in the warehouse.  Once I'm naked I'm unsuccessful in avoiding my reflection in the mirror and end up staring at myself numbly.  I look, not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, fucked.  Completely fucked.  What flesh isn't pasty white is dirty grey with dust from the warehouse floor.  My eyes too look grey.

Colton called me beautiful.  Proof that he's not only stupid but blind as well.

Sam used to call me beautiful.  There were times when I almost believed him. He made me feel, in a true triumph of hope over experience, beautiful as he held me and whispered it in my ear.

They're both wrong though.  I'm not beautiful.  I'm trouble masquerading behind flesh and bone.  Always have been.

Biting back a whimper, I turn my back on my ghostly reflection and get into the shower.  The water is scalding but I hardly feel it.  Using the nailbrush and a whole bar of soap, I scrub myself clean.  Not even my cock, which I can't bring myself to look at, escapes the harsh treatment.  My chest and stomach are a livid, angry red colour by the time I've finished with them.  I feel no pain though.  As is becoming par for the course, I feel nothing.  Not the heat of the water or the sting of the self-imposed scratches, nothing.

Sensing the hot water running out, I turn the taps off and get out of the shower.  Grabbing a towel, I roughly dry myself and pull on my pyjamas, all the time keeping my back to the mirror.  Dressed, I turn my attention to my mouth and brush my teeth five times.  My gums start to bleed during the third time but I brush them twice more anyway, not caring that I'm spitting out blood.

Allegedly clean, I take a mouthful of water directly from of the tap and walk back into the bedroom.  Going over to the drawer in my bedside table, I retrieve the out-of-date bottle of sleeping pills from behind the now redundant condoms and lube and swiftly swallow two.  With brilliant sunlight streaming through the window I then crawl miserably into bed, desperately seeking oblivion.  Not having eaten anything since breakfast, the sleeping pills are fast acting and I've barely pulled the duvet over my head before I'm asleep.

It's easily the highlight of my day.