Wearily cracking my eyes open, I take note of the almost blinding sunlight enveloping my room in a warm and welcoming glow and promptly shut them again.  Vampire-like, I then, with all the grace and speed of a beached whale, roll over and present my back to the window.  I don't want to know it's morning let alone that it's going to be yet another allegedly lovely day.  To hell with lovely days.  Given the abyss in my head it'll take more than sunlight and daffodils blowing gently in the warm spring breeze to make me view the day as anything other than twenty-four long hours that have to be endured and suffered through.

To my disappointment I feel more or less exactly the same as I did when I went to bed.  I've slept for something ridiculous like fifteen hours yet I still feel exhausted.  My head hurts and there's a gnawing, empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with being hungry.  I know it's not hunger because I only have to think of eating and my stomach churns.  Unlike my dreams, I remember, with picture perfect clarity, everything that took place yesterday.  If I dreamt at all last night the sleeping pills must have protected me from them.  I think I did dream though, given the state of the bedding and the fact that there's more of the duvet on the floor than there is on the bed, and am pathetically grateful for not being able to remember whatever horrors my subconscious felt compelled to inflict on me.  My life holding no real joys at the moment, I'll take what I can get, however small and insignificant.

I feel -- and why sugar coat it? -- wretched.  Colton may as well have fucked me yesterday as I honestly doubt it would have made me feel any worse about things.  I'll argue until I'm blue in the face that what happened wasn't rape, that I was in complete control throughout, but...

But I still feel used.  Tainted even.

Happy -- incredibly so -- with Sam, I'd thought my days of sex as a means to an end were well and truly over with.  Only now, now that it's gone, do I realise that I took what we had for granted.  Having lived vicariously through sex for too much of my adult life, Sam, as dumb ass as it sounds, made me feel special.  From the very beginning with him it was more than just sex.  He was the first person to love me before he fucked me.  I know this as surely as I do that Colton is a worthless piece of shit who'll one day get his.  Sam put up with me as I pulled myself together, he waited for me to stop fucking around (both literally and with my life in general) and he loved me.  The damn pig-headed fool simply wouldn't see sense and take no for an answer.  In the end he wore down my defences and never seemed anything but content with the human wreck he'd won through hard work and determination.

Sam was the forth person I've ever loved.  He was also the one I loved the most.  Where others would have taken a long hard look at my history and seen the light he fought for me and wouldn't back down.  His blind faith alone was enough to make me warm to him.  The others were all precious, but it's the memory of Sam I'll carry with me to the grave.  The memory not only of his love but also of how I failed him.

Cameron, I got sent to live with his loopy great-aunt in New Orleans, Stuart, I pushed to the edge of suicide, Teresa, I effectively got killed and, Sam, I got shot twice in the chest.  If I'm not a menace to those who love me then I don't what is.  Sam will live, but to me he's as dead as Teresa.  He has to be.  It's my fault he nearly died and, to add insult to injury, he witnessed my whoring.  It's not like I can blame him for hating me.  I'm a failure and a cheap slut thrown in for good measure.

Ironically I've now fulfilled the prophecy of Cameron's father.  He told me that I'd end up as a good for nothing whore and, well I never, it looks like he's right.  I corrupted his, in his mind anyway, pure and innocent son and now I'm paying the price.  If only he could see me now, he'd most likely laugh so hard that he'd be in danger of choking on his dentures.  Petty, arrogant, small-minded son of a bitch that he is.  Assuming of course he's still around and terrorising those unfortunate enough to be related to him. I bet he is still alive too.  Cantankerous bastards like him have the uncanny knack of outliving just about everyone.  Malone will live forever too.  It's just one of those things.

I was sixteen and still in high school when I met Cameron.  Having just moved to Chicago from New York he was fresh blood in a sea of familiar, boring faces.  My life one stifled by both money and the compulsion to conform, I still had people in my classes that I'd gone to kindergarten with.  Suffocating from the monotony of it all, I was drawn to Cameron like a moth to a flame.  Unlike my friends who I wouldn't have missed greatly if they'd been abducted en masse by aliens, he had an aura about him that I couldn't ignore.  Well developed for his age, he was taller than me with naturally sun bleached blond hair and a smile that caused my heart to flutter nervously in my chest every time it was flashed in my direction. All of the girls loved him.  Cathy Taylor, head bimbette of the cheerleading squad, all but stalked him she was so determined to have him.  Interestingly enough, to Cathy's eternal disgust, he ignored her and chose instead to hang around with me.  I was popular, sure, but I knew that wasn't why Cameron chose to spurn Cathy and her limber legs for my company.  We only had to look into each other's eyes to feel the sparks and knew instinctively that we wanted each other.  My long held to delusion that I was as straight as they come didn't survive Cameron's first month in town.

Cameron wasn't bisexual; he was gay, one hundred percent homosexual.  He didn't flaunt it but nor did he actively deny it.  I'd spent the last five years trying desperately to convince myself that my number one aim in life was the secrets contained in the naked female form but was slowly coming to the conclusion that I was fighting a losing battle.  The whole saga of trading my virginity in the year before for a couple of minutes of unsatisfying fumblings in Emily's bedroom didn't exactly compel me to go in search of a repeat performance.  Whether this was solely because she kept her bra on the whole time or because it was just a tad disconcerting being in a room covered by posters of Wham and Culture Club is probably one of those things I'll never know.  Either way the whole act pretty much left me cold.  When I masturbated my fantasies revolved around naked men far more than they did around naked females and I knew there was part of me that longed for my fantasies to be brought to reality.

I put up little resistance to my desires.  Being a spoilt only child I wasn't used to being denied and I wanted Cameron.  I wanted to touch his naked flesh and I wanted his lips on mine.  Confidence not being something I lacked, thanks to having both money and a childhood spent safe in the knowledge that the world *did* actually revolve around me, I was prepared to change the carefully plotted course of my life for him.  Wanting to be with another man, now that I was faced with the prospect of it actually happening, didn't bother me.  I was young and I was infatuated.  To put it another, blunter way, I was thinking pretty much solely with my cock.

Our relationship, such as it was, revolved around the physical side of things.  While we could talk easily to each other our conversations weren't exactly what you'd call deep and meaningful and we never talked about the 'Future'.  I loved Cameron for the liberation and the release he gave me but I was never naïve enough to attempt to base my future around him.  What we had together was fun and exciting but that's all it really was.  Being more assured of his sexuality than I was, Cameron took me under his wing and taught me in explicit detail how to pleasure another man.  Unlike most of my studies I threw myself whole-heartedly into his lessons and was a quick learner.  The first time Cameron kissed me effortlessly eclipsed my entire disastrous relationship with Emily.  Whenever we could get away we'd disappear into my room, only just remembering to lock the door in our haste to get into bed.  If the housekeeper thought anything about the state of my sheets then to the best of my knowledge she thankfully kept them to herself.

For just over three months we were close to inseparable.  One weekend, deciding that I was bored with doing it in my bedroom I insisted that we go back to Cameron's house.  We usually avoided his place because his father didn't like me but thought we'd be okay because he was meant to be at golf all day.  I was never anything but polite to Mr Shaw but we both knew he could barely tolerate me.  Stupidly enough I think, in the beginning anyway, that his dislike was governed by the misguided snobbery of old money versus new money.  The Shaw's were new money and something in his tiny brain told him that I was slumming it -- and no doubt feeling virtuous by doing so, a bit like participating in a community service program to help those less fortunate -- by being friends with his son.  Whatever his excuse was, I was never in Mr Shaw's good books.  I invited him to come to a BBQ at my parent's once and he replied that he'd rather crawl over broken glass than be sneered at by a pack of pretentious old snobs.  It was at that point that I ceased bothering.  Let's face it, it wasn't him I wanted to fool around naked with anyway.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, given that we were otherwise occupied, a storm broke while were in Cameron's bedroom and golf was cancelled.  Instead of doing the civilised thing and taking himself to the nineteenth hole for a drink with the others, Mr Shaw decided to go home.  He then, for no other reason than he *could* I think, decided to poke his head into Cameron's room.  Lying on my stomach at the time, I missed the expression on his face as he opened the door and saw his only son lying naked on his bed with another boy.  It's something I actually regret as I doubt priceless would have come close to describing the horror on his too tanned face.  I'm surprised he didn't just have a coronary on the spot.

Not exactly surprisingly, Mr Shaw went ballistic, absolutely fucking ballistic.  Pulling Cameron off the bed, he slapped him, around all the time ranting and raving that he was a disgrace to both the family and himself. I'd never seen anyone so angry before and, after hurriedly pulling the sheet over myself, cowered on the bed not knowing what to do.  At some point I realised that Mr Shaw blamed me personally for his son's 'disgusting habits' and simply let him rant at me, his words flying over my head.  I knew the truth just as I knew there was no point sharing it with the bigoted old asshole.  Eventually, his face bright red and with a vein throbbing ominously in his forehead, Mr Shaw informed me that I was destined to end up as a good for nothing whore and dragged Cameron out of the room.  Scared that he was going to come back for me, I swiftly pulled my clothes on and bolted out of the house.

It was the last time I ever saw Cameron.  Wanting to 'cure' his son, Mr Shaw packed him up and sent him to stay with his great-aunt in New Orleans.  Mr Shaw himself had been sent to stay with said aunt some thirty years earlier and he thought she'd have the same impact on Cameron as she had on him. Unfortunately for Mr Shaw she'd changed somewhat from the strict ex-head mistress that he knew and was too old to control an outraged and hormonal teenage boy.  Cameron turned to drugs and nearly died from an OD on his twentieth birthday before pulling himself together and going off to art school.

Not that I ever heard any of this from Cameron.  Oh-no.  Beyond the point of being persona non gratis at the Shaw's, Mr Shaw forced himself to phone my father in order to tell him that it was in my best interests to have no further contact with Cameron and that should any letters come from New Orleans they should be kept from me all costs.  Wanting to keep the truth quiet, he said it was because his son was unfortunately involved with drugs and that he wanted to protect me from the same fate.  My father fell hook, line and sinker for the bullshit and saw to it personally that the three letters Cameron wrote me were destroyed.  I found all this out from Sally, Cameron's younger sister after I'd finished high school and was preparing to join the navy.  Until then I'd had no idea what had happened to Cameron and in my most fanciful moments had all but convinced myself that his father had killed him.

If I hadn't insisted we go to his place Cameron's entire life would have been different.  I know I'm not to blame for his father's over-reaction but still feel guilty over what happened.  As for me, I missed him like crazy for the first couple of weeks after he'd disappeared but then pushed him to the back of my mind and got on with my life.  There was nothing else for me to do.  I couldn't tell my parents the true reason behind my depression and I lacked the courage to approach Mr Shaw in order to ask him about Cameron. And thus, in a truly farcical way, ended my first love.

Stuart Walker was my second love.  I was twenty when we met in a bar and shouted introductions over the thumping sound of some Madonna song.  He bought me a drink and I let him take me back to his apartment.  All I wanted from the evening was a fuck.  Having too much fun being single and fancy free, I wasn't looking for a relationship and didn't expect to ever see him again.  When he brought me breakfast in bed the following morning I was so touched though that I decided to give him a second chance.  Used to rolling out of the bed and grunting a farewell to the person, who's name I'd already forgotten (if I'd even ever known it in the first place) before slipping out the door and working out where the hell I was, being treated to breakfast was a pleasant surprise and made me warm to him.

My one night stand with Stuart turned into fifteen months of convenient love.  Stuart, with his puppy-dog eyes and careful touch, loved me far more than I loved him.  Don't get me wrong, in my own way I loved him, but just never passionately.  He was kind, loving, and giving... and just a tad on the suffocating side.  If marriage between two men was legal Stuart would have got down on bended knee and done his best to shove an engagement ring on my finger.  He wanted us to buy a house and grow old together.  He also wanted me to give up the navy and do something 'sensible'.  I think his dream was for me to study law like he was so one day we could open our own law firm together.

It rapidly reached the point where I literally couldn't stand it anymore. As comfortable and as happy as I was with him, I couldn't -- *wouldn't* --change the way he wanted me to.  I tried everything I could think of to let him down gently but nothing worked.  In the end, snapping, I had to shout a few home truths in his face.  I can still remember the expression of shock on his face.  And the way he cried.  The last thing I'd wanted was to hurt him, but I couldn't think of any other way to get it through to him that I wasn't the man for him.  Not that it would have sounded like it to Stuart, I honestly wanted the best for him and knew that he could do better than me. He needed someone to settle down with and that person wasn't me.  Breaking up hurt, but it had to be done - for both of us.

The day after I left Stuart he swallowed a packet or two of Tylenol.  If not for one of his college friends wondering why he'd missed class that day he would have died.  Thankfully his front door was unlocked and they walked in to find him passed out on the floor of the living room.  I went to see him in the hospital and he told me that I could shove my flowers up my ass and that if he ever saw me again it would be too soon.  Not wanting to risk further pushing his buttons I left the hospital and didn't see him again for another five months.  Happily he was with a new boyfriend, who he's incidentally still with, and we were able to speak civilly to each other to the point of now being on each other's Christmas card lists.

Deciding that my success rate with relationships was on the deplorable side of bad, I spent the next three years having one-night stands and convincing myself that I was getting everything out of life that I wanted.  Then, at the age of twenty-four, I met Teresa and the world as I knew it tilted on its axis.  She was beautiful and fun and I wanted to be with her.  Even the sex was great.  For the first time ever I felt connected with a woman.  I was still drawn to men but, not wanting to fuck up what I had, I ignored my desires.  Remarkably it wasn't difficult.  Her family being old navy stock like mine, in fact our fathers had even been at sea together before we'd been born, she knew what the life was like and how much it meant to me and never once suggested that I give it up.  I loved her with my whole heart. Being with her made me feel alive and, after sixteen months of going out, asking her to marry me was like the most natural thing in the universe. When she said yes I thought I was seriously in danger of exploding with happiness.

The wedding was meant to be the most perfect, the most *precious* day of my life.  Getting married on the lawns of the navy base had suited and pleased everyone.  There hadn't even been a debate over the location.  If there had been...  If only one person had had a different suggestion...

If only...

The day that was meant to be the happiest of my life holds the dubious honour of holding the record for most civilian casualties ever taken on a naval base during peacetime.  All because some idiot that had suddenly decided that he'd had enough of life had a key to the armoury.  I didn't even know Nichols.  I don't even think he knew there was a wedding taking place when he started his rampage, we were just the world's worst case of wrong place, wrong time.  Thousands and thousands of words have been wasted on dissecting the day but they'll never make sense of it.  Not that it matters.  No explanation can give me back what was taken from me.

Teresa died in my arms, my parents on the grass behind me.  Of all the people standing in front of the table I was the only one who wasn't shot. By the time it was finished, and Nichols had lodged the final bullet into his skull, I was covered in blood but physically uninjured.  My mind was AWOL but there wasn't so much as a scratch on my body.

Two years passed before I could feel again, another two on top of that before I let myself love again.

Sam, from the very beginning, was different from all my other loves.  For starters I didn't want a damn thing to do with him and secondly I actually fought his affection at every step.  God alone knows why, but he loved me before I could even accept that I so much as liked him and *didn't* actually want him to get the fuck out of my sorry excuse for a life.  Go figure.

To this very day I don't know what it is that drew Sam to me.  I know one thing for certain though, and that's that it sure as fuck wasn't my bright and bubbly personality.  Surly and apathetic, I was one small step away from being a complete asshole when I joined CI5.  Hell, I'm the first to admit my attitude was less than charming.  While I knew enough to know I wanted the change I didn't know what it was I was doing or what I really hoped to achieve from it.  Sick and tired of my stagnant existence in America, something in my mind told me that CI5s offer was about as good as it was going to get for me and that I'd be wise to accept it.  That however was as far as my thought process went.

For months the nicest thing I had to say about CI5 was at least they all predominantly kept to themselves.  My history not common knowledge, I wasn't confronted by token gestures of sympathy everywhere I turned and was able to just get on with it.  The months of training sucked, and I actually found myself homesick for the first half of it, but it kept me busy if nothing else and I was able to delude myself that my rash decision had been the right one to make.  Not caring what people thought of me, I kept to myself and focussed on my training.  I passed with flying colours but unlike the others didn't celebrate.  Given that I did nothing to dispel their view that I thought I was better than them, I don't think they missed me at the pub.

I wanted a change from the navy.  I wanted to work and I wanted to kid myself that I was able to make a difference.  I wanted action.  What I didn't want was people constantly patting me on the shoulder and asking whether I was okay.  Nor was I in a great hurry for friends either.  For what little it was worth, all I wanted was to get on with my life, with forgetting.  Distance, from both the States and others, I hoped would be my saviour.

I *didn't* want a partner.

Malone, who it scares me to think knows me better than either of us let on, insisted.  If I'd read my contract instead of just blithely signing it I would have seen that it was non-negotiable in my case.  I got a permanent partner assigned to me or I got to spend the rest of my career staring at computer monitors in the office.  Bill Gates not exactly having to worry in respect to my computer expertise, I had no other choice but to tetchily accept the fact I was being stuck with a shadow.  I did not accept this unwanted surprise with good grace and sulked for two days before reluctantly apologising to Malone and agreeing to meeting my partner.

If I had a first impression of Sam I don't remember it.  Truth be told I don't even remember much about our first six months together at all. I was stuck with him and that's all there was to it.  It didn't mean I had to feign interest in his life or learn anything about him.  We worked together, I grunted in response to his small talk, he ignored my moods and didn't, to my distinct displeasure, demand a change of partner.  Sam thanked me for saving his life.  I didn't thank him for saving mine.  We never actually fought, although I snapped and griped a lot, and I think now that Sam was cutting me a hell of a lot of slack.  He could have punched me in the face when I was in one of my petulant, whining Yank moods and I would have deserved it.  If he ever come close to hitting me though I never saw it.

Gradually it begun to take more effort to actively ignore Sam than it did to force myself to be polite to him.  He was there, he trusted me with his life, he was kind to me when he didn't have to be, and his eyes lit up when he saw me.  To my astonishment it slowly dawned on me that he wanted more from me than just a partner.  I knew he liked men because it was one of the first things that he told me that I actually remembered.  "Before you find out through some other source, I like men," he'd stated in a way that dared me to make an issue of it.  I even remember my reply as it was nothing short of truly inspired -- "Hooray for you.  Not that it's any of your fucking business, so do I.  Wow.  We have something in common.  How peachy is that..." -- and that I then abruptly walked out of the room.

Instead of feeling flattered by Sam's obvious interest I just felt annoyed. Quite fucked off really.  Not wanting the attention, I spent the next six or so months going out of my way to deflect it.  While talking to Sam would have been the civilised thing to do I chose instead to fuck around, ensuring that he couldn't keep up with amount of men and women I went through.  Sex was something I could do without having to think.  As selfish as it sounds I could do it without feeling a thing.  It killed time, little more.  I waited impatiently for him to express his disgust at my behaviour but he never did. It was almost as though he thought I'd eventually wear myself out and that he'd be the one to pick up the pieces.

Strangely enough, my wanton behaviour aside, my friendship with Sam during this time actually strengthened.  If I couldn't face the prospect of trawling a club for an anonymous fuck I knew I could join Sam in the pub for a drink and that he'd talk to me without ever sounding as though he was judging me.  Against my own self-imposed rules I found myself slowly growing thankful for having Sam in my life.  I still didn't *want* him, not in the way he seemed to want me (hell, I didn't want *anyone*), but was nonetheless pleased to call him my friend.

Eventually I tired of the sleeping around and in a true case of not thinking with what passes for my best came to the conclusion that I'd reward Sam for his loyalty by letting him sleep with me.  Clinically magnanimous had nothing on my way of thinking.  To me it made perfect sense.  Give Sam what he wanted, get the sex out of the way (because surely it was nothing but a case of desiring the seemingly unobtainable), and then we could go back to being partners and building our budding friendship.  He'd stop wanting me, I'd be able to stop deflecting him and all would be well.

Over two years on I still cringe when I think about the night I decided to put my plan into action.

Sam, blissful in his ignorance as to what I was planning for him, agreed to come to my motel room in order to discuss the case we were working on and how we were going to tackle the following day.  While we usually had these conversations in a secluded part of a bar it wasn't too out of the ordinary and I think it's safe to say that Sam wasn't expecting anything to happen. When he entered my room, which I'd left unlocked in anticipation -- "Just in case I'm still in the shower you can let yourself in..." -- I was waiting for him in the doorway to the bathroom, naked save for a towel I was holding loosely in front of myself.

Poor Sam.  Instead of drooling with delight at his 'surprise' he looked oddly mortified and stared at me blankly, the ability to speak having clearly deserted him.

Pushing my misgivings to the back of my mind, I, in a completely wanton gesture, casually dropped the towel and purred an offer that I didn't think he could refuse.

He did though.  Refuse that is, with much stammering and sighing and not looking at me.

Pissed, not to mention embarrassed, by his reaction, I launched into a diatribe and angrily informed him -- with the assistance of many expletives -- that I knew he wanted me and that I was offering him his only chance of bringing his dreams to reality.  "If you don't fucking want me then why are you always staring at me, huh?  Come on Sam!  Get your clothes off.  I'm here, you're here...  What are you fucking waiting for?"

I will never, not even if I live to one hundred and the rest of my memory is shot to shit, forget his response.  Never.  It simultaneously made me feel both like a fool *and* incredibly fortunate.

"Maybe I do want you, Chris, but not like this," he murmured softly, finally looking me in the eye.  "Perhaps I'm stupid enough to care about you when you clearly don't, and perhaps I might want to love you and offer you everything I have, but again, not like this.  Think about it, Chris, if not for me then for yourself, you're worth more than you think and you're just throwing your life away.  I want the person I know you're fighting hard to suppress, not just your body."

With that he left the room, leaving me feeling shell-shocked and more than a little ashamed.  Somehow, without even having been aware of it, Sam had gotten to know me better than I ever would have imagined.  My plan having backfired spectacularly I was left with no choice but to rethink my entire relationship with my partner.  Knowing that he didn't just want to fuck me changed everything.  Sex, given how little it meant to me, I'd convinced myself I could deal with, but actually wanting *me*?  I mean, huh?  Wanting me was like sending out an invitation for trouble and it threw me knowing that Sam was willing to take the risk.

We never spoke of that night.  Although I felt as though I ought to have apologised I kept quiet, not wanting to raise the subject, and life -- with a couple of minor changes -- continued.  I stopped sleeping around.  It wasn't doing anything exactly wonderful for me and nor was it having the impact on Sam that I'd been hoping for.  If he honestly wanted me then he seemed to want me whether I slept around or not.  Not that I would have expected it, our friendship actually improved after that night.  Perhaps I put more effort into not being a closed off asshole, I don't know.  What I do know though is that I was happier to be alive than I had in a very long time.  I wasn't ecstatic, and I was still moody, but I was definitely better than I had been.  I started to smile again, naturally and without having to force myself.  To me it was nothing short of a miracle.

Focussing all my attention on, once and for all, pulling myself together I forgot about Sam's interest in me.  He was my friend, I saw him almost every day and I was thankful for him.  I was too self-absorbed though to see that his eyes still lit up when he saw me and that he still wanted more from me than I was prepared to give him.  As far as I was concerned, just like when I left Stuart so he could get someone better suited to him than me, Sam really, *really* didn't want me.  Nasty things had a habit of befalling people I loved and I didn't want Sam to be sucked into my apparent curse as well.  We could be friends, and he could mean more to me than any other living person, but that's where it had to end.  I was adamant that nothing more would ever come of it.

So adamant in fact that when he surprised me by asking me out on a date I said yes without so much as second's hesitation.  The idea of a date -- as opposed to simply buying someone a drink or dinner in advance payment for the guaranteed sex afterwards -- obviously tickling my fancy, my determination to keep Sam at arms length flew out the window and I accepted gleefully.  Although I had second thoughts the moment my acceptance was out of my mouth. I couldn't bring myself to retract it or wriggle out of it. Sam had looked so pleased, not to mention relieved with my response that I didn't have it in me to disappoint him.  I told myself that surely one date wouldn't hurt and that I'd tell Sam why he'd really be better off directing his affections elsewhere.

It took six weeks and six dates to tell Sam everything.  I tried to get it all out during the first date but he kept eloquently dismissing my concerns and telling me that surely I was due a break.  My snorted response, that the most likely break would be one of his bones if he didn't quit while he was ahead, did nothing to deflect him.  In the end, so as not to ruin the entire meal, we simply agreed -- for the time being at least -- to differ.  This, in varying forms and locations, continued for six weeks.  It then reached breaking point in a grotty little motel room somewhere in the ass end of Texas.

I thought I was more determined than Sam, but I was wrong.  I thought I'd be able to convince him that he didn't want me, but I couldn't.  Everything I had to say he had an answer for, every excuse I had he dismissed.  Put on the spot and feeling cornered, I become agitated and started to shout and pace.  I was so loud that the family with the two squawking kids in the room next door banged on the wall.  Not impressed with their interruption to my last ditch effort to keep Sam away from me, I was in the process of yelling at them that *I'd* shut the fuck up so long as they ensured the same for their snotty nosed brats when Sam kissed me.  I was so shocked that it rendered me immediately speechless.

"You were saying?" he then inquired politely, his expression equal parts hopeful and amused.

Proving once more that I had a way with words, I promptly whispered, "Fuck you," before falling silent again.

"Only if you ask nicely," Sam replied with a smirk as his lips once again settled on mine.

Knowing when I was beaten, I kissed him back.  It was nicer than the shouting.  Far nicer.

Perhaps inevitably we ended up in bed.  It was even nicer than the kissing. Afterwards -- in one of the top ten embarrassing moments of my life -- I cried.  No.  Correction.  I didn't just cry, oh-no, no tears of joy escaped my eyes, I sobbed.  For the first time since the wedding, I lost control and gave in to my emotions.  I hadn't cried at the funerals, or the farewell party the SEALS threw for me, or even during the yearly anniversary of the wedding that wasn't, but I cried for Sam.  For his kindness and determination, for his faith in me and for the fact that he'd just made the worst mistake of his life.  I also cried for me, for the fact I hadn't been strong enough to push him way.

Sam never blinked an eyelid at my pathetic display.  If I was hoping my performance was going to send him fleeing it didn't work.  Not mind you that that was what I was hoping.  Fuck no.  That would have implied I was capable of conscious thought which, well, I wasn't.  He held me and rubbed my back while I gasped and wheezed and no doubt rambled stuff that made no sense whatsoever.  I should have woke with a splitting headache but I didn't.  I woke held tight in Sam's arms and for five blissful minutes felt at peace. Then what we'd done hit me and I couldn't get out of bed and into the bathroom fast enough.

This time we couldn't *not* talk about what had happened.  So we talked --*argued* -- until Sam kissed me again and we tumbled into bed.  I didn't cry the second time, which is something for which I'm eternally grateful. Having no case left to present and being unable to deny how much I enjoyed being with Sam, I wearily admitted defeat.  If he wanted me as his lover and as someone he could talk to then, fuck it, he could have me.  Didn't mean I had to love him in return though.

No.  Of course not.  I didn't *have* to love him.

But I did.  I never told him, but I did...  With all my tattered heart.  He gave me back the desire to live as opposed to merely existing and I loved him.

Fifteen months passed in a comfortable blur of happiness and contentment.  I even foolishly began to believe that everything, as Sam said it would be, *was* going to be okay.

"Come on Chris, you've already had your three strikes of bad luck, you're due the good stuff now," he'd say every time I was down and expressing doubts.

And look at us now.

I was right and Sam was wrong.

Hoo-fucking-ray for me.  If it didn't involve dragging my worthless ass out of bed I'd celebrate the fact that I've just fucked up again.

~*~

Fact of life one - Countdown sucks just as much with the volume turned off as it does with sound.  The letters I'm staring dully at mean so little to me that I doubt I could make a word out of them even if my life depended on it.  I'd change the channel only that would mean unfolding myself from my huddled position on the sofa and I simply can't be bothered.

Fact of life two - I still feel like shit.

Fact of life three - my answering machine is full and now the phone just rings out.  If I'd been thinking before I slumped down on the sofa I would have unplugged the silly bloody thing and saved myself the hassle of hearing it ring.  You could be mistaken for thinking I'm popular given the amount of calls I've had today.  Backup's called five times while the lord and master himself, Malone, Dr Jenkins and Spencer have all called once.  I've listened to the messages.  I have no intention of replying to any of them but I've heard them.  Seeing as I'm in the room with the phone I haven't really had any choice in the matter.

Malone wants to know what it is I think I'm playing at.  Spencer wants to know why I haven't dutifully called Malone back yet and Dr Jenkins *really* thinks that we should talk, that it would do me the *world* of good.

And Backup wants to mind her own damn business.

"Are you there, Chris?  Pick up if you are.  Okay...  I've heard what you said to Jenkins about not wanting to go back on active.  What's that all about, huh?  Call me when you wake up, get back in, whatever."

"Chris?  For God's sake Chris, pick up the phone!  Fine.  On the off chance you care Sam had a good night and the doctors are all saying that his signs are promising.  I'm assuming you want to know this, yeah?  Call me."

"Chris?  Is everything okay?  You haven't called me back and I'm beginning to get concerned.  Sam's awake and asking for you.  If you don't want to speak to me the least you could do is drag your sorry ass down to the hospital to see your partner."

"This is bullshit, Chris.  Where the fuck are you?  Sam wants to know where you and I don't have anything to tell him.  I think he's in a bad enough way already without me telling him that you've got AWOL, don't you?"

"Come on, Chris...  I know what happened yesterday was bad, but you've got to put it behind you.  Sam wants to see you and I want to talk to you. There's been...  There's been developments in the case.  Call me.  Please."

I'd bet good money that last phone call, the one the machine didn't pick up, was Backup calling again.  She can't help herself.  I'd be lying if I said I appreciated her concern though.  All I want is to be left the fuck alone.  I don't think, taking into consideration how *bad* yesterday was, that that's too much to ask.  If I had anything to say to anyone I'd pick up the phone and speak to them.  But I don't.  Either pick up the phone or have something to say, that is.

I mean, what could I possibly say?  That something like this was bound to happen, that I feel like a cheap slut and that all I want is to be left alone?  Call me mundane but I don't exactly think it would go down overly well.  Backup would offer unwelcome advice, Malone would tell me to snap out of it, Spencer would put me straight through to Malone, and Jenkins would rub his hands together with glee.  And I'm simply not in the mood for dealing with any of it.  Everything is in such a mess that I can barely cope with it myself without taking the risk of breaking down on someone else.  It mightn't seem like much but I can least kid myself that I have some respect left.

Jenkins and all his white-coated colleagues can, in no uncertain terms, all go fuck themselves.  I've been through enough psychiatrists in my life to know that they're nothing but a waste of time and money.  In fact I've been through so many that I'm sure if they compiled their notes they'd be able to write an incredibly long and boring book about me.

Not many people -- thankfully -- have the dubious honour of first being made to visit a shrink at the age of six.  I can.  Wrong place wrong time, for everyone involved. I saw an old woman get run over by a speeding Cadillac as I played with my toy cars on our driveway.  Until then I'd never seen so much blood before.  It seemed to be everywhere.  On the windscreen of the Cadillac, on the road, on the old woman, *everywhere*.  With her unfortunate death came, not surprisingly I suppose, the nightmares.  With a seemingly endless array of variations on the theme, I'd dream about cars running people over and wake up screaming.

My parents, at a loss as to what to do to help me, carted me off to a child psychiatrist.  Dr Jamieson his name was.  He wore Coke bottle glasses, had a real problem with errant nasal hair and made me draw pictures for him that were supposed to expose all my deepest and darkest secrets.  That's all I can really remember about him other than the fact I didn't like him and wanted nothing to do with him.  I only had to see him twice.  Then, being the bright spark that I was, I cottoned on to the fact that if I stacked on a tantrum when being taken out to the car my mother would feel sorry for me and take me out for ice cream instead.  The nightmares went away in due course and I hoped I'd never have to see another psychiatrist again in my life.

Ha.  Four years later, and stuck in bed not going anywhere, I had my next oh-so-informative experience with a shrink.  The rope hanging from the big tree in the yard not being as strong as I'd hoped it to be, my game of Luke Skywalker swinging onto Jabba's sail barge from the skiff above the Sarlaac had ended with me plummeting out of the sky and landing flat on my back. Nothing short of Divine Intervention saved me from breaking my back and all the doctors said I was lucky not to have been paralysed.  My spine nonetheless suffered a fair knock and I had to spend close to a month in bed.

As if being confined to my bed wasn't bad enough my parents, in all their wisdom, jumped to the conclusion that it hadn't actually been an accident and that perhaps I'd meant to kill myself.  My grandfather, who'd lived just up the street from us and who I'd loved dearly, had passed away the month before and they thought that I was so distraught with grief that I wanted to join him.  I tried telling them that I was playing at being Luke Skywalker but they merely took that to mean I was in denial and brought in Dr Nielsen to set me straight.

Dr Nielsen was a scary woman with grey hair scraped back into a harsh bun who smelt of violets and mothballs and who I swear had had her sense of humour removed, along with her ability to smile, at a very early age.  I told her what I'd told my parents and she saw fit to lecture me on the evils of playing make-believe.  I was ten years old for Christ's sake.  What did she fucking expect?  A thesis on how being made to play walking talking teddy bears in Return Of The Jedi was an insult to dwarves?  Honestly, it was just a joke.  As much as I hated the physio I threw myself into it with everything I had just so I could prove to my parents that, really, I wanted to live very much.  Well, that and so I wouldn't be stuck in bed when Dr Nielsen next came to visit.  Thankfully it worked.

Then, when I was fourteen a girl in my year at school that I knew only to look at killed herself with her father's gun.  Because she did it in the classroom that I just happened to have English in the school brought in a shrink to ensure that none of us poor little dears were too traumatised by the sad event.  There being nothing sacred when it comes to school records, Dr Hustig knew all about my two earlier run ins with his brethren and singled me out for special attention.  The fact that, annoyed at having been made to miss gym class, I was rude to him didn't help a damn.  Once again I was in alleged denial and once again I was made to spend a few quality hours being made to talk about myself.

Then there was the one who wanted to talk to me about my guilt over Stuart's suicide attempt... And the one who's job it was to ensure I was indeed SEALs material and wasn't going to flip out from the pressure...  And let's not forget the flock of them that circled over me relentlessly after the wedding...  Or the ones that wanted to be positive that I wasn't just joining CI5 in the hope of having greater access to the chance of taking a bullet in the line of duty...

None of them, and this includes the times I've actually been willing to accept their help, have ever achieved anything for me.  They prattle on, and issue forth with instructions on building yourself a list of steps to conquer, but they've never done me any good.

"The old lady is in a better place now."  Like, phew, there was a load off my six-year-old mind.

"It's perfectly okay for you to feel distraught over the loss of your loved ones."  Fuck me.  Permission to feel upset.  Informative or what?

"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."  Wow.  Thanks for that.  No.  Really.  It makes everything *way* clearer.

It's their job, they want to help, they're no doubt lovely people in the private lives and I can't stand the fucking lot of them.  Dr Gerling, the over educated consultant psych in charge of putting me back together after the wedding, was the worst of the lot.  If I ever see him again it will be too soon.  He had me sit in his office, surrounded by family portraits and framed scribblings by his offspring, and I honestly believe he expected me to accept the futile words of comfort and understanding coming out of his mouth.  It was just unbelievable.

For all the people I've had meaningless sex with during my life I'm still quietly positive that they'd be outnumbered by the psychiatrists I've been unfortunate enough to meet.  Jenkins, whether he knows it or not, is just the last in a very long line.  *If*, and this is a huge if, I get hit by inspiration and decide to risk returning to CI5 I'll deal with their shrinks when I see them.  Until then I just don't want to think about it.  I admit it.  I'm in denial.  Everything's fine and dandy and I'm happy to be alive and I have everything to live for and I'm just a happy, bouncing ray of sunshine.

And the flying pigs circling my apartment now come fully equipped with stealth technology...

What happened, *happened*.  I can't erase the past but I can ignore it.  Or at the very least try to.

In a twisted, completely warped way I almost wish Colton had skipped the foreplay and just raped me.  Call me delusional, but at least that way I'd have a concrete excuse for feeling as awful as I do.  I'm unblemished, not so much as bruise litters my body, yet I feel wretched.  I've sucked men off before (although my record before yesterday was only two in a row... and I wasn't even particularly proud of that), and I've been jerked off before, but...  But always by choice.  I've always been in control.  Even during my periods of fucking around I've always been in complete control when it comes to sex.  I did what I had to do to protect Sam, but...

It disgusts me.

It was psychological...  You had no choice...  It could have been worse... There's nothing to feel ashamed about...  Anyone would have done what you did if they'd been in your shoes... No one thinks any less of you...  You're alive...

It doesn't matter what I think or what I know I'll hear from others, it still just disgusts me.

Taylor, I already know I'll never be able to look in the eye again.  Backup I just want to avoid.  And Sam...

Sam I want to give a wide berth.  It's my fault he was shot, he saw what become of me, and it's for his own good -- assuming of course he himself wants anything to do with me now -- that we go our separate ways.  Even if he could forgive me for my incompetence he couldn't possibly want me after yesterday.  People react differently around victims of sexual assault.  They may not want to, and in most cases might do so unconsciously, but they still do.  The wife of one of the men in my SEAL team was raped and he couldn't bring himself to touch her.  He still loved her and, wanting his touch, she wasn't pushing him away, but he just couldn't do it.  Whether he was afraid of hurting or upsetting her, or whether he thought she was tainted isn't something I know.  What I do know though is that although they'd been childhood sweethearts they divorced less than a year after the assault.

It's much easier if I just distance myself from Sam.  For everyone really. He won't have to pretend that everything's okay and I won't have to wait for the cracks to appear.  I don't want to hurt him anymore than I already have and this way he'll be able to get his life back on track much quicker.  It's definitely for the best.

Shit.

Doorbell.

Hey...  When did it become dark outside?  Christ.  More to the point, why's the news on already?  Wasn't I just staring blankly at Countdown a couple of minutes ago?

The doorbell chimes again and I hug my cushion, the one that I hadn't even been aware I was holding, tightly to my chest as though I think it's some sort of talisman.  My hope that whoever it is at my door will take the lack of response to mean that they can simply go away now dies a quick death as I hear the telltale sounds of keys being jangled in the lock and reflexively hug my cushion just that little bit harder.

Shit.

Again.

Two people have keys to my apartment.  One's in hospital and the other's been all but phone stalking me all day.

"Chris?  Are you there?"

No Backup, I'm not.  Chris, the one you thought you knew, doesn't live here anymore.  Now, would you kindly fuck off and leave me and my cushion in peace.

Why me?  Haven't I suffered enough already?  I like Backup.  I really do. She's one of my closest friends.  God knows however I don't want to deal with her now.

"Up here Backup," I call out wearily, resigning myself to having to attempt to play nice for as long as it will take to get rid of her.

"Why didn't you answer the doorbell then?" she demands querulously as she walks up the stairs.  "Or all the phone messages I've been leaving for you all day for that matter?"

"Been asleep," I mutter dismissively, blinking in the sudden brightness as, entering the room, she turns on the overhead lights.  "Is that okay with you or would you rather I checked in first?"  Great.  It's started already. We're about to indulge in a carefully waged war of words.  I can just feel it.

"I was worried," Backup replies, walking over to the sofa and peering at me as though I'm some sort of incredibly rare, never seen before specimen.  She looks tired and for a split second I'm touched by her concern.  Knowing what's install for me though, it doesn't last.  "You chew out Dr Jenkins, you don't seem at all bothered by how Sam's doing and you don't answer my calls.  What gives Chris?"

"Nothing *gives*," I sigh, reluctantly releasing my grip on the cushion and slowly swinging my legs off the sofa so I can sit more or less upright.  "I had a shit day yesterday, in case it's escaped your attention, and I was wanting to sleep it off.  Okay?  I'm sorry if I've worried you, Backup, but, and don't take this the wrong way, it's nothing really to do with you."

"Nothing to do with me, huh?" Backup murmurs, shaking her head and giving me a nasty look.  "You're my friend, Chris.  Another one of my friends, your partner incidentally, is in hospital after almost dying and you have the nerve to tell me that it's basically none of my business?  Screw you, Chris. I'm here because Sam keeps asking about you and because you never returned any of my phone calls.  I can understand that you're upset about everything that happened but that doesn't give you the right to shut out your friends. You need to get grip."

"I'm fine," I mutter, making a point of looking through Backup and reaching for the remote control.  "I've got a bit of a headache so I've been trying to sleep it off.  I didn't return your calls because I'm not interested in the case and don't wish to talk about it," I continue, turning the volume up on the television and earning myself an unimpressed look.  "What I told Jenkins has nothing to do with you and I'll talk to Malone when I'm good and ready.  Sam...  Sam is in excellent hands in the hospital and I know that he's going to be okay.  Is there anything else you'd like to know while you're at it?"

Backup sighs heavily, her sour expression telling me that she knows she's not going to get anywhere when I'm in a mood like this.  "Sam wants to see you," she responds, shrugging.  "He keeps asking about you and wants to know why you haven't been to see him."

"Ah...  So he's well enough to chew me out for fucking up already, good to hear," I murmur drily, ignoring Backup and feigning fascination with the news.  "I'm relieved."  And I am too, incredibly so.  Not that I'm going to share this with Backup though.

"Come on, Chris," Backup states softly, almost pleadingly, "You don't mean it like that.  I know what happened to you yesterday was awful, but you've got to put it behind you.  Everything will be okay, you've just got to talk about things.  I'm not saying I'm the one you need to talk, or even Dr Jenkins...  Anyone you trust will do."

Yeah.  Like who?  I trust Sam and he's lost to me.  One way or the other I'll get through this by myself.  When I know what it is that I want to do, I'll be able to achieve it.

"Backup, please..." I whisper, finally glancing up and forcing myself to look her in the eye.  "I appreciate the concern, really, I do...  But not now, okay?  I'll...  I'll make it up to you but I need time.  Tell Sam... Tell Sam that I... I'm sorry for everything... and that I know without him having to tell me.  I think he'll know what I mean.  Please though, I mean it...  Can you just go?  I don't want to talk and know I'll only regret anything else I might say to you.  I'll be fine.  Honest.  I just need some time to think."

"Are you sure?" Backup queries gently, not looking convinced.  "I can stay, if you'd like, and believe me when I say I've got tough skin.  I know you're hurting and promise not to take offence at your behaviour."

I shake my head, desperate for her to just leave.  "Thank you, but no," I state quietly.  "If you could just pass my message on to Sam then you'll have done more than enough for me.  I'll be okay, Backup.  I'm...  I'm a survivor...  Remember?  I always land on my feet."

"When you put it that way," Backup smiles wanly, backing away from the sofa. "I'm not happy about this, Chris, but I'll go...  Just promise me you'll call me... or *someone*... when you want to talk.  You don't have to go through this alone.  We're here for you, Chris..."

"Thank you," I murmur, meaning it even though I don't sound like I do. "I just need a little time, that's all."

"Mmm...  I'll be seeing you then," Backup replies dully, starting to walk over towards the stairs.  "Next time I call though, either pick up the phone or call me back, okay?  It'll make me feel better."

"Promise," I mutter, watching her go and longing to be alone again.  "Bye, Backup."

"Bye.  I'll..." Trailing off, Backup suddenly comes to a stop at the top of the stairs and swears.  "Shit!  Almost forgot to tell you that we picked up Colton and his two henchmen.  Contrary to his assertions that he knew how CI5 operated he didn't pick up that the pilot in his helicopter was one our agents until it was too late.  I know it's of cold comfort, but at least we've got him."

"That's great," I whisper, surprised that I don't actually feel anything at this piece of news.  "CI5 win yet again."

"Something like that," Backup responds flatly, turning around and alarming me by walking back over to the dining table.  "We also got your gun back," she adds, ferreting in her handbag and bringing out the Smith & Wesson. "Ballistics have finished with it so... here... you can have it back."  With that she puts the gun carefully on the table and, without waiting for a response, silently leaves.

I almost want to stop her.  So much for wanting to be alone.

The gun I'd hoped never to see again stares at me accusingly and I suddenly realise that I *have* got to get out of here.  I hadn't wanted to leave the apartment but now I do.  Desperately in fact.

It doesn't matter where I go, where I end up, I just have to go.

~*~

Okay.  When did this happen and why didn't anyone see fit to tell me?  What used to be Neptune is now Libido.  I mean, of *course* it is.  Honestly. You don't frequent a bar for over eighteen months and they have the nerve to change everything -- name, décor, the *lot* -- on you.  I mean, where's the decency in that?  Sure Neptune was a dive, but it as dive I was familiar with and one that I'd come here expecting to find.

Oh, and let's not forget the added bonus of it being, according to the very bright and very glittery poster stuck on the wall, 'Lust Night'.  Wonderful. Just what I need.  Lust Night at Libido.  Just my kinda scene.  Not that I suppose I can really complain.  I was only coming to Neptune, a gay bar I used to haunt with alarming frequency, to deaden my mind anyway and I'm sure Libido will be able to produce the same result.  Drink to forget, pick up, drink to pass out, get picked up - it doesn't matter.  Anywhere would have to be better than home.  Even Libido, so-called Lust Night and all.

My desire to be surrounded my strangers who don't care if I live or die being stronger than my desire to avoid Libido like the plague, I hand my five pound entry fee to the very buff and very bored looking doorman and enter the club.  Pulsating pop music, one of the Minogue sisters I think, assails my eardrums and makes my head hurt even more than it had been already.  I wish, too late, that I'd had enough common sense to have popped a couple of Nurofen before venturing out and resign myself to it getting worse before it has any hope of getting better.

After Backup had left all I cared about was getting out of the apartment. Fleeing being the only thing I could think of, it was all I could do to shower, shave and dress.  I haven't had anything to eat since the piece of toast I forced down my throat around lunchtime and know that drinking on an empty stomach is like sending out an engraved invitation to feel like shit but can't find it in myself to care.  The way I see it a hangover is hardly going to make things greatly worse.  I feel like shit already, so I may as well drink.  That way I'll at least be able to pretend that I have a valid reason for feeling the way I do.

Ignoring the happy and smiling men milling around me, I walk into the main body of the club and look around for the bar.  If I'm going to survive the noise I need a drink and I need one quickly.  Pop music as a rule doesn't bother me but the volume in Libido is loud enough to wake the dead.  On the plus side however, ignoring the fact that I can feel the vibrations of the music in every fibre of my body, it's going to make holding a conversation near on impossible.  Which needless to say suits me just fine.

A small stage is set up opposite where I'm standing and for a moment I forget my need for a drink as I watch the performance taking place on it.  A young drag queen with incredible make-up and resplendent in a red sequined dress with a thigh high split is lip-syncing to the song while near-naked dancers shake their stuff behind him.  It strikes me, as I look at the dancers in their tight white shorts and little else, that I've wandered into a meat market.  None of the few men staring at the stage are looking at the dancer's faces, they're all staring at their prominently displayed crotches, their expressions stuck on leer.

The majority of the men here are here for sex.  Not the music or the show, just sex.  They pay their five-pound to get in and they're all but guaranteed a fuck.  Meaningless, nameless, emotionless sex.  Proving that I've reached the point of no return, this doesn't bother me in the slightest.  Perhaps it's even why I came here.

Drink to forget.  Fuck to forget.  Maybe it's just me but I've never really been able to differentiate between the two.  They can both kill you.  They both offer the same releases.  Their costs are both equally as high and neither of them have a one hundred percent success rate.  I should know, I've tried both.

The song finishing, the drag queen and dancers strike a pose on stage before swiftly starting up again in time to the next song.  Their spell over me broken, I spot the bar and, pushing through the throng of sweaty dancers on the dance floor, make my way over to it.  Hands ghost over my butt and torso but I pay them no heed.  Nor do I look anyone in the eye.  I'm here but I'm not.  I feel their hands yet I feel nothing.  It's like I'm existing a void or am literally dead from the feet up.  As strange as the feeling is though, it's one that I'm nonetheless familiar with and know I can function through.

Reaching the bar, I spy a conveniently vacated stool and perch myself on it. I don't want to dance or pretend to be having a good time and will just sit here, waiting.  If someone's desperate or stupid enough to want me then they can damn well come and get me.  Getting myself to this point was a big enough ask without actually having to exert any more energy in my pathetic pursuit of increasing numbness.

Ordering a vodka from the blue-haired barman, I lean my back against the counter and idly survey the crowd.  Not having been to a club like this for a very long time, they make me feel old.  Not everyone is attractive or younger than I am, but they all look as though they're genuinely happy.  It might only be thanks to alcohol or drugs but they look *alive*, not to mention ecstatic to be so.    I know I don't -- for so many reasons --belong here but don't know where else I could go.

"Hey beautiful, can I buy you a drink?"

Fuck.  That was quick.  I either don't look like I feel or I've got a flashing neon sign over my head that reads 'Easy Prey'.  Again with being called beautiful though.  Much more and I'll begin to get a complex.

Swivelling on my barstool, I look my prospective friend up and down and shrug nonchalantly.  "Vodka, straight," I state, deciding against favouring him with a forced smile.  It's not like I want to appear too eager or anything.  He'll do though, assuming of course I don't scare him off.  Tall, slim, with nondescript brown hair and brilliantly blue eyes that have to come courtesy of contacts, he's attractive enough in a mundane way.  He looks nothing like Sam, which is something that works incredibly well in his favour.

"Tony," he smiles, displaying teeth that would have cost a small fortune in dental work and offering me his hand.  "Nice to meet you."

"James," I lie smoothly, taking his hand and shaking it limply.  Telling him my real name will add nothing to the encounter and besides, I don't want him to know it.

"Come here often?" Tony asks as he waits for the barman to stop flirting with the piece of blond jailbait in the FCUK t-shirt all but rubbing himself up against the other end of the bar.

I raise an eyebrow, quickly coming to the conclusion that making small talk or flirting isn't Tony's forte and hoping like crazy that he's not silly enough to view me as prospective boyfriend material.  "First time," I drawl, injecting the slightest twang of accent into my voice and praying that he buys my poor homesick tourist act.

"An American!" he exclaims, his smile broadening as he falls hook, line and sinker.  "Wow.  I bet the clubs are better back home than they are here."

"Bigger," I reply dismissively, not interested in talking to Tony but not wanting to make the first move either.  "More action, less talk too," I add, sighing.

Tony's eyes light up.  "You lookin' for action?" he queries, his gaze dropping from my face down to my lap.

I shrug and take a sip of my vodka.  "Maybe..." I murmur, putting the glass back down and slowly licking my lips.  Subtle as a sledgehammer, that's me all over.  "Would have to be more interesting than sitting here talking..."

"Come on then," Tony declares, moving away from the bar, his offer of a drink forgotten.  "You want action I'll give it to you."

Quickly finishing my drink, I slip off the barstool and follow him as he leads the way not in the direction of the exit but towards the darkened area behind the stage.  For a split second I hesitate, public sex never, not even when I've been at my worst, having been my thing.  It's an aspect of gay culture that I've never really been able to get my head around, the compulsion to get off right here right now and surrounded by strangers. I've never been to a sauna either and don't exactly think my life is lacking for it.  Still...

It'd be a blatant lie to say I cared at the moment.

I just don't.  I know I *should*, but I don't.  Besides, unlike yesterday I'm the one in complete control.  There's no one other than myself to think about and there isn't a gun levelled at my chest.  I'm here, doing this, because I choose to.  Aiming my expectations any higher would just result in disappointment.  It may not be what I want, but it'll do.  And, not that I'd thought of it this way before, it'll prove to myself that I *can* do it, that I can still give myself to another by my own free will.  It's something of a small victory but it's still a victory over that fucker Colton and one that I desperately need.

My mind made up, I follow Tony behind the stage and come face to face with the closest I've ever been to an orgy before.  Blue light bathes the area and couples, in some cases threesomes, are engaged in all sorts of sexual acts, oblivious to -- or getting off on -- the extreme proximity of men they wouldn't know if they fell over them.  The air is heavy with the scent of sex.  I find nothing erotic about the scene but make no attempt to leave.

"This enough action for you?" Tony purrs in my ear before abruptly spinning me around and pinning me against the wall.  I'm stronger than he is, not to mention trained to within an inch of my life, but I let him manhandle me without comment.  If I wanted to escape I could and know that I'm in no danger.  Not physically anyway.  Mentally...  Well, I think that's pretty much terminal already.

"Perfect," I retort flatly, dodging his lips as he tries to kiss me and pushing him far enough away so I can drop fluidly to me knees.  Perhaps too late I realise that I don't want him touching me.

Grunting appreciatively, Tony unzips his fly and pulls out his cock.

Taking it in my mouth, I suddenly wonder just what the fuck it is I think I'm doing here.

I'm in control...  I am.  I know what it is I'm doing...  I do.

I...

Oh God.

I don't care.  I honest to goodness don't give a fuck.

Tuning out the music -- 'Call it luck, call it fate, call me beautiful to my face' -- thumping in my ears and the fact I'm clothed, I place my hands behind my back, close my eyes and it's yesterday all over again.

And I just don't fucking care.

I could get up and walk away, but what's the point?  I'd only go home and wallow in self-pity.  Here I'm at least achieving something.

I can do this.

I can.

~*~

Another night.  Another club.  Another theme.

Tonight it's Hellfire at Hard Core.

It's come to my attention that gay clubs are slightly obsessed by theme nights.  Apparently the drugs, alcohol, deafening music, sweaty bodies and promises of free sex aren't enough in this day and age to pull in the punters.  Hence, *apparently*, the need for themes.

Last night was Pecs Of Death at Asylum.  The sculptured chests on display were truly works of art.  I kept my shirt on and sucked off the runner up in the bathroom.  He admired himself in the mirror the entire time.  If I hadn't been in the way I'm sure he would have leant forward and planted a great big sloppy kiss on his reflection.  It was hardly a life-affirming experience.  Not, I hasten to add, that that's what I'd been looking for.  I *got* what I was there for.  End of story.

The night before that was Dragorama at Utopia.  Having slunk directly into the back rooms I missed the show.  And that, thanks to the bottle of Amyl I had shoved under my nose, is about all I can recall of the night.  It might have been good or it might have been atrocious, I wouldn't know.

And the night before that I...  I just can't remember at all.  The clubs, faces, and cocks pretty much look the same to me now.  Hard Core, even with it's throbbing industrial music, bondage theme, S&M demonstrations, and hairy chested bears prowling around, is only slightly different from all the others.  Not a lot, seeing as it's still only about sex, but a little.  The scrap of self-respect I have left dictates I never go to the same club twice.  By my reckoning it'll take me a month -- to reach absolute rock bottom -- to get through them all before I have to rethink my habits.

Six days have passed since... since that day in the warehouse and my mood hasn't altered.  Things have arguably got worse yet I feel essentially no different.  I've got the act of functioning -- going through the motions that is -- down pat.  Nothing bothers me.  I can't even remember the last time I smiled or laughed.  There's nothing in my life that I derive pleasure from and I lack the prerequisite faith or hope to kid myself that things will no doubt one day improve.  Knowing that I felt like this after the wedding yet somehow still managed to pull myself together doesn't help. Nothing does.

I'm now, as of three days ago, officially suspended from CI5.  In a last ditch effort to make me see sense Malone himself arrived uninvited on my doorstep and issued forth with the 'either shape up or ship out' ultimatum. It being a case of too little too late, I handed him my ID and slowly shut the door in his face.  I was back on the sofa before he gave up and stopped hammering on the door.

My behaviour pushing every one of Backup's buttons, even ones I don't think she knew she had, she's now stopped the softly, softly approach and has no qualms sharing with me what little she thinks of me.  I'm a quitter.  I should wake up to myself.  I'm making a huge fucking mistake and need to let people help me.  I'm letting Sam down.  I'm letting CI5 down.  I'm letting myself down.

The fact that everything she says is true and that I agree with her is however hugely irrelevant.  Listening to the increasingly expletive laden messages she leaves me is one of my many masochistic treats for the day.  I don't doubt that she genuinely cares but I honestly wish she didn't. Worrying about me is just a waste of her time and I know for a fact she has better things to do with her time.

Besides, I know what I'm doing.  I do.  I'm protecting Sam and I'm saving CI5 from the risk of me fucking up any more assignments.  There might be a better way of going about it but I can't for the life of me think of it at the moment.  Colton, who in the space of a few minutes seemed to know the true me better than anyone, all but said I good for nothing but sucking cock and I'm well into proving his character assassination correct.  I go to the clubs at night and sleep or take up space on the sofa during the day.  The hours pass in a haze of nothingness.  I've reached the stage where I simply don't even think about what I'm doing anymore.  Not even knowing that the world is full of people far worse off than me can alter my self-absorbed, miserable as hell mindset.   I don't think about Sam... or CI5... or my past...  I don't think about anything.  As with everything, I just can't see the point.  My existence revolves around the clubs and the sex, nothing more.  Everything else is either history or myth.

Albeit worth next to nothing, it's my life and I'm the one in control of it. I'm doing these things because I choose to, not because I'm so depressed that I can't so much as believe in the light at the end of the tunnel let alone see it on the horizon.

It's true.  Honestly.

Only wanting one thing from Hard Core, I pause my aimless wandering in front of a makeshift stage set up to demonstrate so-called spanking techniques and try to work out where I should go.  I don't however question what it is I'm actually doing in a leather club and feel no compulsion to turn around and go home.  I feel lost, but that's par for the course these days.  What's happening on stage isn't something I pay any attention to.  A quick glance tells me that a large and well built man wearing leather chaps and matching leather g-string is using what looks suspiciously like a table-tennis bat to spank another man, who has his jeans around his ankles, on his Calvin Klein underwear clad ass as the audience around me whistle and jeer.  Finding the show uninteresting, I turn my back on it as I wait for inspiration to hit. Men jostle me, many copping a feel as they pass, as I stand flatfooted, my mind slowly churning through my options.  Being a gay club, leather orientated or not, there'd have to be a darkened backroom somewhere.  That much is a given.  What I don't know though is whether that's what I want or whether, for a change, I want to see if someone will take me home with them.

"You.  How about it?"

Not knowing that the gruff voice is talking to me, I ignore it and am subsequently slightly startled when a large hand roughly squeezes my shoulder.  Turning to face the owner of the offending hand, my surprise grows a notch when I see that it's the man from the stage, the one in the leather chaps.  I'd love to say I'm alarmed to find him looking at me calculatingly, but, well, I'm not.  Surprised yeah, but not bothered.  It'd take more than an accountant -- by the looks of his boring haircut --masquerading as a master in a dingy club to bother me these days.  Last week, my pride intact and my sexuality something I still gained pleasure from, I would have run a mile, but not now.

"How about *what*?" I scowl, straightening my spine and staring at him.

"You up to being demonstrated on?" he growls, flexing his considerable muscles for the benefit of the salivating crowd.  He inspires neither fear or interest in me.  I look at him and quite literally feel nothing.  It's tragic, but I honestly just don't care.

I shrug, unconcerned by either his offer or where it's going to lead me. "Whatever," I mutter flatly, coldly looking him in the eye.  "You want me I'm all yours."

The man looks a little surprised by my blunt reply and lets go of my shoulder.  "You don't have to," he whispers, leaning forward in order to talk directly into my left ear.  "There's plenty of others that'd just love to volunteer."

"Did I say I wouldn't do it?" I sneer, pushing past him and stepping onto the stage to the delight of the assembled crowd who clap and cheer.  I know what's going to happen, that some man I've never met before is going to spank me for the entertainment of a bunch of drunk as fuck men and, no surprise here, feel nothing.  I'm literally so gone that my lack of concern doesn't even worry me.  So be it.  Unlike the other day no one's *making* me.  I tell myself that this counts for something important, that it has to.

Turning around, I present my back to the crowd as the man joins me on the stage.  "Are you absolutely sure about this?" he murmurs once again in my ear, his apparent worry that I'm not good show material doing nothing to soothe me.

"Just fucking get on with it, why don't you?" I state icily.  "You picked me for your sordid little act and now I'm here, so let's get the fuck on with it."

"As you wish," he replies, roughly pulling my leather jacket off and throwing it into a small enclosed area off the right side of the stage.  I put up no resistance to his stripping of me and close my eyes as he pulls my t-shirt over my head.  More cheers greet the sight of my bare back.  When his hands reach round me and undo my belt I only just suppress the urge to shiver.  By the time my jeans are around my ankles I've completely switched off from my surroundings and hardly even feel it when the palm of his hand slaps down hard on my butt.

I was never spanked as a child, my idea of kinky is candle light and silk ties... and look at me now.  It defies belief.

I don't know how long the 'demonstration' goes for or how many times his hand lands on my ass.  The crowd count, but all I hear is a dull, distant noise.  The pain I feel, but only just.  I don't whimper or even flinch and, not giving a good show, somehow doubt I'll be asked back for a repeat performance.  Focussed solely on the void in my head, I don't even know that he's stopped until I feel cool air caressing the tender skin of my butt and realise that he's half pulled down my briefs to expose the reddened proof of his handy -- no pun intended -- work.  The men go wild and the sound of their wolf-whistles manages to achieve what should have been impossible and they drown out the thudding music.  I only open my eyes again when my underwear is back in place and the man has pulled my jeans back up.  For a second the room spins around me and I see stars, but that's all I seem to have achieved from the experience.

"Come with me," the man grunts, grabbing me by the arm and all but dragging me into the small enclosed area off the side of the stage.

"What?  And disappoint my new fans?" I drawl, shaking off his hand and glowering at him dully.  Spying my t-shirt and jacket on the floor, I snatch them up and quickly put them on.  "Look, it's been..."

"You don't belong here," he interrupts softly, shaking his head and looking at me closely.

"What do you mean I don't *belong* here?" I snap, annoyed that he seems to think just because he's spanked me he now has the authority to offer me some unsolicited advice.  "I came here of my own free will and paid my money just like everyone else out there.  I've as much right to be here as anyone."

"You don't belong here," the man repeats, his expression softening and making him look even more like an accountant.  A half naked, buff, and glistening with sweat accountant, yeah, but an accountant nonetheless.  "And you know it," he adds gently.

"What's your problem, huh?" I scowl, liking his desire to chat far less than I did his hand on my butt.  "I took it without complaint, so I don't know what you're going on about."

"You took it, yeah," he replies, taking a step closer and suddenly closing his hand around my crotch, "but you didn't enjoy it."

I jump back immediately, my heart pounding in my chest, but the damage has been done.  He's flustered me now.  For all my adventures in clubland I've allowed no one, not that I can remember anyway, to touch me.  I'll suck, and I'll even let myself be fucked, but I draw the line at having my cock touched.  Irrationally, given the rest of my wanton behaviour, it reminds me too closely of Colton.  "I..." Fuck.  I can't think of anything to say and can feel myself blushing

"Most blokes get off on it," the man continues, stepping back from me and folding his arms across his considerable chest.  "Hell, they usually shoot before I've even finished.  You...  You though, shit man, you weren't even on stage with me.  You took it, yeah, there's no doubt about that.  I reckon you could take just about anything though and still feel nothing.  It might seem far out but this is still about pleasure, about release.  It's not about punishment."

"Yeah...  Whatever," I mumble, anxiously looking around for a way to get out and really not wanting to listen to him tell me things that I already know.

"There's easier ways to forget," he states, shrugging.  "Drink, take drugs, get a hobby.  I'm telling you man, you don't belong here.  You might think you do, that you've got everything perfectly under control, but you don't. I've known you for what, fifteen minutes or something and I already know that you're in danger of losing it for once and all.  My advice mate, take that beautiful face and arse of yours and go home.  There's nothing for you here."

Christ.  Everyone's an amateur psychiatrist.  I should give this guy Backup's number and they could discuss my problems to their heart's content.

"Thanks for the advice," I mutter sourly.  "Next time I want analysing I'll be sure to look you up."  With that I turn around and stalk through the door back into the club.  My legs feel dithery but I don't know whether that has to do with the pain in my butt or what the man's just said to me.  His words, not that I care to admit it, hit far harder than his hand did though.

"Hey!  I saw you on stage," an unknown voice states appreciatively from behind me. "You're hot.  How about you and your beautiful butt joining me for a drink?"

Whirling around, I look at my admirer, an attractive man with a shaven head and a pierced nose and force myself to smile.  "Sounds good," I reply, letting him drape his arm around my shoulder and lead me towards the bar. Feeling eyes bore into the back of my head, I risk a glance behind me and find Mr Amateur Psychiatrist staring after me, his expression sad.

He's mistaken though, about everything.  Not only don't I deserve his apparent pity, he's wrong, I do belong here.  I've made my bed and now I'm lying in it.

~*~

I have now, no question about it, reached absolute rock bottom.  Not that I knew it at the time, everything else was merely a precursor to the main event.  Colton, Jenkins' unwanted words of alleged wisdom, the clubs, the anonymous sex, the public spanking...  They all pale in comparison to how I'm feeling now.

This time I've gone too far.  I have.  I don't know where I am and, perhaps more pressingly, I don't know the names of the two naked men I happen to be in bed with.  For a change more than my head hurts.  In fact my entire body hurts, some parts more than others.  I can't remember how I got here, wherever the hell here is, and can only assume I must have taken something that I really shouldn't have.  Friction burns on my wrists indicate some sort of bondage scene but I'm not restrained now and appear to be in a perfectly normal suburban bedroom.  I don't recognise the two men sprawled loosely around each other next to me and, tentatively swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, sit up.  My body complains at being made to move and I have to choke back a hiss of pain as my butt informs me in no uncertain terms that it's had more than enough of a good thing for the time being.

Not knowing how I came to be here or what happened last night scares me. For the first time in close to two weeks I feel something other than nothingness, and that's fear.  Fucking to forget has just taken on a horrible new meaning and I don't like it.  While I know that I no doubt agreed to whatever took place, and that the men can't be raving psychopaths or I wouldn't have ended up sleeping in their bed with them, I still feel uncomfortable and somewhat disgusted with myself.  They would have enjoyed themselves, I probably gave every indication of having enjoyed myself, and...

Fuck.

I honestly remember next to nothing about the past ten or so hours.  I went to a club, Mecca, I think, and then...  And then nothing.  Until now.  The only thing I know for certain is that this time I've gone too far.  I'm not going to so far as to say I suddenly care about not caring, like I did after Steven's little 'gift' made me see the light so to speak, but I know inside that something's got to give, that I can't keep this up.

The very tacky hot-pink clock radio on the equally as tacky white lacquered bedside table tells me that it's just after eight in the morning and I quickly reach the conclusion that I want to get the hell out of here before my bed mates wake up.  God knows I don't want to talk to them let alone be faced with the possible inquiry as to whether I enjoyed last night.  For some reason I don't really think, 'yeah... it was great... ah... remind me what exactly happened again', would go down overly well.  Quite frankly I think I'll just lean towards the whole 'ignorance is bliss' school of thought and not stress myself over trying to remember the details.  I'm alive, I don't appear to be trapped, I hurt but it's nothing an extremely hot shower, a couple of Nurofen and a nap won't cure, and, let's face it, I may very well have just been slapped in the face with a much needed wake-up call.

Standing up, I stretch sore muscles and tiptoe away from the bed.  The two men, who I kinda think have to be partners with a shared thing for an extra -- and why sugar coat it -- cock to liven things up, don't stir and continue to snore away happily.  Muted sunlight streams through the room's small window and, to my added discomfort, I can't see any sign of my clothes lying on the floor.  Not being able to hear any sounds of life throughout the rest of the house or apartment or whatever it is, I offer a prayer of hope to the unknown in respect to finding my clothes scattered somewhere and, throwing caution to the winds, sneak out of the room.  The corridor I find myself in, with it's bland cream walls and carefully framed prints, reinforces to my distinct relief my thought that I'm most likely deep in the bowels of suburbia somewhere and that things aren't really as bad as they first seemed.

A vague recollection of being given a glass of beer on a bright red sofa in the living room popping into my head sees me creeping silently down the stairs and in the direction of where I hope to find both the lounge room and my clothes.  Thankfully, as I have no idea where I was going to look next, my clothes, along with what has to belong to my hosts, are strewn all over the living room carpet.  My day suddenly looking up, I pull them quickly on, ignoring the residual aches and pains in my body in my haste to escape. Catching sight of a framed photograph of two smiling men with their arms around each other on the cluttered mantelpiece over the disused fireplace, I deduce that they must be the two men upstairs.  They look happy together and for a moment I wonder what it is they get out of picking up strangers in clubs and taking them home with them.  When I love someone I get indignant if someone else so much as ogles them in the street.  The thought of actually sharing my lover with others simply doesn't compute.  But hey, to each their own.  Besides, what with my recent nocturnal prowling it's not like I really have any right to comment on the sexuality and habits of others at the moment.  Pot calling the kettle black time methinks.

Dressed, and after having confirmed that both my wallet and keys are still in the pocket of my jacket, I take one last look around me before resigning myself to perhaps never knowing what really went on and slipping out the front door.  My car is parked on the street and I don't think I've ever been so pleased to see it before.  Not having any freakin' idea where I am won't matter as GPS will guide me home and I'm pathetically grateful for it having been installed in the car.  Nothing I see in the street looks familiar. It's a nice street, tree lined with obviously cared for maisonettes on either side, but to me I could be anywhere.

Wanting to be home and as far away from here as possible, I get in the car and within a matter of seconds am driving off down the street.  A give way sign gives me the opportunity to boot up the GPS and to my shock it tells me that I'm on the other side of London to my apartment and that as it's peak hour it's going to take me close to two hours to get home.  And that's the best-case scenario.

Fuck it.  Next time I go home with strangers they can damn well live on my side of town.

Not that there's going to be a next time, not if I actually have enough sense to take last night for the warning it should be.  Sticking to the clubs or simply giving up and staying in bed would have to be safer for my mental health.

My route home plotted in my head, I turn off the GPS and, autopilot kicking in, focus on my driving.  It takes, and I know this for fact because I spend a lot of time staring at the clock while stuck in the many fucking traffic jams I was fortunate enough to encounter, exactly two hours before I'm pulling into my drive.  All I can think about is having a shower and crawling into bed.  I'm in such need for comfort that I'll even eschew sleeping on the sofa for the bed proper.  I want to feel warm and to kid myself that I'm clean.  Failing that I'll be content with going to sleep.

The first thing I notice as I unlock the front door and go inside is that the alarm isn't on.  Putting this down to my mind being all over the shop and that I probably didn't even turn it on when I left last night, I'm not too bothered though and don't think anything of it.  My desire for a shower being all consuming, I start to undress as I walk up the stairs, dropping both my jacket and my sweater carelessly over the banister as I go.  Looking down at my arms I see that they're covered in barely visible bruises and that the marks around my wrist look even worse in the bright light of my apartment than they did back in the unknown bedroom.  Already healing scratches, that I can't even feel, mar my torso and my skin crawls as I imagine what I must have got up to.

Hang on...  Bright light...  Why's it so bright in here?  Daylight being something I've wanted to avoid at all costs -- too cheery, too vibrant, too much related to the realm of the living -- the drapes have been constantly closed and I've been pretty much existing by the light of the television screen.  The television which is now off, even though I know I left it on when I went out last night...

Just what the fuck's going on here?  If Backup's decided to take it upon herself to play housekeeper then the few words I'm going to share with her on the subject are going to be neither pleasant nor appreciative.

Sensing movement in the bedroom, I fight to rein in the anger I can feel bubbling in my veins and am about to stalk over there when my uninvited visitor saves me the bother and materialises in the doorway.  My anger immediately deserting me, my mouth gapes open and I stare in disbelief at just about the last person I expected to see standing in my bedroom.

Sam.

Oh... Christ...

Sam looking like death warmed up and who's looking at me as though I'm some sort of vile insect.  For a split second I think I see what could only be concern flicker through his tired eyes but now he's just staring at --through -- me, his expression closed off and unreadable.

Not that I want to, in a moment of clarity that I could well and truly do without I see three images simultaneously.  I see Sam, his face pale and drawn and with dark circles under his eyes, wearing track pants and a windcheater, neither of which I swear were this loose on him last time I saw him in them.  He looks both exhausted and frail and I know without having to be told that he's discharged himself from hospital against the doctor's wishes.

I then see my hovel of an apartment for the first time in natural light for over ten days.  It's disgusting.  The sofa cushions are half flattened out of shape and the two blankets I'd dragged out of the bedroom to hide under are in an untidy heap on the floor in front of it.  Coffee cups, some half full and giving off a not overly delicate aroma, litter the coffee table and take-away containers are scattered almost everywhere.  They all still have food in them.  I haven't even picked up the pieces of the mug I broke and the gun is still sitting precariously close to the edge of the dining table. The room's so rank that I'm quite frankly surprised that it's not crawling with rats.  If I needed more proof that Sam's weak and not feeling himself then the fact that he hasn't cleaned any of the mess up gives it to me. Under normal circumstances he would have started tidying up even before he'd taken his jacket off.  My housekeeping skills aren't actually as deplorable as Sam would like the world to believe but this is a new low even for me.

Then, last but not least, I see me.  And what a sight I make.  Bare chest, unbelted jeans sitting loosely on my hips because I've probably lost as much weight as Sam has, unshaven, dishevelled... Fucked.

And knowing that this, both me and the rubbish dump masquerading as a living room, is what Sam's seeing pierces me to the core.

Shit.  Fuck.  Now what?

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Sam murmurs sarcastically, leaning against the doorframe for support and saving me from having to come up with something suitably bland and meaningless to fill the silence with.  "What's the matter, Chris?  Did you honestly think I was dead?  Speaking for myself, what with your apparently terminal lack of interest in how I was doing, it sure felt that way."

"I..." I'm not ready for this and want to spin on my heels, to retreat out of my own home.  "What are you doing out of hospital?" I query dully, folding my arms across my chest in an attempt to hide the bruises and scratches.

"I escaped," Sam replies flatly, his gaze never leaving me.  "They wanted me to stay in for another couple of days at least but I dug my heels in and insisted.  Unlike some people I actually wanted to see my partner and know how he is."

"Well you've seen me now," I mutter, slipping unconsciously into defensive mode.  "I think you can see for yourself how I am.  Now, let me call you a cab and you can go back to hospital.  Where, I hasten to add, you look as though you belong."  Instinct makes me want to get to my knees and beg Sam's forgiveness before putting him to bed and lavishing care and affection on him, but I know that I can't.  I have to be strong and continue with my original plan of keeping Sam a safe distance away from me.  And if that means hurting him further then...  Then I'll just have to see what I can do.

"I'm not going back to hospital," Sam responds firmly, wincing as he makes to stand up straight before deciding that he's better off remaining leaning against the doorframe.  He's clearly not well and knowing that he's discharged himself because of me manages to make me feel just that little bit worse about things.  "I'm staying here with you and you're going to ensure that I don't do something stupid," he continues matter-of-factly. "You know, like go out and find whoever it was that did that to your arms and chest and beat the living crap out of them."

It never rains it always has to fucking pour.  "I...  I let...  No.  I *wanted* it, so you've got absolutely nothing to concern yourself about there," I lie, not even sounding very convincing to my own ears and hoping that for the time being at least Sam lets it slip.  "And don't be fucking stupid.  You can't stay here!  You should be in hospital and...  and I don't want you here."  Wonderful.  Lie number two sounds more believable thanks to a note of desperation creeping into my voice.  Stay here?  God.  What a thought.

"I'm staying here with you," Sam repeats stubbornly, "whether you like it or not.  You might feel it's perfectly okay to abandon me for whatever reasons you've got floating through your head but I'll be damned if I'm going to abandon you.  Now, seeing as I'm in no fit state to go anywhere or do anything, this means the only way I can keep an eye on you is to live with you.  If you don't like it you'd better call the police and report that you've got an intruder who won't leave because, and I mean it Chris, I'm not going anywhere."

"You're making a mistake," I murmur pleadingly, knowing that I may as well be saving my breath.  Sam is nothing if not as stubborn as he is determined. You only have to look at how he fought to get me in the first place.  He won't leave of his own free will and I simply don't have it in me to kick him out, be it in his best interests or not.  If he was well, and we could scream at each other until I managed to shove him out the front door, then yeah, but not like this.  I have enough on my mind without the possibility of being the one to blame for making Sam sicker.  "You're making a huge fucking mistake," I add, shaking my head.  "If you weren't high on painkillers you'd know now that I'm nothing but a menace to your well being and that you're better off far, far away from me.  Honestly Sam, I'm...  I'm fine.  You don't need to look out for me and..."

"No?" Sam interrupts, this time succeeding in standing up straight and taking a slow, hesitant step towards me.  "If that's what fine looks like then I'd hate to see fucked up," he continues drily, making it as far as the stereo before having to come to a stop and grimacing in pain.  "I don't know what's going through your mind, Chris.  Sometimes I think I know everything there is to know about you and others, like now, I feel as though I don't know you at all.  I...  Call me stupid or drugged to the eyeballs, but I love you...  I love you and I'm not giving you up without a fight and you're just going to have to come to terms with it."

"You're far better off without me," I protest weakly, not bearing to see Sam in so much obvious pain and moving closer to him.  "I'm, and you can't say I've never told you this, nothing but trouble and now that should be clear even to you.  I...  I didn't come to see you in hospital and haven't debated my suspension because I know it's the right thing to do...  For you and for everyone."

"You're talking bollocks," Sam sighs, what little colour there was in his face beginning to drain away as his body makes it known that it's under too much pressure and needs to be resting.  "What happened in the warehouse... Christ, Chris, you can't blame yourself for that..."

"I can and I do," I reply bluntly, gesturing into the bedroom and abruptly changing the subject.  "Come on you, let's get you to bed.  If I can't get rid of you then I don't want you dropping dead on my floor and think you should get some rest.  I assume Backup was the kind soul who deposited you on my doorstep and that she ensured you came fully equipped with all your needed drugs and the like, yeah?"

Sam nods.  "Yeah...  She didn't want me coming here and warned me that I wouldn't get a warm welcome but I wouldn't be swayed," he murmurs, shuffling obediently into the bedroom and immediately sinking down on the edge of the bed.  "I had to see you."

"And now that you have, do you feel any better for it?" I query blandly, spotting Sam's overnight bag on the floor and crouching down in order to pull the drugs out of it that I know have to be in there.

"I don't know," Sam whispers quietly, "I just don't know..."

Looking up, I find Sam looking at me, his expression sad.  "We'll talk... Not now, when you're better...  But we will, I promise," I murmur softly, grabbing the bag containing the numerous bottles and packets of pills and standing up.  "First you need to rest though.  I don't want you here for various reasons, but I won't kick you out," I continue wearily, placing the bag on the bedside table.  "Here.  Ferret out what you need while I get you a glass of water."  Not waiting for a response, I hotfoot it out of the bedroom and make my way to the kitchen.

Strangely, I feel curiously calm about this new development.  I don't want Sam here, and have my doubts that even my best efforts to look after him will make things worse, but what can I do about it?  He's here now and he's made it pretty clear that here's where he's staying.  If I left he'd only follow.  This way, when he's better, I'll present my case to him in clear and concise terms and he'll just have to deal with it.

Glass of water obtained, I return to the bedroom and find Sam already under the duvet and sitting up in bed, three pills neatly laid out on the bedside table.  Handing him the water, he picks up the pills and quickly swallows them before giving me back the glass and lying down.  "Thanks," he murmurs, flinching as he settles himself.

"First thing we talk about when you wake up is your pill and treatment regime," I state gently, pulling the drapes closed.  "And that's one thing that isn't up for debate," I add, grabbing a random selection of clean clothes from the chest of drawers to put on after the shower I'm now going to have to take in the downstairs bathroom so as not to disrupt Sam, before walking out of the room.  "Sleep well Sam..."

It's, not that I want to admit it, good to have you back.

Even if it is only for a short while.