Endless Night

Home : Stories by Catw00man : Dark Nights Series : Endless Night

Summary: “His eyes…they just looked dead.”

AUTHOR: Catw00man
EMAIL: catw00man@cryptoffic.com
RATING: NC-17, very dark themes
SERIES: Dark Nights Series
CHARACTER: Jimmie Johnson/Jeff Gordon, Jimmie POV
CATEGORY: Dark, dark angst and not so nice things.
COMPLETED: April 7, 2005
WORD COUNT: 19,205
DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
DEDICATION: To all of you who continue to give me awesome feedback for this series. It’s still my baby. Thank you all for loving it too!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: ***** denotes flashback. ~*~*~*~ denotes passage of time.
AUTHOR'S NOTE2: This picks up a few days after Nightmare and after the race at Sears Point in Sonoma…about the same time as Crimson Night. SERIOUS WARNING HERE! This is not a very nice fic and it deals with very dark themes, pain, sex, blood etc. If that is not your thing you might want to pass this up. Also, bonus points if you can guess where I got the name for the doctor. Enjoy! ;-)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charlotte: June 24, 2002 - 1:45am

I don’t understand.

This just can’t be happening. I couldn’t have been so wrong after everything we’ve been through together. I couldn’t have misjudged him so much. But I also never thought he’d hurt me…then leave. Not like he did. I can’t believe he never even came back to me. Not the next day, or the day after. Why would he do this to me?

I just don’t understand.

Reflexively, I wrap my arms around myself trying to push away the betrayal, the insecurity, the violation I’ve felt since getting to California. California. A place that’s supposed to be my home. A place where I should be happy. But after what he’s done here, I doubt I’ll ever feel the same. I shake my head and try to ignore the concerned look Chad is shooting me, try to keep up the façade that nothing is wrong, that I’m just not feeling well. That’s what I told him. That I was sick.

If he only knew.

I see Chad moving in my direction, closing the distance between us, and I have to turn away. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I sure as hell don’t want to be stuck in this driver’s meeting. I just want to go home.

This can’t be right. None of this can be right. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He wasn’t supposed to be such a cold, unfeeling bastard, forcing himself on me--even though I know I wanted it--but not like that. I wanted him to open up to me--finally let me in. But instead of the gentle caresses and emotion-filled touches of my dreams it was nothing but violence and lust and pain. Surely it’s all a mistake. Surely it’s all been a nightmare. Surely that’s not his laugh I hear as the door opens and I see him flash Robbie a smile. I can barely even look at him. Barely stand the sight of him, and I look away quickly, hardly able to even meet his eyes.

He’s happy.

How can he possibly be happy? I turn quickly, moving across the room as far away from him as I can get before finding an empty chair and falling down into it. He’s been this way all weekend. Happy, like I’ve never seen him. Joking with the team. Charming the media. Completely acting like I don’t even exist. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I realize he hasn’t even seen me all weekend. Granted--I know I’ve been avoiding him, but still. How can he not care? How can he look so happy after what he did to me? He didn’t even try to find me. Has it all been a game?

I thought that he cared about me. I knew it. Like I know my own name. But did I really ever know him at all? Was this all some kind of a sick and twisted game so he could take what he wanted? I never, ever dreamed he would hurt me. Not like that. But he did. And he enjoyed it. And he doesn’t even seem to care.

I hear the sounds of the “real world” around me, drivers and crew chiefs talking and laughing, the sound of chairs moving, the low drone of the AC blowing fabricated cool air into this small room, stifling from the California heat. But none of it touches me…I’m not a part of it. Instead, I wrap my arms even tighter around myself, shivering in spite of the heat as the images of the other night run through my head again. Of the way he attacked me, breathing my name, sending shivers down my spine. But then he was so violent, taking without giving, using me. And he doesn’t care.

I can’t help but wonder what happened to the ever present darkness that used to surround him. The pain that radiated from him in waves, that I see no sign of now--that I haven’t seen since he left me. Was that all a lie too? I could have sworn he looked destroyed when he left me. That he didn’t mean to hurt me. But now…now I’m just not sure. It seems since he got what he wanted whatever used to trouble him constantly him is gone. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.

And I hate him for it.

I hate him for using me. For making me believe. For acting like nothing happened…that I’m nothing. Why? Why would he do this? Why can’t I stop loving him, even after what he’s done? I close my eyes, dropping my chin to my chest as I realize that it’s true. I do still love him. I do still want him. Even after everything…

And I hate myself for it.

Hate myself for loving him in the face of my pain, for hoping that he’s happy even after what he did to me. But I can’t help it. I can’t turn it off. No more than I could even begin to meet his gaze as he walked so carelessly into the room just now. He’s a cold, selfish bastard who obviously doesn’t care about anyone but himself. So how did he draw me in so well? How can I go the rest of the season, the rest of the day, hell, the rest of this meeting being so close to him and so very far away. There’s no way I can do this. There’s no way I can look at him without remembering how he felt, what he tasted like, what he did to me apparently without a care in the world. But what if the person I thought I knew, the person I’ve fallen so hard for, doesn’t even exist?

I feel Chad sit down next to me, putting his hand on my arm, and I can’t help but flinch at the contact. He leans into me then, and I feel his breath against my ear as he asks for at least the dozenth time this weekend, “Jimmie, man, what’s wrong?” I shiver at his closeness and jerk away. Why does he have to touch me? I open my eyes and turn to him to see he’s pulled away from me, a worried look evident on his face. I have to fool him. I have to fool them all.

I give him a forced smile and tell him, as convincingly as I can manage that, “I’m fine, Chad. Don’t worry about me. I’m just a little tired.” He doesn’t look like he buys it for a minute, so I try again, doing my best to imitate what I’ve seen Jeff do a hundred times…pretend that everything is fine, when it so obviously isn’t. “Really, Chad, I’m just tired. Sick, remember?” I give him another weak smile and he finally nods to me, but I know he doesn’t believe me. Thankfully though, he doesn’t push. He just leans back in his chair, giving me another concerned look. But I can’t bother myself with his obvious worry anymore--when my head won’t stop spinning.

I look away from him, turning inward again. How am I ever going to race? How am I ever going to be able to look at him again? I can barely stand being in the same room with him, pretending that nothing happened, pretending that I don’t exist. How could I have been so wrong?

I close my eyes briefly again, reliving everything that’s happened since I arrived in California. I didn’t know what to think when I first got here. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. Hell, it almost took me a whole day to actually go looking for him. Our cars aren’t parked together in the garage this weekend, and I was afraid I’d have a hard time finding him--that he would still be avoiding me. But honestly that doesn’t seem to be that case. If anything, he doesn’t even seem to care.

I remember taking the long walk down the garage after Happy Hour, finally ready to face him, finally ready to try and talk to him--to at least see if he was ok. I never would have expected what I saw. He was standing there, in the sunlight streaming into the garage, surrounded by Robbie and few of the guys talking to Junior as he carelessly leaned against his car. I swear he was all but glowing. I saw his smile, bright as the sunlight he was bathed in, as he talked with Junior, laughing and grinning. I watched his hands as he obviously described his car, the track, to Junior and I felt jealousy run through me at the intensity in Dale’s eyes as he watched him. Then I watched in stunned silence as one of those hands reached out to touch Junior’s arm, giving it a squeeze, and I thought I was going to be sick right there.

What did it all mean? I can’t even begin to know and I couldn’t stand there waiting to find out. Instead, I turned quickly, fleeing to the safety of my coach and curling up on my couch, trying in vain to block it all out. Maybe it was just all a game. Maybe I never really meant anything. Maybe he’s moving on to his next conquest…and maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t even there. It was innocent. I know that. At least my mind does. But my heart, my bruised and battered heart, screams that this is all wrong, that if anything he should be with me. But he wasn’t--he isn’t--and if anything he doesn’t even seem to notice me at all.

Who is he? I honestly thought I knew. But everything I’ve seen, everything I thought knew is wrong. He hurt me. In more ways than one. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because all I was worried about was him and the shattered way he looked when he left me. All that mattered was making sure he was ok. But he’s obviously ok. He’s obviously fine, as I can’t remember a time I’ve seen him look so…carefree, like there’s nothing in the world that can touch him. And a part of me is happy, happy that he’s not lost to whatever demons seemed to haunt him day and night. But the other part of me…the other part of me wants to see him hurt…the way I’m hurting.

How could I have been so wrong?

~*~*~*~

I can feel the transmission give beneath me, gears grinding together in a hellish sound of twisted metal, and I have to curse aloud because I know it’s all my fault. As I coast back to the pits I know, without a doubt, that I destroyed the car, missing shifts and grinding gears in my distraction. I hate this track. I hate this race. And I hate the fact that Chad just told me they’ve finally taken his car to the garage just a lap ago after having to replace the rear-end gear at the beginning of the race.

No. I don’t. I won’t.

I won’t let myself feel his pain when he so obviously can’t feel mine. So what if he had bad luck? Maybe it’s what he deserves.

For the first time since that night in Charlotte I finally start to feel anger. Real anger. I’m tired of worrying about him all the time when he obviously couldn’t give a shit about me. I reach up, starting to loosen my belts, as I make the turn to the garage. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. I want to get away from that fucking bastard and all his games. I want to never see him again.

I shake my head at that thought as I pull my car up to the garage and violently jerk the window net down before chucking the steering wheel on the dash. I won’t think about that. Not again. And I won’t think about the agonizing pain I felt as I was used without a care. No. Not anymore.

I pull myself through the window, glaring at the few crew members who happen to be around, and storming off without a word. I need to get away from here. I need to get away from him. I let the hurt build inside, higher and higher, as I walk quickly to my coach, letting it all turn to sheer rage. Rage at him for his weakness, for making me worry about him every minute. Rage at him for teasing me and pushing me away for so long. Rage at the way he fucking used me, violating me in a way I’ve never been in my life. Rage at the way he made me believe…

Suddenly I feel a hand on my arm, gripping my bicep tightly and roughly spinning me around. I see nothing but red and I know I’m shooting daggers with my eyes as I look to see who would dare mess with me now.

“What the fuck did you do, Jimmie?”

I narrow my eyes as I look up, coming face to face with an extremely pissed off Robbie Loomis. I grit my teeth at his words as I let the rage consume me once more and I reply sharply, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking--” But he cuts me off instantly, raising his voice again.

“I knew I shouldn’t have helped you. I should have known you would just make it worse,” he spits out at me. Then he steps forward, getting right in my face as he grabs me roughly by the arms and screams at me, “What the fuck did you do to him?”

How dare he accuse me of anything? I lift my hands, placing them against his chest and roughly push him backwards, even as I advance on him. “Maybe you should be asking what he did to me,” I growl at him, barely able to contain the storm raging inside. I see surprise and confusion flit suddenly across his face, but in the same instant it’s gone, replaced once again with anger that seems to match my own.

“You said you wanted to help him. I believed you, Jimmie,” he says, and I swear I can almost hear desperation in his voice. What in God’s name is he talking about? “What the hell did you do?” he continues. “Why did you have to make it worse?”

Worse? Has he completely lost his mind? If anything, I seem to have made things better. Apparently Jeff has a thing for rough and violent sex, for hurting someone else. Isn’t that obvious with the way he’s been acting? Has Robbie completely lost it? “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Robbie,” I snap back at him. “He seems perfectly fine to me. If anything he seems happy,” I say, and inwardly cringe at my words. I still just don’t understand how he could do this to me.

“Happy?” he replies as his eyes go wide with shock once again and he takes a step back, shaking his head. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he continues shaking his head, “Good God, Jimmie. And I thought you said you knew him. I thought you understood,” he says quietly as he raises his eyes to meet mine again, and for the first moment since he stopped me my anger begins to lessen as I feel cold dread weaving its way around my heart, squeezing it uncomfortably. What is he talking about? What happened now?

I try to push back my rising anxiety and point out that he’s wrong. I didn’t make things worse. He’s just seeing things. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Robbie. I saw him with you. He’s been smiling and joking around with you all weekend,” I say, and have to pause as I hear my voice choke with emotion. I try desperately to push it all back, suppress my emotions before I wind up falling apart in the middle of the garage. I can’t do this. I can’t relive all this right here. “You have to be wrong. I saw him. There’s nothing wrong with him, not anymore.”

I watch as Robbie’s eyes seem to soften as he looks at me, and I wonder what he sees. He takes a step closer to me, lowering his voice as he says, “Jimmie, I don’t know what you think you saw. Maybe if you had gotten closer…” he trails off as he seems to read something in my eyes.

I look away as I feel myself tremble involuntarily under his scrutiny, and I feel his hand lightly on my arm willing me to look at him. I take a deep breath before finally lifting my eyes to meet his again.

“He’s not alright,” I hear him say softly, and I read the sincerity in his eyes. Fear begins to fill me again as I can’t imagine what would be so bad as to drive Robbie to confront me like this--out in the open. I glance around at my sudden realization and see that the garages are still pretty much empty as the race should only now be ending. I turn back to him again just as he begins to speak again. “He wasn’t happy, Jimmie. If anything I think he was half out of his mind. Hell, he called me Ray half the weekend and I don’t think it was a slip of the tongue.”

I look at him in confusion as I don’t understand what he’s saying. He’s worried about Jeff because he called him the wrong name? I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me off again. “Something happened to him, and I think you know what it is.” With those words, he locks his eyes with mine and I swear he’s looking straight through me. Turning me inside out with his penetrating gaze the way only one other has done before…with swirling blue eyes. Will he ever look at me that way again, so intently, so deeply… Will I ever even be able to hold his gaze again?

“You do know. I knew you would.” Robbie’s sharply spoken words suddenly tear me out of my thoughts and I focus on him once again. I watch as his eyes turn colder and he clenches his jaw in suppressed rage…just like Jeff did when he tried to make me leave…when I finally pushed him too far. I try again to tell him I don’t understand, that Jeff’s fine and he must be mistaken. But he cuts me off with a wave of his hand, turning away from me as if he can’t even stand to look at me.

Then I watch as he continues, still looking away from me, “I saw what happened when he finally saw you in the meeting this morning.” Now it’s me who has to look away at his words as my gut twists into knots remembering the carefree way he seemed to breeze into the driver’s meeting. He’s wrong. Robbie has to be wrong. But then his next words finally let me know I’m the one who’s wrong. I’m the one who’s been blind.

“I watched him fall apart when you turned away from him,” he says as he turns back to face me once more. “I watched him crumble before my eyes, shutting off the world in a way I’ve never seen him do before.” I watch as he shakes his head, obviously in frustration at what I know is a surprised look on my face. Then he looks to me one last time and I hear the desperation and concern in his voice. “You didn’t see him when he got out of the car, and if you don’t care enough to do anything anymore, I guess it’s up to me.” And with that, he turns sharply, storming away from me, anger radiating from him in waves.

As I watch him move away from me, panic finally seizes me. What have I done? Why didn’t I pay more attention? Suddenly I see the past two days with different eyes, eyes unclouded with my own jealousy and despair. I remember seeing him in the garage and I finally remember what it was in his eyes I mistook for happiness. If anything, his eyes seemed glazed over, but until now I just thought it was the glare of the sun. I remember the frantic tone to his voice and the almost manic sound of his laugh. That’s why Junior was looking at him so intently. Even he could see it. My God, how could I have been so blind? I knew he was on the edge. I knew he was about to fall apart. What have I done?

Suddenly I pull myself from my thoughts and look around frantically. Where did he go? Finally I spot him, down at the end of the garage and run over to him, unable to suppress my growing feeling of dread. I have to know what he saw. I have to know what happened.

“Robbie,” I call out and watch as he stops suddenly and turns to face me again. I see mild surprise--and maybe even…sympathy?--cross his face as I run up to him, my breaths coming heavy as my heart pounds in my chest. “Robbie,” I pant, breathless from running and fear. “What happened? What did you see? What did he say? Please, tell me. Please,” I ask, and even I can hear the desperation in my voice.

I watch as he looks down briefly, taking a deep breath. Then he raises his head slowly to meet my eyes and replies with only two words that send a chill straight through me.

“His eyes.”

“What do you mean?” I ask suddenly, and I swear it feels like my heart is going to break through my chest as my mouth goes dry waiting for his response.

“His eyes, Jimmie. They just…” he pauses for a moment and I can tell he’s seeing him again. Seeing whatever it was that sent him to me in a rage. Seeing whatever it is that seems to have him scared. He locks his eyes with mine again and I can plainly read the worry, concern, and fear that mirrors my own. “They just looked dead, Jimmie.”

I suck in a sharp breath at his words and all they could imply. I turn sharply, heading towards his coach and detachedly tell Robbie, “I’ll find him.” I don’t even bother waiting for a response, as all I can think about is finding him and finding out what’s wrong.

I make it to his coach in minutes, but instantly realize he’s not there. It only takes a few questions to his driver to find out he’s gone. He already left--and I have to find him.

*****

I’ve been a wreck ever since.

Robbie actually had to calm me down at one point as I waited for the team plane to take us back to Charlotte. It just gave me too much time to think about the look in his eyes the last time I really saw him.

Right before he ran from me.

I swallow hard as the remembered memories wash over me yet again. I knew he wasn’t right the instant he looked at me and turned for the door. I knew it then as I fell to the floor, overcome with my own pain and despair. I knew he was right at the edge of snapping. Why didn’t I pay more attention this weekend? Why was I so lost in my own pain? What on Earth is he doing now?

I push my foot more firmly on the gas pedal, not caring for the moment whether the cops try and stop me or not. I have to get to him. I have to know that he’s ok. But what if he’s not home? I shake my head against these thoughts and the panic I can’t seem to control. I don’t know exactly what it is that’s causing my guts to twist into knots. I know what he’s doing. He drinking himself blind the way he always does, chain smoking in the dark until he knocks himself unconscious. So why do I feel so desperate to reach him? It’s not like he hasn’t done this a million times or more.

“His eyes…they just looked dead.”

Can’t you kill yourself with too much alcohol?

I slam the gas all the way to the floor and the highway lights become nothing more than a blur. My mind flashes back to the way he looked when I showed up last week--broken, resigned, lifeless--and that was before everything… Before I made it all worse by pushing him for something he couldn’t give. I did this to him. I have to make it right. I have to fix things. I have to fix us.

I remember the way I yelled at him as he tried desperately to make me leave. Hell, he even told me he didn’t want me, and still I pushed. I just couldn’t accept it. Honestly, I still can’t. But there are much more important things now then how I feel. I tell myself again not to worry, that he’s probably already passed out, when I remember something else from last week.

Something I barely even noticed at the time.

“What else are you doing, Jeff?”

I remember the way he flinched at my naïve question, how he wouldn’t meet my eyes. What was that about? Is he doing something besides drinking and smoking? What else is he hiding from me? What could possibly be worse?

Damn it, Jeff. Why did you have to run from me?

Finally I see the exit I need ahead and let out a small sigh of relief. It won’t be long now. Soon I’ll see him, for better or worse, and I’ll know that he’s ok. But what am I going to do when I get there? What if I make it even worse? Is that possible? Maybe I should have let Robbie go after him instead?

No. I caused this--I’m going to fix it, no matter what it takes to do it. Maybe we can just pretend the last week never happened. Maybe we can just go back to the way things were before I had to start pushing for more. Maybe…

I shake my head as I know these are nothing more than idyll fantasies. We can’t go back. But maybe we can go forward? I’ll back off. I swear I will. I won’t push him for things he can’t give me. But I have to have him in my life. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not ever.

I take the exit leading to the small, secluded neighborhood that is his and have to force myself to slow down on the narrow residential streets. Finally I turn on the road leading to his house and breathe another sigh of relief as it comes into view. This is it, I tell myself. Time to make things better. Time to take back all that I did wrong…or at least try to fix it. No matter the cost.

I hurriedly jump out of my truck, slamming the door behind me as I quickly make my way to the door. I knock loudly several times and, as expected, get no response. I knew it. I knew he would be passed out already. I ring the bell, several times in quick succession, but still I get no response and I chew on my lip as I ring my hands, trying to decide what to do now.

I’m not leaving. That’s just not an option at this point. But how do I get inside if he’s already passed out? Maybe I should just go. If he’s passed out already, he’ll be sleeping it off till morning--nothing to worry about right?

Can’t you die in your sleep from alcohol poisoning?

The thought spurs me into action and I sprint around to the side of the house. I know he likes to go outside, sit in the dark and smoke. Maybe that’s where he is. In the backyard. Or maybe he left a door open. I have to find out. I walk up to the wooden fence and try the gate.

Locked. Of course.

I look up at the tall wooden fence and it’s at least eight foot, maybe more? I slowly back away and briefly consider running up to it and trying to scale it but…it’s been a long time since I’ve done any fence jumping. I shake my head. That’s not going to work and I know it. Best case, I end up falling flat on my face. Worse, I end up breaking something. Not exactly what I need at this point.

Instead, I look around and scan the darkness, squinting into the dim moonlight, trying to find something that will be of use. Finally, I spot a trash can near the front corner of the house. I smile slightly as I realize it’s exactly what I need. I quickly stride over to the trash can, pulling it behind me as I drag it back to the fence. Then I glance around and am suddenly thankful he doesn’t have any close neighbors. It would be just my luck to have someone calling the cops on me.

I shake my head at the thought and jump up, grabbing the top of the fence with my hands, pulling myself up as I bring my left foot to the top of the trash can for leverage. I push myself up and swing my right leg over the top of fence just at the instant the trash can begins to tip over.

“Shit!” The trash can--the only thing really supporting my weight--falls over and I’m forced to grip the top of the fence tighter. I pull myself up as hard as I can with my hands and my right leg, and succeed in throwing myself over the fence…where I crash unceremoniously to the ground, landing awkwardly on my left leg and the palms of my hands. Hard. Pain shoots through my leg and I instantly stifle a cry of pain, reaching for my ankle at the same time.

“Dammit,” I say under my breath. I know I’m probably not in the “best” shape of my life, but this is ridiculous! I slowly pull up the left pant leg of my jeans and run my fingers over my abused ankle. I hiss in pain at the contact, but within moments I realize that it’s not broken. I just twisted the hell out of it.

“Well, this is just great,” I chastise myself as I put my hands on the ground by my sides and gently ease myself to my feet. That’s when I feel the stinging pain in the palms of my hands. I slowly limp over to the side of the house, leaning back against it, and bring my hands up and into the moonlight. I can vaguely see I scraped them up pretty good when I hit the ground and, as I slowly close and open my hands, I realize I’ve gotten splinters from the wooden fence in them too. I shake my head at my stupidity. Am I ever going to do anything right?

I blow lightly on my palms and the pain finally starts to subside. Then I turn my head back towards the fence and glare at it until I realize what an idiot I’m being. I’m the uncoordinated dork who can’t even jump a fence. I shake my head once again and push myself away from the wall with my elbows and try to put some weight on my left leg. Instantly I have to reach for the wall, scraping my left hand against the bricks, and hiss in pain again. Why can’t anything ever go right?

I wait for a few minutes, letting the throbbing pain in my ankle subside, before trying to stand on it again, more gently this time. I find that as long as I’m careful, it will support my weight. I’m just going to have to move slowly. I gingerly make my way along the side of the house, staying close to the wall just in case my ankle decides to give out on me again. Thankfully, I reach the back porch without too much more trouble.

I sigh deeply when I see that he’s not there. What if he really isn’t here? Where would I find him? I didn’t even bother to ask his motorcoach driver exactly where he was going. For all I know he could be in New York. No, I think, as I shake my head. He has to be here. He just has to be.

I walk slowly onto the back porch and stop abruptly as I realize I almost stepped on something as I moved around the single chair on the patio. I look down and frown as I see the carelessly discarded pack of cigarettes, some of them having fallen from the pack. As I look closer, I realize I actually crushed one under my foot. I roll my eyes, letting out a snort of annoyance, and I can’t help but think, at least that’s one less thing for him to kill himself with. I start to move towards the double patio doors when something suddenly catches my eye, glinting in the moonlight. I take another slow step and lean over, bracing myself against the chair and reaching for the shining object. As my hand comes into contact with cool metal, I realize it’s his lighter.

I slip the silver zippo in the front pocket of my jeans as I push myself back to standing and frown at the doors leading inside. Why would he leave his cigarettes and lighter carelessly thrown on the ground this way? Did something happen? I feel the same tendril of fear creep around my heart again as I remember how worried Robbie was.

What if this isn’t just another night?

I shake my head, pushing back my irrational fears, and make my way slowly to the doors. As my hands come into contact with the brass knobs of each door, I take a deep breath, praying silently that one of them is open. I close my eyes as I try to turn them both and instantly let out a sigh of relief as one of them turns underneath my hand.

Thank God.

Now I can see that he’s ok and stop this feeling of panic that I haven’t been able to shake ever since I talked to Robbie outside the garages. Now I just need to find him, maybe try to drag his drunk ass to bed and make sure he doesn’t smother himself in his unconsciousness or something. I shake my head at the involuntary images that flood my mind at the thought of putting him in bed again. I can’t let myself go there. Not after what happened last time. I can’t make things worse. Not this time. I push the door open in front of me and step inside as quietly as I can. That’s when I see that the light in the kitchen is on.

He’s here.

I breathe a sigh of relief and slowly make my way towards the kitchen, paying no attention to the darkness around me, only moving towards the light. I pause right before I step into the room, however, when I realize he could be in there. Maybe he’s not passed out yet. What am I going to say to him? I’ve basically just broken into his house, completely uninvited…

It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it. Worst case, he can just tell me to leave…and I will. I won’t push him this time. I just have to know that he’s ok. I just have to see the life in his blue eyes--even if they are filled with pain--to get the image Robbie painted in my mind out of my head. We can deal with everything I did later--as long as he’s ok. I take a deep breath, trying to ready myself for whatever happens. But as I step into the light, I freeze--nothing could have prepared me for this.

Blood.

All across the floor.

Blood.

Mixed with glass and something else.

Oh my God. What happened? What did he do?

Where the hell is he?

“Jeff!” I call out frantically as I sharply turn from the gruesome image before me. But then I cry out suddenly in pain, as I twist my ankle again. I catch myself on the wall and end up facing the kitchen. I start to pant lightly as I try to push back the nausea that suddenly washes over me as I see the crimson painted floor.

I have to find him.

More slowly this time, I push away from the wall and turn from the sickening sight again, making my way as fast as I can manage through the darkness towards the front of the house. What did he do? Why was there so much blood? Fear fills my chest again and it’s getting harder to breathe. Please let him be ok. I have to find him.

“Jeff! Where are you? What happened? Jeff! Are you ok?” I call out into the darkness and I can hear the rising panic in my voice. Why isn’t he answering me? Where the hell is he?

Finally, I step into the next room and instantly freeze as I realize where I am. The soft moonlight streams through the front windows, giving the room an almost ethereal glow, completely in contrast to the raised voices and desperate actions that took place here just a few days ago. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, pushing back the remembered passion and pain. I can’t deal with this now.

I have to find him.

I open my eyes, scanning the darkened room, and see him nowhere in sight. I swallow heavily against the sudden lump in my throat and make my way across the room and down the hall as fast as my aching ankle will allow. I pause only to glance into the first room I come to, calling out his name again, only to find it’s full of unpacked boxes. Instantly I turn and keep moving down the hall, apprehension growing with every step as I’m not sure what I’ll find. Please let him be ok.

Finally I reach his bedroom. It’s completely dark, and I only hesitate an instant before flipping on the light with a shaking hand. A quick glance across the room reveals clothes strewn across the floor and an unmade bed.

No Jeff.

I bite my lip as I finally notice the light across the room from what must be the bathroom. The door is partially closed and I make my way across the bedroom, dread building with each step. I try to shake it off. Why am I so panicked? He’s gonna be ok. He has to be.

“Jeff,” I say his name again and feel another chill run through me as my call goes unanswered. I take the few remaining steps to the door, intent on finding him, confirming that he’s ok. He’s probably just passed out again.

I pause at the door to the bathroom, suddenly afraid to open it. I’m acting like a total fool. What am I doing? I broke into his house. I’m about to bust into his bathroom. Maybe I should just…

But then the image of blood spread across the kitchen floor flashes through my mind and I don’t care. I’m going to make sure he’s ok. He’ll just have to deal with it. Confidence once again restored, I place the palm of my hand against the grained wood of the door and push it forward, watching as it slowly swings inward.

I’m too late.

Oh God, I’m too late.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Blood. So very much blood. Dead eyes, staring blankly in my direction.

It’s my fault. Oh God, it’s my fault.

My body starts to shake violently at the horrifying image in front of me. Blood. Everywhere, blood. I feel my nausea rise again and it feels like my heart stops in my chest.

He’s dead.

I killed him.

Blood on the floor. Filling the tub. Blood on the wall. Red against white contrasting sharply in the harsh light.

He’s lying in a pool of red-tinged water, head thrown back against the edge of the large, freestanding tub at an awkward angle. Oh God, there’s just so much blood. His right arm is dangling limply from over the side of the tub and his hand is covered in blood.

I see a drop of crimson fall from his dripping hand, adding to the pool spreading across the floor.

No, no, no, no, no!

This can’t happen. Not like this. I can’t lose him like this. I have to make this not real.

I have to do something.

Suddenly my paralysis is broken and I fly across the room, falling to my knees onto the bloodstained floor.

“Jeff, no. Please no. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t leave me,” I cry out as I grab his wrist, turning it over to reveal his blood-covered hand. I press the palm of my hand to his wrist, trying to make it stop, and realize the jagged cut is hardly more than a scratch. Then…what?

I reach for his other hand, floating in a sea of red, and pull his arm closer to me. As I do, I see his head roll to the side against the back of the tub, eyes rolled back in his head, and my body begins to shake more violently. I see the deep cut across his wrist and immediately tear out of my button down shirt, barely taking notice of the streaks of red my hands leave on my white T-shirt. I rip the fabric frantically, wrapping it around his wrist, desperately tying to stop the bleeding. I can see the deep blue of the material growing darker and I don’t know what to do.

How do I make it stop?

I drop his bloody hand, letting it fall back into the crimson water, and rise up on my knees, absently feeling something sharp cutting into the skin of my right leg. I pay the pain no mind as I reach for him, putting my hands on either side of his head and lifting it upright. Cold. His skin is so, so cold. Nothing but dead weight in my hands. “Oh God, Jeff, please don’t leave me,” I cry desperately as I slide my right hand down, feeling in vain for a pulse. I’m panting and shaking as my bloodstained fingers slide across his skin and I can’t feel anything.

Pale. He’s so very, very pale. All his life, poured out on to the floor, filling the tub.

“No, no, no. Please. Jeff, you can’t leave me. Please don’t be dead,” I say over and over as I try to make it all not be true. How could I do this? Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I get here sooner?

Oh God, is he breathing?

My eyes go wide as I swear I see his chest rise and fall slowly. “Oh, please,” I whisper as I try to calm myself down. I try desperately to slow my ragged breathing and I close my eyes, pressing firmly against the side of his neck, trying once more to feel a pulse.

Throbbing.

Faint pulsing beneath my finger tips. He’s alive. Oh God, he’s alive. “Thank you God, he’s alive,” I sob out and gently pull my hand away from his neck, keeping my other pressed against his cheek. I reach in my pocket for my cell phone, but it slips from my bloody fingers, skidding across the floor.

“No,” I cry and gently pull away from him, letting his head rest against the back of the tub again. I grab the phone and freeze suddenly. What do I do? Who do I call. He’s alive…but for how long? There’s so much blood. Inwardly I question my actions as I hit the speed-dial on my phone. What if I’m doing the wrong thing? I can’t make this worse. I can’t ruin his life even more.

I feel pain in my leg again as the phone begins to ring and I look down to find the source. I lift up my knee and find a bloodstained blade on the floor. I start to tremble as I realize that is what he used. That is what he slit his wrists with. Trying to end his life. All because of me. Disgustedly, with a shaking hand, I pick up the blade and hurl it across the room. That’s when I hear the voice in my ear.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone there?”

Panic fills me again as I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I should have called 911. But I can’t take that back. Maybe this way… Finally I shake myself from the debilitating panic and try to form words.

“Dr. Vash. It’s Jimmie. Oh God,” I say unable to keep the panic out of my voice as I move to Jeff again, grabbing his wrapped wrist and pressing my hand against it, trying again to stop the bleeding. “So much blood. What do I do?”

“Jimmie, slow down. What happened?” the voice on the other end of the phone asks and I try to calm down. I can’t help him if I don’t calm down.

“It’s Jeff,” I say and hear my voice crack. I take a deep breath, trying again to slow the racing of my heart. “He’s hurt. There’s blood. So much blood.”

“Jimmie, calm down. Is he breathing? Can you find a pulse? What happened to him,” the calming voice asks, and I feel myself nodding my head as I reach for another piece of my discarded shirt and I pull away the blood-soaked cloth from his wrist.

“He cut himself,” I say flatly, wrapping the fabric tightly around his wrist this time. I think the bleeding is slowing. I keep his hand out of the water and try to form words as I press his wrist between my hands. “He’s breathing,” I say finally. “What do I do, should I call 911? I should. I need to let you go,” I ramble and start to reach for the phone propped between my chin and shoulder.

“Jimmie, wait.”

I stop at the sudden, sharp words. I stop in confusion. What did I do wrong? “You said he’s still breathing right? You could feel a pulse? Bring him to the office. I’ll meet you there.”

This isn’t right. I know this isn’t right. I should call the paramedics. Why did I call the team doctor anyway? There may not be much time. I can’t take the risk. What do I do?

“Jimmie, are you there? I’ll meet you at the office. We can take care of this. Jimmie, answer me,” the voice demands and I can’t bring myself to argue. I look at Jeff’s bandaged wrist between my hands and see that the dark stain doesn’t seem to be spreading like before. Is the bleeding stopping? I can’t think. I slowly nod my head and realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, ok,” I murmur absently. “I’ll bring him,” I say finally and let the phone slip to the floor. Who am I to argue with a doctor? I just need to take care of him. I just need to make everything right. I have to get him out of here.

I take his left arm, draping it around my shoulder, and reach for him, pulling him with me as I try to move to my feet. I grit my teeth as pain shoots through my ankle, but I ignore it, push it back, as I don’t have time to worry about that now. Finally I make it to my feet and I wrap my arms around his waist. Another wave of nausea washes over me as his head lolls sickeningly to the side and I shiver at how cold his skin is. Am I doing the right thing?

I push the doubts from my mind as I try to lift him from the bathtub, but instantly realize this isn’t going to work as all I manage to do is slosh the bloody water around. I lift his arm around my shoulders again, as it slipped when I stood up. Then I pull him as close to me as I can with my right arm and lean down, slipping my left arm behind his knees and try desperately to pull him from the tub. I cry out in pain as my ankle throbs in protest, but finally I’m able to stand and lift him from the pool of blood.

Slowly, I lower his feet to the floor and briefly close my eyes as I bite back the pain. Then I wrap my arms around his narrow waist and half carry, half drag him from the bloodstained room. “Stay with me, Jeff. Please stay with me,” I whisper to him as I make it into the bedroom and over to his bed. I stumble at that point and stop, briefly lowering him to the bed. I run my eyes over his obviously abused body taking in the numerous cuts in varied stages of healing on his arms and thighs, and I tremble. He’s done this before. He’s been hurting himself all this time and I didn’t even notice.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I’ll have plenty of time to berate myself once I know he’s going to be ok--if…if he’s going to be okay, I remind myself. What if he’s not? What if he’s not okay and it’s my fault--I pushed him to this…I didn’t see…I didn’t know…

But God, I can’t think about that now. I’ve got to get him out of here--got to get him to the doctor. Suddenly the thought runs through my head that I can’t take him out this way. I lean over, pulling the blanket he’s laying on around him and check his wrist once more. From the looks of the material it doesn’t seem to be bleeding much anymore. I have to keep it that way. I briefly consider trying to throw him over my shoulder to get him to my truck when the thought runs through my head that his wrist should stay above his heart. Didn’t I hear that somewhere before?

I have no idea if it’s true or not, but at this point I’m not taking any chances. I lean over, draping his arm across my shoulders, and slowly pull him to his feet. A shiver runs through me as his cool cheek presses against mine, but I relax slightly as I can feel his ragged breathing against my neck. “Please stay with me, Jeffy,” I tell him again as pull him closer. I grimace in pain again, as slowly, agonizingly, we make our way across the room and down the hall.

I can feel myself trembling with each limping step, but still I press onward, half carrying him across the moonlit living room. But suddenly I have to cry out as my ankle buckles underneath me again, pitching me forward, and I reach out with one hand to catch myself on the back of the couch. A shudder runs through me as I feel the cool leather under my hand again, but I push it back. I don’t have time for this now. I just have to get him out of here.

I wait only a moment before pushing myself from the couch and tightening my arms around him again. I concentrate on his shallow breathing for a moment and continue making our way to the front door. I can feel myself panting heavily as we finally reach the heavy wooden door and I turn the lock, sliding back the bolt. I open the door, pausing only to close it behind us and have to blink my eyes as sweat briefly blurs my vision. Only a few more steps and we finally make it to my truck.

Awkwardly I balance him against me as I pull open the passenger door. Then I take a deep breath, crying out in pain again as I lift him in the truck. Why did I have to raise this damn thing? I get him into the seat and shut the door, leaning heavily against the truck with one hand as I make my way around to the driver’s side. I open the door and pull myself inside and immediately turn to check on him. His head is resting on his shoulder and I see now that his eyes are completely closed.

Is that a good thing?

I have no idea and no time to wonder as I reach across him and fasten the seatbelt. I pause for only an instant, placing my hand against his cool face--is it a little warmer?--and run my thumb across his cheek. “Please don’t ever leave me, Jeffy. Stay with me. You have to stay with me,” I beg him and then lean back to my own seat, slipping the keys in the ignition and bringing the truck roaring to life.

I waste no time peeling out of the drive and heading back towards the highway. I’m gripping the wheel with white knuckles and I can’t stop casting glances over at him. He has to be alright. As I pull onto the dark highway I see his head drop forward, chin to his chest. The moonlight filtering through the window makes him look so pale--almost as if he’s not alive at all--and I can’t hold back anymore.

I reach over, taking his hand in mine and absently feel something sharp against my skin. I gently hold his hand in mine and finally I can’t keep all the emotions inside at his cool touch. Will he ever be warm again? Suddenly, it’s all spilling out, words tumbling from my lips that I have to say, that I can’t hold back anymore.

“C’mon, Jeff. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I’m not going to let you get off that easy,” I tell him forcefully, willing him to somehow hear me, even through his unconsciousness. I gently squeeze his hand wishing for something, some kind of response. But as I hit a bump in the road pulling onto the highway, his head turns my direction and I see his unseeing eyes--open only a fraction--looking completely lifeless, and again the words come out in an uncontrollable rush. “I’m sorry, Jeff. So very, very sorry,” I say hurriedly. I wish I could let him know. Make him understand. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I should have paid more attention. I should have been there for you. But please don’t leave me,” my words come even more desperate now. “I can’t go on without you. I can’t imagine my life without you. I need you, Jeff. Please hold on. Please come back to me. Please give me the chance to love you.”

I shudder at the thought of losing him now. Of never being able to let him know. He has to know. I can’t let him go. I know he can’t hear me, but still I can’t stop the words, “I’ll fix this. I promise you. We can fix this. I’ll find a way to reach you. I swear it. But you can’t leave me yet. Not without giving me a chance. You have to hold on,” I say, squeezing his hand again for emphasis and again feeling something sharp against my palm. That’s when I remember the blood and glass covering the kitchen floor. He must have cut his hands.

I do my best to watch the road as I turn his hand in mine and finally see the shards of glass embedded in his hand, glinting in the moonlight. Why? Why did he do this? Doesn’t he know that he’s hurting me when he hurts himself? I feel an irrational anger build inside as I glance again between the road and his bloody glass-filled hand.

How dare he try to kill himself?

I take the palm of his hand in mine again, squeezing and shaking it once, even as I feel a bit of the glass cut into my own skin. “You had no right to do this. You should have let me in. You shouldn’t have pushed me away. I’m not going to let you get away with this,” I shout at him, and then have to pull my hand away to grip the wheel as I almost miss my exit. I swerve off of the freeway and suddenly realize how my right hand seems to slide across the steering wheel--slick with blood.

His blood.

I shudder involuntarily and curse myself for my anger from moments ago. How can I blame him? If I hadn’t pushed him so much, forcing him to face something he so obviously couldn’t, this wouldn’t have happened. His blood should be on my hands--it is on my hands. I’m covered in it.

And if he dies…

I shake my head against this thought and instead focus on the road, making first a right and then a left, stopping finally at a stoplight. I turn to him then, putting my hand to the side of his face and sliding it down, again checking for a pulse. My heart stops for an instant as I feel nothing at first, but then--faintly--pulsing under my fingertips. I pause only an instant as I see the light change to green and promise him softly, “I’ll never let you leave me.”

I step hard on the gas once again and make it a few more blocks before pulling into the dark clinic parking lot. As I stop the truck, right at the front door, I still wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I should just head on to the hospital. Why am I even here again?

But before I have a chance to change my mind I see Dr. Vash and a woman I don’t recognize hurrying out to the car with a wheelchair. I’m here. They can help him. It doesn’t matter where we are. Without another thought I turn to Jeff, unfastening the seatbelt and pushing him back against the seat. Then I jump out of the truck, wincing as my left ankle grudgingly takes my weight, and quickly make my way around the truck to meet them. I give them a brief nod and open the passenger-side door as the woman brings the wheelchair closer. Then I reach up, pulling him into my arms and over my shoulder. I stagger backwards a step and bite my lip against the fiery bolt of pain that lances through my leg. I steady myself for a moment and then ease Jeff down into the wheelchair.

Finally I look up for a moment to take notice of those who met me and see the doctor glancing around the darkened parking lot as if he’s worried about someone seeing us. I stare at him in confusion for a moment and then open my mouth to demand what he’s worried about. Who cares if someone sees us? He needs to be worried about Jeff! But before I can manage a word, the woman begins pushing him towards the building and all thoughts about anything besides Jeff flee my mind.

I follow them, limping quickly, and catch the doctor giving me a long look. “What?” I ask him impatiently. Shouldn’t he be checking on Jeff?

“What happened to you, Jimmie? Are you alright?” he asks, motioning to my leg.

“I’m fine. Twisted my ankle. Nothing to worry about,” I tell him brusquely. “Shouldn’t you be checking on him?” I tell him pointedly, motioning to Jeff and the woman as we enter the small building through a side door.

He just nods at me replying, “Of course. We’ll take care of him, Jimmie. Don’t worry.” We walk down a short, brightly lit hallway and then into a small room. I watch as they lift him onto a bed and suddenly feel helpless as they begin talking rapidly with words and phrases I don’t completely understand. I lean heavily against the wall by the doorway as all the events of the night begin to hit me at once.

“…severe blood loss…”

“…infuser…blood in the back…”

“…get a line…”

“…bleeding stopped…”

“…push another liter…”

“…blood type…”

“Jimmie…”

I look up, not even realizing that I had slid to the floor, to meet the eyes of the doctor--Dr. Vash--who seems to be asking me a question. I shake my head, trying to clear it and croak out my response, “Huh?”

“Jimmie, do you know your blood type?” The shortly asked question surprises me and I look up to meet green eyes that seem surprisingly distant…cold. “We should have enough blood on hand that we keep for emergencies and surgeries. But more wouldn’t hurt.” I feel myself nodding, barely comprehending his words. “Do you know your blood type?”

Finally his words begin to reach through the haze of my mind and I reply absently, “O negative. They tell us all to remember…just in case.”

I look up to him again--when did I look away?--and I see him nodding tersely. “That’s good Jimmie,” he tells me. “I’ll send the nurse in a few minutes,” he says and moves back to the woman--nurse--and the bed and…Jeff.

Oh God, please let him be ok.

I’ll do anything. I swear it. Please let them fix him. I can’t lose him now. Not ever. I swear, please God, if you let him live I’ll do anything…give up anything…racing, fame, hell even him if I have to. Please let him be ok…

Suddenly a hand on my shoulder. I try to focus. To stop my spinning thoughts and look up to meet soft brown eyes. The nurse. Why is she here? What was I supposed to do? Shouldn’t she be helping Jeff?

“Jimmie, can you get up, come with me?” I nod slowly and put my hands at my sides, pressing my palms to the cool floor and wince. What did I do to my hands? I feel her reach for me, helping me to my feet and over to a chair several feet away against the wall…facing him. Why does he still look so pale?

I look up suddenly as she pushes me gently into the chair, unable to contain the panic in my voice. “Jeff. Is…is he going to be ok? Please. Tell me. Is he…”

Her hand on my arm, giving me a squeeze. Somehow the touch seems to ground me for an instant. Stilling my rising panic. “Jimmie, it’s ok. You got him here in time.” I try desperately to focus on her words, but she’s not saying what I need to hear. Then finally, “He’s going to be ok.”

I let out a long sigh at her words and repeat them to myself as I look down to my hands, “He’s going to be ok…Jeff’s going to be ok.” I feel the nurse still standing next to me and I look up to see a frown across her face. Suddenly I’m worried again and I ask, panicked, “What? What’s wrong?”

I see surprise flit across her face followed quickly by recognition. “No, it’s ok,” she tells me again. “I just wanted to make sure…we probably don’t need it anyway. You just relax,” she tells me and starts to turn away, and suddenly it’s all clear to me what she was talking about. They need my blood. They need me to help him. I have to help him.

“Wait,” I cry out and watch as she turns sharply at my words. “I’m fine,” I do my best to convince her. “Please, please let me help him,” I plead with her. “Take my blood. It’s ok, I’ve done it before,” I ramble until she finally comes back to me. I look up to her with what I know are wide eyes, and watch as she reaches forward, pressing her wrist against my forehead. I shake her off and say again, “I’m fine, please, just let me help.”

Finally I watch as she nods and turns to a tray she must have brought the first time--I just hadn’t noticed. I watch as she turns my right forearm over, cleaning the crook of my elbow first with alcohol, then with pungent, dark brown iodine. I wrinkle my nose against the smell and turn away as I feel her wrapping the rubber tourniquet tightly around my upper arm, probing my arm for a vein with her finger. I wasn’t lying. I have done this before, but it creeps me out every time.

“Here,” I hear her tell me as she presses a stress ball into my hand. “Squeeze this three times slowly and hold it, ok?” I nod to her and do as she asks, concentrating on nothing but this one simple task. Then I glance over, just in time to see her readying a huge needle for my arm.

I turn my head away quickly, just as I feel the stick of the needle and find myself looking directly at him. The doctor is still hovering over him, checking a bag half-full of crimson fluid that seems to be draining into his arm. I have to look away again, and opt for the blank wall directly to my left. He’s still so pale. What if they’re wrong?

What if I killed him?

I swallow hard against this thought that sends shivers through me and glance back to the nurse, thankful that she didn’t seem to notice. They can’t be wrong. I got him here in time. He’s going to be alright, I think, as I rest my head against the wall behind me, letting my eyes drift closed.

Hand at my shoulder--shaking me. “Jimmie, are you ok? Jimmie,” I hear, and I slowly open my eyes to meet eyes full of concern. I nod, and suddenly my world is spinning and I have to rest my head against the wall again. Why am I so weak? What’s wrong with me?

“We’re done here, Jimmie. I’m going to take the needle out now, ok?” she tells me softly, and I nod my assent to her, more slowly this time. Pressure at my elbow, then a dull stinging pain. I feel my arm bent upwards, my hand against my chest. “Hold your arm here for a minute. I’m almost done.”

I can’t even respond to the softly spoken words. I just rest my eyes until I feel my arm being bent forward again and something is pressed just below my elbow. I open my eyes again as I feel something being wrapped tightly around my arm. I look up as she gives me a reassuring smile and pats my knee before taking the bag of blood--my blood--across the room to the machine by his bed.

I watch her checking over him and replacing the empty bag drained of its life-giving fluid with the one she took from me. At least I’ll be able to help him this way. At least I’m doing something…however indirect. I just wish I could do more.

I watch as she seems to have finished with the machine by his side and turns to him. That’s when I notice the blanket I wrapped him with when I brought him in is at his feet, and he’s dressed in one of those hospital gown things--when did they do that? I see her take one of his hands in hers and, with the other, pull a large piece of glass from his hand using a shiny pair of large tweezers. I can see the blood, glinting off the glass from here, as she sets it aside and moves to pluck another shard from his hand. As she pulls this one away I see blood coating silver and it’s more than I can take.

I feel my stomach churning before it happens, and I’m barely able to sit up and lean forward as I throw up on the sparkling sterile white of the floor. I feel myself panting, even as I hear her move from him, rushing to my side. She squats down in front of me, placing a trash can next to me, making soothing noises. I try to nod my thanks, but even that small movement has me reaching for the trash can, retching again. Finally, I feel my stomach begin to stop twisting into knots and I lean back, resting my head against the cool wall behind me. After a moment or two I feel a damp cloth being pressed to my forehead and a Styrofoam cup being pressed to my lips. I accept the cool water, swallowing it slowly, and then take the cup in my hand, opening my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper softly. She just nods to me and then makes her way back to Jeff. At least I know he’s being taken care of, I think, as I rest my head against the wall again, letting my eyes drift closed.

Warm.

Warm hands against mine.

Feel them--turning my hands over.

“Jeff…” I whisper softly.

Stinging pain in the palm of my hand.

I jump suddenly at the surprising pain and open my eyes, sitting up straighter in the chair at the same time. That’s when I see her, sitting in a chair in front of me, with my hands in her lap. I look down and realize she was pulling the splinters from my hands--I had forgotten they were even there--just like she did with Jeff. “I’m sorry,” she says as I look over to him and see his hands are now bandaged. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s ok,” I reply as I look back to her. “You just surprised me, that’s all,” I tell her. She just nods and makes a motion to continue what she was doing. I nod to her, telling her, “Thank you,” again and try to relax, absently realizing that someone seems to have cleaned up my mess from earlier. I only wince a few more times as she finishes tending to my abused hands, rubbing some type of cream softly into them. Then I hear her chair scoot backwards and feel another presence in the room.

I look down to see her looking up to me as she leans forward, forearms resting on her knees. “You were limping pretty badly when you came in here, Jimmie. Will you let us see if you’re ok?” At her words I turn to my right, seeing the doctor for the first time. He just seems to be staring down at my ankle, frown on his face.

Instead of speaking to him, I turn back to the nurse and ask, “Shouldn’t you be taking care of him?” I motion to Jeff with my left hand.

“He’s going to be ok, Jimmie. Let us take care of you now,” she implores me and I nod to her, not saying another word. I watch as she leans over now, gently unlacing and removing my left tennis shoe, and lightly probing my ankle with her fingers. Then she looks up to the doctor moving to the side. I watch as he kneels down in front of me, taking my foot in his hands. I wince, trying to bite back a cry, as he probes my ankle more roughly, turning it first one way, then the other.

Then he looks up towards the nurse, telling her, “He’s going to be fine. It’s just sprained. Wrap it and give him something.” Then he gets up, not sparing me another look, and walks from the room. I follow him with my eyes, wondering at his actions. Why is he acting like this? I barely have time to think too much about it, however, as pain shoots though my leg.

“Ahhhh,” I cry out and look down to see the nurse giving me a sympathetic look.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be done in just another minute,” she tells me, lifting my leg slightly as she finishes wrapping my ankle. “You should stay off this for a few days, Jimmie,” she says and I just give her a short nod. Doesn’t she know my ankle is the last thing on my mind? I look across the room, finally forcing myself to see him again.

Color.

Finally I see color in his cheeks. Maybe he is going to be ok. Thank God, he’s going to be ok. Thank you, God. Thank you for not taking him from me. Suddenly I hear a noise as the nurse scoots her chair back, scraping across the floor. I look at her, pulled from my thoughts and ask as I turn back to him, “Is it ok if I sit next to him?”

“Of course,” she tells me, and I put my hands on the arms of the chair, trying to push myself to my feet. A wash of dizziness comes over me suddenly and I sway forward, certain I’m going to fall flat on my face. But then I feel a hand on my arm, steadying me, and I let out a small sigh of relief.

“Come on, let’s take it slow,” she tells me as she helps me across the floor. She leads me to a chair, on the other side of his bed I hadn’t even noticed, and I sit down slowly, never taking my eyes from him. I hear her leave, but I pay her no attention. My eyes are only for him.

I reach out slowly, running the back of my hand along the side of his face. Warm. His skin is finally warm. My eyes are then drawn to his mouth, and I watch him breathe deeply through parted lips. His breathing is less shallow…less ragged. He’s sleeping. He’s only sleeping…and that means at some point, he’s going to wake up. “Oh, Jeff,” I sigh as I drop my head down to my hand resting on the side of the bed. “Please. Don’t ever try anything like this again.”

I stay there, head on my hand for I don’t know how long, just taking in his nearness--his warmth--before I finally feel a hand on my shoulder. I slowly turn my head, opening my eyes to see the nurse standing beside me. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…” she holds out her hand and I can see two small white pills in her palm. “These will help your ankle.”

“Thank you,” I tell her softly, letting her drop the painkillers into my hand as I sit up and take the cup of water she offers as well. Then I toss the pills in my mouth, swallowing against the bitter taste as I down the entire cup of water. I turn to set the Styrofoam cup aside when I spot the doctor coming back into the room and over to the bed. He seems to be checking Jeff over and I need to know, “Dr. Vash, what should we do now…about Jeff?” I say as I nod his direction. “Shouldn’t we get him some help or something?”

I sit back in the chair in surprise as the doctor looks up sharply, glaring at me. What did I say? I just want to make sure Jeff stays ok. We made it through tonight, but who’s to say there won’t be another night like this? He’s obviously got other…issues. I can’t let this go on any longer. But then I’m suddenly torn from my thoughts by unexpected harsh words.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jimmie.”

I look up sharply. What the hell is wrong with him? Isn’t he supposed to help us? “Look, doc, he’s obviously not ok. He tried to…”

“You saw the glass in his hand, Jimmie,” he cuts me off quickly. “It was an accident. We both know that,” he says slowly, meeting my eyes with a hard glare. “He’ll be fine by Sunday.”

I feel my mouth drop open in shock at his words. Does he really think Jeff should be getting into a racecar? Is this guy insane? Jeff’s obviously unstable. “Are you kidding me? He can’t possibly…”

“What are you trying to do, Jimmie? I thought Jeff was your friend,” he tells me pointedly. I try to respond again, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “You’ll ruin his career, don’t you get that? NASCAR would pull him off the track in an instant if they knew about this,” he says as he places his hands on the bed and leans towards me…paying no attention to his patient beneath him. “It’s my job to make sure you boys stay on the track. That’s what I’m going to do…besides,” he tells me as he pushes himself away from the bed and takes a step back. “You’re the one who brought him here. Not me. You called me,” and with that he turns and walks coolly from the room.

I watch him in stunned silence, unable to tear my eyes away until he steps through the door and out of sight. I knew this was a mistake. Jeff needs help and this asshole obviously doesn’t care about anything but his paycheck. I shouldn’t have brought him here…but as I look down and see him breathing steadily I can’t berate myself too much. He’s alive. And if this jerk won’t help me help him, then I’ll just have to do it on my own.

I reach down, gently taking his bandaged hand in my own, and whisper, “I’ll take care of you, Jeff. I promise you. No matter what I have to do…I’ll take care of you.” Then I lean forward, my head beginning to feel fuzzy from whatever drugs the nurse gave me, and rest my head on the side of his bed, never letting go of his hand.

~*~*~*~

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

What?

Suddenly I feel his hand, pulled from mine, and I sit up suddenly, blinking my sleepy eyes to clear my vision. As I’m finally able to see straight, all I see is blue.

Swirling blue depths I could drown myself in forever.

He’s awake. He’s finally awake and looking at me. Glaring at me? Why? I see his eyes narrow and turn colder--to ice--and his next words only serve to turn my blood to ice as well.

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

I feel instant anger, mixed with shock, run through me at his softly pleading words. How can he ask me that? How can he even think that? Doesn’t he know what losing him would do to me? I start to answer him, ready to scream at him for everything he’s put me through tonight, but that’s when I finally realize--this wasn’t really about me.

It’s all so clear to me now as I see the unadulterated pain in the fading blue of his eyes as he turns from me and stares up, unseeing, at the ceiling. This started long before me. I should have realized it before. When exactly did the light in his eyes go out? I have no doubt that what happened between us was probably the breaking point. But from the looks of the healing cuts on his arms, and the ones I remember seeing on his legs, this has been going on for a long time.

“I’m not going to let you do this.” The words come softly, as I barely speak them aloud. I watch, feeling numb, as he slowly turns his head, looking detachedly in my direction. Does he even see me?

“Why not?” is his unfeeling response, and you would think we were talking about something completely insignificant by the flat tone of his voice. That’s when I remember his frantic actions of the other night. The way he was out of control, needing so desperately. But more than that I remember the way he sounded when he hoarsely cried my name, lost his own desire, drowning away his pain…

In me.

That’s when I know what I have to do. If I don’t, he’ll just try this again…and what if I don’t find him in time? I can’t let him push me away anymore. If I do there’s no way I can help…if I even can. I have to force him to let me in--even if he hates me for it. I can’t lose him. I don’t know if I can reach him, and I don’t know if he can ever give me what I want. But I know I can’t survive without him. So I’ll do whatever I have to…even if it means more of what happened last week.

I shudder slightly at the thought and what I know I have to do, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Will I ever be able to reach him? How did he get so lost? Can I ever tell him how I really feel? I know right now I can’t. I know that would send him running the other way. No declaration of love is going to break through the wall of despair he’s built around himself. I have to force him. I just hope he forgives me someday. I just hope I can reach him…and just hope he’s not too far gone for this to work.

“I’m not going to let you push me away again, Jeff.” The words sound forced--mechanical--even to my own ears. I know I reached him once, lessened his hurt, if only a little. That nightmare of a night. I know he found an escape from his pain--even in the face of my own. And I’ll do it again. I’ll do anything to help him, even if he hates me for it.

“Jimmie…” he starts and I know what he’s going to say. He doesn’t want to hurt me. It’s written all over his face. He does care about me, of that I’m sure. But that’s obviously not enough to keep him in my life…to keep him alive. I swear a part of me dies at that thought, that he can’t even see how much he means to me. But I push it back as I cut off his words meant to protect me.

“This isn’t up for debate, Jeff. I’m not going to let you do this.” Again, I hardly recognize the flat sound of my own voice. How did everything get so screwed up? Why can’t he just let me in?

I watch as his eyes seem to clear, if only a little, as he finally seems to process my words. He tries to prop himself up on the bed as he turns to get a better look at me and I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to take control--the way he always does. But this time I’m not going to let him. It’s time things happen on my terms, even if I hate myself.

“What do you mean you’re not going to ‘let’ me? You can’t tell me what to do Jimmie…you can’t stop me…” he trails off, looking away, no longer meeting my eyes, and I know it’s time to make him understand. I won’t let this happen again, even if I have to spend every second of the day with him. I won’t let him hurt himself again.

“Actually, I can, Jeff.” I watch as his head snaps up, tired eyes meeting mine. I can see that he’s about to say something, about to try and push me away again, but I don’t let him. I take a deep breath, hating myself for what I’m about to do, but seeing no other way. “You know I want to be with you. You know what I want, and if you try to push me away again…I’ll tell Rick. I’ll them all about this. I’ll tell everyone.”

I watch with a heavy heart as his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open in shock at my harsh words. “You wouldn’t.” It’s nothing more than a whisper and in this moment he looks so lost. And I hate myself all the more.

“I would. I will,” I reply firmly and see him lean back on the bed again. He stares blankly at the ceiling and I can’t help but bite my lip at his obvious pain.

“Fine, Jimmie,” he answers me softly, and the defeated sound of his voice is like a knife twisting slowly in my chest. Why is he making me do this? Why does it have to be this way? “Can you please just get me out of here?” he asks me quietly and I just have to shake my head.

I rise from the chair beside his bed slowly, without a word, and make my way to the door. I stop as I reach the threshold of the room and look back at him, still staring off in space, and can’t help wondering what he’s thinking. Does he hate me now, I wonder? Does he have any clue why I’m doing this? Does he even know that all I want to do is turn around, crawl into bed next to him, and take him in my arms, soothing away all the hurt he refuses to let go? But he wouldn’t let me do that. I don’t know how I know, but I do. He would push me away again, shutting himself off. But maybe…maybe someday he won’t. Maybe someday he’ll let his guard down and let me in.

I sigh deeply as I turn from him and look down the hall. It only takes me a few moments to find the doctor in a small room at the end of the hall. I watch as he gives me a guarded look, obviously wondering if I’m here to argue with him again…but I can’t…not and keep Jeff with me. I shake my head slightly at how twisted everything seems to have become and tell him softly, “He wants to go home.”

I watch as Dr. Vash pushes himself out of his chair, using the desk in front of him, and giving me a nod. As I follow him down the hall, he turns to me and tells me condescendingly, “You’re doing the right thing, Jimmie.” I can’t even look at him as I step back into the small room after him. “Right thing?” Is that even possible at this point? I just want to keep him alive…whatever it takes.

I watch distractedly as the doctor seems to check Jeff over, nodding and talking to himself. Finally I let my gaze fall to Jeff and I see that he’s still staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Is the doctor completely blind? But I know I can’t say a word. Not now.

“The nurse will be back in a moment to remove the IV,” I hear the doctor tell me, and I can barely process his words. “Then you can take him home…make sure he gets plenty of rest.” I nod distantly at his words and then move slowly--in a daze--over to his bed, dropping down into the chair beside him that I vacated just moments ago. I turn to watch him again, moving my hand halfway towards his before stopping. He won’t let me touch him. I pull my hand back suddenly, forcing it into my lap with my other where I absently wring them together. He won’t even acknowledge me…

Still, I don’t take my eyes off him, as he won’t take his from the ceiling tiles. Finally this interminable standoff comes to an end as the nurse finally comes back into the room, frown on her face. I watch her bite her lip briefly before coming to the side of the bed and proceeding to remove the IV, filled with clear liquid I notice now, from his arm. He doesn’t even flinch. Does he feel anything? Anything at all?

I watch as she briefly shakes her head again, glances over her shoulder, and then gives me a guarded look. “Jimmie, I don’t think…” she starts and then casts a glance over her shoulder again. “Look, just make sure he gets a lot of rest and fluids the next few days, ok?” I nod my assent to her, but before I can even begin to thank her for her obvious concern, she turns and hurriedly leaves the room. I watch after her for a moment, my stomach feeling like it’s being tied into knots once again, as she obviously doesn’t think this is a good idea. Maybe I should just…

“So can we get the hell out of here now?”

The words are flat. Tired. And I turn to see he still won’t look at me. But it doesn’t matter. At least he can’t turn me away anymore. I stand slowly, finding that my ankle is still tender, but not as unstable as before. Must be the painkillers, I think as I lower the side bed rail and reach to help him up. He bats my hands away at first, trying to push himself up on his own, but only ends up collapsing back onto the bed in frustration.

“Ready to let me help you now?” I can’t keep myself from asking, even though I know I’m only going to piss him off more. But if he’s pissed, he’s feeling, right?

I watch as he finally turns to look at me, glaring again, and I feel my heart sink in my chest. He hates me. Hates me for all but blackmailing him into letting me be close to him. But he’s just going to have to deal with it. I take a step forward, helping him to sit up and slip from the bed. Instantly, I have to steady him as he’s a little unstable at first. Then I reach for the blanket at the end of the bed, wrapping it around him. I start to reach for him, to guide him out of this too small, too sterile room when his softly spoken words catch me completely by surprise.

“Thank you.”

The words are barely a whisper, and to be honest, I’m not even sure what he’s thanking me for. The blanket? Taking him home? Saving his life? But it doesn’t matter. Not now.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him just as softly, not even caring, for the moment, what his words actually meant. We can deal with that later. For now we just need to get home. I slide my arm around him, and after a moment, he leans against me and we make our way slowly out of the room and down the hall. I don’t see the nurse again, and I have to wonder if she will actually stay silent. But at way she seemed so worried about talking to me as she left, I tend to doubt it.

Finally we make it to the door and I push it open, revealing the still pitch black night. How can it possibly still be night? Will this endless night from hell ever end? I walk him slowly to the car, limping slightly, and open the door for him, helping him inside. Then I walk back around to my side and jump in, cringing the instant I see the dried blood on the wheel. It’s ok, I remind myself. He’s sitting right beside me. It’s all…

“How did you hurt yourself?”

His words pull me suddenly from my dark thoughts. Hurt myself? What is he--

“You were limping. What happened, did you get hurt at the track?” His words are flat, but--I can tell--sincere, even though he doesn’t look at me. I turn to him, watching him stare blankly out the front window, and wonder again how I’m ever going to reach him. Will it ever be possible to get through these walls he’s built around himself? I mean, the only time I ever even seemed to get close…

“Jimmie,” he says my name as he finally turns to face me. At first glance, his eyes still seem vacant--empty--but as I look closer, I can see the concern plainly reflected in those ever swirling blue depths. He’s worried about me. Isn’t he always worried about me? Isn’t that why he always seemed to push me away? I watch as he starts to speak again, but I cut him off, finally answering his question.

“I thought I’d take up a new hobby…fence jumping. Apparently I’m not as good as I thought I’d be,” I answer him wryly, trying to lighten things up. But it’s instantly apparent my ploy didn’t work as I see him frown and turn to look straight ahead again. I sigh, and finally slip the keys into the ignition, starting up my truck and slipping it into gear. I just want to get him home and get this night from hell over with.

“I’m sorry, Jimmie. You shouldn’t have…” he breaks off, and I know what he wants to say. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have “rescued” him. But thankfully, he doesn’t say it. Not again.

I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the road, as I reply simply, “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” I can’t even look to gauge his reaction. It all hurts too much. I don’t want to see his vacant stare, the obvious pain coming off him in waves, the self-imposed isolation--even though I’m sitting right here. I just can’t. Not right now.

We make the rest of the trip in silence as, to be honest, there’s just nothing more to say. I’m forcing him into something he doesn’t want…and he hates me for it. How can I possibly help him--reach him--if he won’t even talk to me? Why does everything just seem to get worse and worse? Why did I ever have to push him in the first place?

I sigh deeply as I finally pull into his drive and cast a glance his direction to see he still hasn’t moved. He’s still staring blankly, straight ahead. What is he thinking, I wonder. For the first time, in I can’t remember when, I really can’t read him. His jaw isn’t clenched…is he mad? From what I can see, his eyes just look vacant…is he sad, full of despair, ready to kill himself again? I just don’t know.

I can’t help but sigh heavily again as I shut off the engine and open the door, slipping from the truck. I can’t believe how completely exhausted I am. I walk slowly around the truck and see that he’s already opened the door. I help him from the truck without a word, and it could be my imagination, but I swear he trembles at my touch. Is it in disgust? Anger? Something more?

I push these thoughts from my head as we make our way to his front door with him leaning heavily against me, and me still limping slightly--what a pair we make. As we reach the door, I turn the knob and push it open. Then I follow him inside…back into the darkness.

My mind finally seems to be all but blank as I walk through the door, numb from all the events of tonight. I just don’t think I can take anymore as I slowly lead him across the living room, for once not paying it any mind, and into the hallway leading to his bedroom. That’s when the world finally begins to spin on its head.

Suddenly I feel hands on me, pushing me backward against the wall. I barely have time to even form a thought as I feel hot lips pressing against my neck. What the… “Jeff…” I barely manage to say his name. He can’t possibly…

“Jimmie, please,” his voice is low in my ear, breathy and full of desperation. But after everything… Suddenly I feel him fall against me and I have to catch him to keep him from sliding to the ground as the blanket around him falls to the floor. Why is he doing this? He’s obviously still so weak. I don’t understand. But even as I work to help keep him standing, he continues running his hands over my chest, slipping one under my shirt to slide across my stomach, sending chills down my spine.

“Jeff, I don’t think…” I start to tell him, but then he’s attacking my neck again, sucking hard at my pulse point almost to the point of pain. I moan at the contact and then feel his hand move down from my stomach, pulling at the button of my jeans. He leans heavily into me again and I know I have to put an end to this…even though my body still so desperately craves him…even after…

No. I won’t go there. And I need to stop this. Finally, I reach down, taking both of his wrists in my hands. But at the face of pain he makes, I instantly drop his left wrist. How can I be such an idiot? I shake my head and look to meet his eyes. “Jeff, you’re still weak, we don’t need to…” but as I finally see the look in his eyes I can’t say another word.

Pain.

More pain then I can possibly imagine, directed right at me.

Hurt.

Hurt and rejection. Hurt that I caused. How can I possibly cause him more pain? But what else can I do? This isn’t the right time…not like this.

“Jimmie, please…” his voice is desperate as he pushes away from me, grabbing my hand as he shakily stands on his own, trying to pull me down the hall. I can’t help but stumble after him, my body still tingling from his hurried touch. What was it I promised him? Promised myself? That I would do anything to reach him? Anything to lessen his pain? But there’s no way this is a good idea…and to be honest…I’m not sure that I’m ready to…try this again.

But I can’t pull away. I can’t leave him. Hell, I wonder if he knows I’ll follow him anywhere. We both make our way, stumbling into his bedroom, and he turns to me, pressing be backwards against his dresser. I reach behind me, my hands coming into contact with smooth wood, and he places wet kisses along my throat again. This is wrong. So very wrong, I think, as my body already starts to betray me. Why can’t I stop him? Why do I crave his touch like I need to breathe?

Hands at my waist, still wrapped in gauze, pushing my shirt up and finally off, disappearing into the darkness around us. Hands on my mine, bringing them to his chest, sliding them along his sides, and I feel him shiver, even at the inadvertent touch. “Jeff, really, we shouldn’t. Not now. Not when you’re--”

“No, more, talking,” he growls as he finally catches my lips in a hot kiss I know is meant to silence me. His tongue is suddenly pushing its way past my lips, and I feel him lean heavily against me again.

I wrap my arms around him, finally, pulling him closer and I can feel the warmth of his skin through the flimsy fabric of the hospital gown. I hold him up as he sags against me again, and as his tongue duels fiercely with mine, I can’t keep from running my hands over his back. Of their own will, my fingers find the ties of his gown and I pull them quickly, freeing the expanse of smooth skin of his back, and I can’t resist sliding my hands over the silky skin.

Finally he breaks the kiss, panting heavily and forcing me to almost completely support his weight. Again I start to tell him this just isn’t right. He’s too weak. But then he leans against me, running one hand down to the front of my jeans to stroke the blatant evidence of my desire through the denim. I let out a low moan and he presses against me, breathing heavily in my ear, pleading with me desperately, “Jimmie, I need…I need…I need…” and I don’t know how to deny him.

“Jeff, I--” but I don’t have a chance to finish my thought as he suddenly pulls back, pulling me from the dresser and across the room…to his bed. My mouth goes dry at all the implications, all the fantasies I’ve had about this moment, but this is so different from what I imagined. But still I move with him as the flimsy gown falls away and I clearly see his need for me.

“God, Jeff.” I lean in to kiss him again, but instead he ducks away from my kiss, grabbing me by the back of the neck and burying his face in my neck. I feel him breathe deeply, murmuring my name against my skin as his other hand runs down my chest, gripping the front of my jeans again. I gasp suddenly as he finally manages to unfasten my jeans, pushing down the zipper, and reaches inside, taking my throbbing length into his hand.

I throw my head back and moan at the contact, fire burning through me at his touch, no matter how rushed and desperate. He’s not the only one who needs. I need. I need to feel him under my hands, feel that he’s real, that he’s here with me. I need to know this isn’t a fantasy and I’m not still standing in the bathroom, watching him lie in a pool of blood. “Jeff…” I moan his name again and run my hands over his hard body, filled with life under my fingertips. I have to make sure he stays this way…no matter what it takes.

I move with him as he takes another step back, but suddenly the feel of warm flesh against flesh is gone and I look down to see he’s stumbled, falling back onto the bed. I start to reach for him, but he turns away, reaching for something out of my sight at the side of his bed. “Jeff, what…” I ask, but he’s back in an instant, reaching for me again.

His hand is cool and slick as he strokes me quickly, and I gasp in surprise again. I move against him as he tries to move to his knees, stumbling and then clinging to my arm with his free hand to bring his face closer to mine. “Jimmie, I can’t. Please. I’m too weak, please, I need you.”

His words are a rush of raw desperation and I want to help him, give him what he wants, but honestly I’m not sure. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. Last time he took total control. I’m not sure what--but my confusion and anxiety suddenly blow away like the wind as he strokes me faster, slick skin against slick skin.

“Jeff, I…tell me what…” I manage to croak out as my body begins to tremble uncontrollably. His hand--still on me for a moment--as he tries again to pull himself up on his knees.

“Jimmie, please,” I see the raw need in his eyes and I know I’ll give him anything he wants. I don’t care if it hurts, I have to make his pain stop…even for an instant. “Jimmie, I need…I need you to fuck me. Please, make me feel…”

He wants me to…but I don’t know…oh god…his hand at my cock again, stroking me, building the fire to a raging inferno. Then he pulls from me again, turning to collapse face down on the bed. I watch as he tries to push himself up to his hands and knees, but only manages to get his knees underneath him, and I know again this is a bad idea. I move forward, my knees hitting the end of the bed and reach for him, running my hands along his sides and I see him visibly shiver. He really wants me that much?

But I can’t hurt him. I just can’t. I don’t want him to feel like I did…how can he want that? I don’t understand. Suddenly, I hear him whimpering beneath me and I know I have to find a way to give him what he wants. I lean forward, sliding one arm around his waist, and trace my fingertips along his hard length. I see him shiver again and hear his strangled cry at my touch, and I wrap my fingers around him, stroking him slowly. I press forward even more, putting my free hand against the bed, coming into contact with something hard under my hand. I pull back just enough to take the object in my hand and realize it’s the same slippery stuff he coated me with earlier.

I move back from him, hearing him cry out in frustration, but I don’t plan on making him wait long. I coat my hands in the cool, slippery substance and move against him again, reaching around to stroke him. “Ahhhhh, Jimmie,” I hear him moan at my touch and I think that maybe I can give him what he needs like this, even as I try to ignore the painful throbbing between my legs. I need to help him--that’s all that matters.

But then he turns to me, looking back over his shoulder as he grips the comforter beneath him in his hands. “Jimmie, please, I need you. Fuck me, please,” he begs me again, and I force back my anxiety at his words. I’ll make it good for him, I swear. I reach down once more, coating one hand with the sticky cool lube, as I trace along his spine with the other. I bring my slick hand up between his legs, tracing along his inner thigh, closer…closer. I run my slippery fingers over eager flesh, touching, teasing, probing, even as he trembles beneath me and I feel my breathing coming even heavier at what I’m about it do. Finally I reach his tight entrance, sliding my fingers across, when suddenly he turns, reaching back and grabbing my hand.

Oh shit, what did I do wrong now? I thought he wanted…

“God, Jimmie, please. No more. Please, just fuck me,” he begs me, and I finally realize what he wants--lust, blinding lust and fucking. I swallow hard, only able to nod to his request and he turns back, lowering his head and resting on his forearms. I press tightly against him now, taking his hips in my hands, still probing gently, seeking entrance. Finally I’m there and I push my hips forward slowly, unable to force myself into him all at once. I grit my teeth against the sensation, cautiously trying to ease my way inside. But at that instant he surprises me, pushing back against me suddenly, and I’m instantaneously surrounded in his tight warmth, throbbing all around me.

I hear his ragged cry as he impales himself on me, and I know it’s pleasure mixed with pain. But he doesn’t seem to care, and he pulls himself slowly forward and then pushes back again. “Jimmie…please…” he cries, and I can’t take it anymore. I squeeze his hips tighter and shift mine back, almost pulling from him, before slamming into him again. “YES!” he screams as he bangs his head to the bed and I hear the raw emotion in his voice. And I know what he needs.

He’ll never need again.

I pound into him, gripping him tightly, as he weakly tries to push back against me. I lose myself to the rhythm I set, losing myself in him as surely as he lost himself in me. The world is nothing but the sounds of our breathing and skin against skin until he screams to me again, “Harder. Faster. Oh God, Jimmie, more.”

And I can’t deny him.

I see his entire body shaking, and I can tell he can barely keep his knees beneath him as he writhes, face down on the bed. And I want to give him even more.

I reach around him now, with one hand, encircling his hard length with my fingers and stroking him in time with my thrusts. “Yes! Fuck me, Jimmie,” he moans again and I do just that, slamming into him as hard as I can, while stroking him all the while. But I can feel myself spiraling out of control, losing my grip on my sanity to the intensity of the sensations of being inside him, touching him, hearing him scream my name again, and again, and I bite my lip hard, trying to regain control.

“Jeff,” his name on my lips, barely intelligible in my passion. I want him to release his pain, if only for an instant…all for me. “Come for me, Jeff,” I scream to him, and I feel his body begin to shudder. “Yessssss,” I continue, to hold back my own desire, building at a breakneck pace.

“Jimmie…” he shrieks my name in a voice I barely even recognize at the same instant violent tremors wrack his body. I hear him howl again as I feel his release spilling over my fingers, and it’s all too much.

“Jeff, oh God…” I shout as I pound into him once, twice, three times more and my body suddenly goes rigid and I can’t breathe, can’t speak for an instant. Then sudden, fierce shaking overtakes me, consuming me completely as I explode in a haze of desire and need. Finally I find my voice again and I wail, similar to the way he did just moments ago, and it’s not even words, just a cry of release withheld much too long.

I come back to myself in pieces, feeling first the unbelievable tightness around me, then the soft comforter beneath my knees, and the silky, sweaty skin under my hands. I pull back, slowly pulling from him and moan deeply at the sudden loss of contact. I kick off my shoes, followed quickly by my jeans, and then crawl up the bed, sliding next to him, intent on holding him after that…that brutal…fucking. God, I hope I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t mean to be so rough, but I swear it’s what he begged for…

I press myself against his hot body, turning him in my arms, and suddenly realize he’s completely unconscious. Shit, what have I done? I turn him to his back completely, running my hand down his face, and see that he’s still panting heavily, even in his sleep. But he’s breathing. He’s ok. He has to be. I prop myself up on my side and look down on him, taking in every detail--his sweat soaked hair, flushed cheeks, heaving chest. I run my fingers through the dark hair on his chest, matted with the sweat of our…fucking…trace downward to his flat stomach, running my hand across it, reveling in the clenching of muscles even in his sleep. Then I reach over, taking one hand in mine, turning it over to trace his palm, and I freeze.

I can see blood seeping through the bandage around his hand. What have I done? I reach across him, taking his left hand in mine and turn it over, seeing the same spreading stain on his hand and wrist. Then I look down onto the bed, clearly seeing where he was gripping the sheets as dark red stains mark the placement of each hand. I pull him against me, biting my lip. I hurt him. Why did I hurt him? Why did I lose control?

Oh I know it’s not bad. I can tell by checking his right hand again, the bleeding has stopped. But the fact remains…I hurt him. And he wanted me to. What if he wants me to hurt him again? I can’t. I just can’t…but it was all so good.

I bury my face in his shoulder in the face of my weakness. I shouldn’t have been so rough with him. I knew he was weak. But I couldn’t help myself. He wanted me…and I know I needed him. I suddenly look up, watching the plains of his face as he sleeps, and can’t help but wonder…is this how it’s going to be? Rushed and frantic, rough sex full of desire and despair? I bite my trembling lower lip at the thought. Will he ever let me love him? Or is this all we’ll ever have…not that I wouldn’t take it. I need him more than I’ve ever needed anything. I love him more than anyone I’ve ever known…and even though my heart screams in longing, wanting every part of him…his heart, his body, his mind, even his very soul…I know I’ll gladly take any part he’ll offer…because I’m only complete when I’m with him.

I lean back slightly, looking down at him, and run my fingers lightly down the side of his face. But suddenly he’s cold, pale, icy skin under my fingers. It’s all been a dream, I realize. I was too late. I was too late and he’s gone. So much blood. Blood everywhere, covering him, covering my hands. “No,” I cry out taking his limp body in my arms as I blink back the wetness in my eyes. It can’t be true. I remember…a bathtub full of crimson, blood painting the floor, the walls. I feel my body shudder at the images, squeezing him tighter and…warm skin pressed against mine.

I look down at him again, so small and fragile in my arms and feel him breathing against my skin. He’s here and it’s suddenly all too much. I feel the sobs wrack my body as the tears begin to flow. He’s here, but am I still too late? Will he ever be whole again? I scoot down on the bed, burying my face in his chest as my body trembles uncontrollably from my ragged sobs.

“Oh God, Jeff,” I cry against his skin. “Please don’t leave me,” I beg him, wrapping my arms tighter around his waist. I try to stop my flood of tears, concentrating on his breathing, on the steady beat of his heart beneath my head. He’s here. He’s with me. And I’ll do anything to make him stay.

Anything.

These authors spend lots of time to write these stories. If you took the time to read this PLEASE take the time to give them some feedback. Happy writers write more ;-)

Catw00man - catw00man@cryptoffic.com