“I’m perfectly fine,” Tim informs me calmly, every inch the confident professional in the midst of the chaos that is a movie in late-production, a shock of pale skin and black clothes amid the almost nauseating burst of color that is Maui. “You’re completely overreacting.”

Then he turns and nearly coughs out a lung, which doesn’t help his argument much. It’s a nasty cough, wet and painful, going on for so long that he ends up half-doubled over against me. A few of the actors glance over in this direction nervously. Lisa-Marie’s eyes are huge and scared in her pale, pretty face.

He’s shaking. I reach out and touch his shoulder, too worried to keep up the just-a-friend mask.

With a ragged sigh, he finally straightens to look at me. His weak smile is not entirely comforting. “Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is shot, about two seconds from breaking. How the fuck he’s supposed to direct with no voice is beyond me. Maybe a complicated series of clicks and whistles. “I’m not dying. That’s the worst one I’ve had in days. Just bad timing, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m gonna have to talk to Lisa-Marie to get a straight answer, I can just see it coming. “Tim-“

“Don’t, Danny.” It’s almost a plea. Glancing over his shoulder uneasily, he drops his voice as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “I’ve got the studio breathing down my neck. I can’t afford to take time off for this. I’ve still got a bad rep, and if I miss a deadline because of a little cold it’s my ass. I’ve never missed a deadline yet, I’m not going to start now.”

“That’s exactly why they keep giving you less and less time. They knew you’d do this-“

“Do what?” Tim pulls away to glare at me. I should be thankful he trusts me enough to at least argue instead of simply ignoring me. Funny how I’m not comforted. “I’m working exactly the same hours you usually do-“

“And how often do you get on my case for that?”

“And how often do you listen to me?” he snaps, then sighs and turns his back on me for a moment. His assistant is there in half a second, all simpering smile and big sweet eyes. She’s wearing far more makeup than strictly necessary.

“Mr. Burton?” she chirps.

“I’m gonna need some coffee, Elise.” His voice is low and rough, more tired than I’ve ever heard it. He doesn’t notice the fact that using her first name makes her beam. He doesn’t even know how much he sucks people in, drawing them into the flame.

“Yes, Mr. Burton.” And with a dark, almost jealously protective look in my direction, she’s gone in a spray of sand beneath her cute little Birkenstocks. I’ve got the urge to throw a rock at the back of her head. It takes more will than I’d like not to do it.

Fuck. I used to be a lot more controlled than this.

“Tim.” I take a step forward, then give up on this stupid need to hide and lay my hand on the back of his neck. Even though it’s almost midnight and the sun has long since gone down, his skin is too hot, too dry. “Look, I didn’t mean to-“

“No. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got every right to chew me out.” With a sigh, he leans his head back against my hand. It’s the closest I’m getting to affection right now.

I start kneading as subtly as I can; he doesn’t need whispered rumors behind his back on top of the stress the producers have laid on him already. His muscles are tense as wires.

I use the gentlest voice I can manage for a question that could easily make him pull away again. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Not that long ago.” Fuck. It’s not a good sign when he starts getting deliberately vague. Turning around again, he offers me a smile. “It’s only a few more scenes now. Then I’m done, and I’ll come back to LA, and you can get as paranoid as you want.”

“I am not being paranoid-“

“Oh, of course not.” Reaching up, he pats my hand, then pries it gently away. “When’s your flight?”

Ouch. Well, that was nice and subtle.

“In about an hour and a half.”

Tim doesn’t even glance up at me as he flips open the battered and red-marked script. “Then maybe you ought to head out,” he offers distractedly after a moment. “Traffic’s bad.”

At midnight, on the off season, in an area that’s been closed off for this very filming. Tim could use some lessons in tactful lies. I step away from him, feeling something between us chill over a little. Yes, it’s petty as fuck, and yes, I don’t have any right to feel this cut off. It’s strictly business now, like it always is when the projects start. The bottom line is that he is my boss, not my lover.

I don’t have the right to worry because frankly, he’s not even mine. Fuck. That’s what I get for deluding myself…

So. I’m tired, and worried, and I just got a nice slap of reality straight across the face. It’s not really conductive to a cuddly mood. “Fine. See you, then.”

Except if I don’t. My mind keeps flashing back to something Lisa-Marie told me once. Way back when, Tim was madly in love with this German painter, Lena something. I saw them on the set once or twice just smiling at each other like stupid, happy idiots, touching absently, talking for hours whenever he got a break, all those things that lovers are supposed to do. Then Tim got bored. Except he didn’t have the balls to tell her he wanted out. Instead, he just never came home, until she finally worked it out for herself and forwarded the divorce papers in the mail.

In comparison to some of the breakups I’ve had, that would be damned near tame. Yet I still have the occasional nightmare that he’ll decide he’s very bored with me. Much as I hate myself for becoming some mewling codependent who’d cling to his shoes and whine whenever he leaves, it keeps coming back to that moment I jerk awake in the night and lay there, shaking and alone.

Funny how most of them start out like this.

“Bye,” he mutters back, fully distracted. His eyes look like somebody gouged out the hollows with a spoon, leaving them fevered and shadowed and entirely too bright. The stupid fuck’s going to put himself in the hospital, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.

I don’t tell him that I love him when I leave.

The sand doesn’t make it very easy to storm back to the car, but I manage. I’d manage a lot better if halfway there Lisa-Marie hadn’t appeared at my elbow. She catches my arm in deceptively little fingers and has to walk quickly to keep up with me. “Danny,” she tries. “Danny. Did you talk to him?”

“If you want to call it that.” Fuck. I want a cigarette. My hands are shaking, I want one so badly. I haven’t nic-fitted in months. “We sort of non-talked.”

“Could you get him to agree to go back to the hotel for at least a few hours of sleep?”

It’s not particularly nice to laugh at the sweet-natured little ex-wife, but I do it anyway. It’s better than curling up on myself and howling to fill the place in my stomach that’s slowly becoming hollow. I’m too fucking unstable to deal with this. Why couldn’t I find a nice normal lover to make up for the fact that I’m so messed up I can barely function? Why’d I have to chose the unintentionally cruel, beautiful thing with big haunted eyes and no self worth?

“Shit.” Lisa-Marie almost never curses, that I’ve heard, but she says the word with such vehemence that I stop to look at her. Her face is drawn with worry, making her look years older than she really is. Tim tends to have that effect on people. “Nobody can get him to do it, then. Some of the actors are about as worn out as he is, but at least we go home for a few hours to sleep. He stays here and talks to producers, and looks over scripts, and God only knows what else. He’s the only one of us who’s sick.” With a sigh, she pulls a hand through her hair and lets it drop back to her side. “He chewed me out for nearly an hour when I tried to talk him into going home. I’d hoped you could convince him…”

“Not fucking likely.” I pull my arm away from her so I can cross them over my chest. “Look. Just let him go. When he gets like this there’s not a lot anybody can do about it. He’ll make it another week or so and…” I let my voice trail off because I can’t think of anything else to say. I don’t even want to think about ‘and then’.

She frowns, tilting her head to study me with those damnably bright eyes. Then she touches my arm and asks, entirely too gently, “Are you two okay?”

And for the first time, I don’t even have an answer.

“Yeah. Great.” When all else fails, lie through your teeth. “Fantastic, even. Look, I’ve got a flight to catch.”

The faint, sad smile on her face says that she knows it’s all bullshit. But she lets go of my arm and steps back. “Have a good flight.”

“Thanks.” I turn my back on her and start walking, telling myself that my hands are in my pockets just because they’re cold, not because I’m shaking. I only get a few steps before I spin around again, my hands reaching for a business card. “Lisa-“

Her smile doesn’t change as she takes it out of my hands and nods. “I’ll keep you posted.”

The sigh pulls itself out of me, half relief and half regret. I should stay here. I have to go. I need to be with him. I need to finish the score.

I wonder how much longer I can take this.

“Thank you.” I conjure up a smile for her. “Take care of him.”

“Take care of yourself,” she replies sternly, then whirls on her heel and starts walking back to the shoot with a enviable sort of grace. You’d never be able to tell she’s been watching her ex-husband kill himself.

I crane my head to look over her, telling myself that I’m not trying to see the skinny figure dressed in black even while I search for him. A few moment’s search get me nothing.

Fuck. I’m pathetic.

I don’t glance back when I walk the rest of the way to the car, and no one tries to stop me. The drive to the airport has no traffic at all.
*******
(Tim)

I hate the tropics with an unholy and abiding passion.

It’s been only about a week, and already the weather has changed three or four times on us. On me, to be very paranoid about it.

Paranoid. Danny. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

All right, all right, obsess about it later. Danny can wait; he’s understanding when it comes to the job related stuff. He’ll hold, this won’t. Back to the thought at hand. I can think linear thoughts, damn it. I can.

The radio propped up on a folding table beside me beeps and chokes out through a staccato round of static, “It looks like rain for the next three or four days as a storm moves in from the east-“

I give in to the urge to smack the radio a lot harder than necessary to turn it off, then turn away from it to pace back and forth across the sand. I don’t necessarily have to trust the weather report; it’s been wrong three times out of four for the last week of shooting. But it’s always right when I don’t want it to be.

Wonderful. I’m a dead man.

Elise eyes me gaugingly from a few feet away. Not considerate, not worried or anxious, just hungry like a predator waiting to strike. Like I’m not supposed to notice that her blouse is conveniently unbuttoned a few extra buttons and her cleavage pushed up almost to her chin by that bra. Christ, you get divorced publicly and suddenly you’re meat.

Meat tepid and sweet and rotting on my tongue, and oh fuck, I don’t have anything left in me to throw up. Maybe Danny was right, maybe I ought to go… somewhere not here, and rest, because I’m swaying or the world is swaying or something along those lines.

I put one hand on the table and lean until the dizziness passes and I can’t hear the throb of my pulse in my ears. Taking a deep breath, I reach for the cel phone with shaky hands.

Can’t go rest. Won’t go rest. Fuck you.

Three rings and they pick up. Why is it always three rings? The exec’s secretary chirps a greeting at me, more perky than anyone has a right to be, then informs me that the execs aren’t in right now, would I like to leave a message?

No, but I’ll do it anyway… “Tell him that the weather’s going to be bad. We’re going to have to extend the shooting a few days.”

She pauses, then begins in the patient voice people use when they think I’m out of touch with reality, “Mr. Burton, extending the shoot could force back the release date-“

“I know that.” Fuck, when did the secretaries start giving me crap? I know the whole complicated system from front to back. Bad weather means no shooting means a few days’ extension means pushed back release date means possibly lower box office sales means my ass in a sling, again. My chest feels tight with stress, and I have to breathe in. Slowly. It hurts. “Just tell him.”

“Yes, sir.” And she hangs up without a thank you or goodbye.

I stand there for a second, staring into nothing. It takes a moment to register that there’s a dark cloud moving in over the ocean, casting shadows on cool clean blue water. But it’s moving slowly. I’ve got time. A day, maybe a day and a half. It’s too precious to waste.

Decided, I shut the cel phone with a click and, after a moment’s consideration, turn it off. I can’t afford the interruption of a call. I’ll check in on Danny afterwards, make sure he’s okay and I’m okay and, by extension, we’re okay.

“Elise. Tell Wahlberg and Carter to get ready to go. We’re getting as much of this done as we can. An all-nighter, if we have to.”

Elise nods once and lets her eyes linger on me for a split second before she’s off and running again. I can’t watch her run, I’m too dizzy to track motion that fast. So I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing for a couple seconds.

Easy, Burton. Easy. You can do this. You’ve done it before. You managed Batman stoned off your ass on cough syrup, you can manage this. You’re a professional; the movie takes priority right now. I can rest soon enough. All I have to do is get through this.

“Where do you want to start?” Mark’s a surprisingly considerate guy. The question comes from a few feet behind me; he’s giving me space, trying not to sneak up on me. They’re all good people, every one of them. I won’t fuck this up for them.

I straighten, wincing at the brightness of the sun, then hold out the script. My hands are shaking.

I can do this. I will do this.

“I want you to start here. With the line right after ‘Thank God you came’. We’re going straight through.”

Thunder grumbles. I ignore it. I’ll live.
****
(Danny)

Africa. Crowded streets. First two weeks. It was raining so hard he couldn’t light his cigarette, and so he ended up standing there, looking very white and very American amid the chaos of the city. He hadn’t meant to come here; this was exactly what he’d left LA to escape. But he had nowhere else to go.

Streetcorner at rush hour, getting shoved and pushed by people bigger than he was until he managed to find a streetlamp to cling to and lean against like an anchor. His clothes were soaked to him, and the rain was trickling steadily into his eyes, blinding him as he bent to check the latch on the already battered violin case. His stomach rumbled ominously, and he ignored it. Hunger was quickly becoming secondary. He wasn’t dizzy yet, and therefore could go a little while longer. The insurance money had to last.

Someone shoved into him, unexpectedly and in just the right place to knock him off balance. He staggered, almost into the street. It would not have been a graceful landing; something would have broken.

A large, strong hand caught the back of his shirt and tugged him back into safety in the form of a very solid body behind him. The smell of sandalwood and coffee, and he tilted his head back to blink up into the rain at the man who was towering over him.

“Careful there.” It was a rumbling bass sound, almost making up for the fact that the words were completely unnecessary. It took a moment to sink in that they were words he actually knew.

Spinning, he found himself at eye level with the other man’s chest. Years of practice let him recover quickly, looking up to meet very dark eyes. “You speak English?”

“Usually.” An amused tilt of full lips.

“American?”

"No. From Mali, actually.”

He shrugged. Anyone who spoke English was appreciated at the moment. “You want to get some coffee?”

The other man smiled, a slow curling back of lips from teeth. It was bizarrely endearing. “You always this forward?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone in a week and a half.”

“Ah. I’m honored, then.” That same large hand extended. The other man had very nicely trimmed nails. “My name’s Roger.”

“Roger.” He’d held out his hand. It was quickly engulfed in the other man’s larger one, black against almost white paleness. “I’m Danny-

“-Elfman?”

My head jerks off the seat fast enough to hurt. I turn my head to glare across the sleeping college student in the aisle seat at the stewardess hunched over, peering curiously at me.

“What?” It comes out almost a snarl. She actually flinches. Ooh, bad quasi-celebrity. That’s not at all polite. The nice woman had the decency to wake me up. Taking a deep breath, I force a courteous smile. “Sorry. Stressful day. What did you need?”

She eyes me for another moment, looking a lot more disdainful than she did a few minutes ago, then reaches back to retrieve something from the cart. “You asked for a scotch, sir.”

“Ah. That’s right.” I don’t remember asking. I take the glass from her anyway, cradling in my hands like a love-… like something very, very fragile. I’m not thinking in love metaphors just now.

I tip her more than the drink cost and she leaves satisfied. Cupping the glass in my hands, I turn to stare out the window again, taking sips when it occurs to me that the drink is still in my hands. I refuse to think about anything just now. I stare at nothing, at the imperfections in the glass in my hands, at the calluses on my fingers, at the drool shining on the girl’s lower lip.

I will not think about Tim.

The scotch is good. Smooth, rich, probably expensive as fuck. It slides down my throat and warms the pit of my stomach, filling the hollow place growing there. After the first few sips, I can’t taste anything anymore.

I will not think about the way he looked like he’d been beaten, his eyes were so shadowed. I will not think about the fevered look in his eyes and the tremor in his hands.

The girl next to me has very delicate hands, like she’s never seen a day of work in her life. Her skin is marred by a red X across the back of her hand, drawn by marker.

I will not think about what I could do to keep him from leaving. I will not think about how fucking empty the house would be without him.

So. Work. I conjure up the theme in my head, running through it, humming so quietly it’s almost silent. The girl shifts in her sleep and nuzzles the pillow.

I will not think about how long Tim can last like this before he breaks. I will not think about what’ll happen when he wakes up in the arms of his pretty little ex-wife instead of the cynical, possessive, paranoid bastard that he somehow ended up with.

Christ. I am so overreacting. It was one time, one brush-off, nothing important. Tim can take care of himself. Besides, it’s not like this fucking relationship meant anything anyway…

Outside the window, the sun is starting to rise, coloring the sky with all sorts of colors and brightness. It promises hope.

I pull the windowshade down, knock back the rest of my scotch and turn my back on what little light shows through.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

I am such a fucking liar.
*******
(Tim)

I can’t stop shaking.

It’s been hours, one big blurry span of time lost in calling out direction and watching them act and feeling the humidity of the storm draw in. I can’t remember most of it, but it seems in line. They know what they’re doing. Hours lost in three takes and two cups of coffee, not for the caffeine but for the warmth. Chills and sweat, sweat and chills, back and forth and back and forth like a thermostat on the fritz. I can feel my shirt drenched to my back, sticking to it. Disgusting.

The first fat drop of rain slams into the sand with a burst of dust that I probably wouldn’t be able to see if the world hadn’t suddenly slipped into hypersensitivity. The lights are too bright. I just stand there for a couple of seconds, feeling the rain fall. It feels good and bad, too much and not enough. I don't feel right in my skin.

“Okay.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, underwater. I’m not sure if that was out loud or not, but hell, people turned. I might as well go with it. “We’re done for a while. Go home, get sleep, I’ll call you when I need you. Go.”

That probably wasn’t very coherent, but they turn and start heading towards their cars anyway. The crew starts packing up with loud noises and much talk; I stand there and watch them until the last of it’s packed away and getting rolled back towards the equipment truck.

Done.

My knees give out from under me like that was the only thing holding me up. It’s raining in earnest now, I should get back to the car before I get any sicker than I am, but I end up just kneeling here in the dust, shivering. Shivering.

I don’t think I can move.

The rain turns the sand into a muddy slop bit by bit, melting it together. Melting me, maybe. And that doesn’t make much sense but I’m not caring. I’m tired. Fuck, but I’m tired.

Rain in the ocean. Nice symbol for futility. About as futile as me trying to move. I feel like a broken doll, like one of those marionettes Danny has strewn all over his house my house our house, except the strings are cut. A marionette with broken strings isn’t much use to anybody.

“Tim?” A gentle voice. I know that voice. I should look up at her, but I feel brittle. Moving my head might break something. I hurt, every inch of me aching. Why didn’t I feel this before? “Tim, sweetheart, it’s me.”

“Danny?” It hurts to talk. It hurts to breathe, really, and that’s not a good sign. But he’ll take care of it. He takes care of things like that. It’s a Dannyjob, really, comes with the territory and I can’t feel my hands anymore. I’m swaying.

“No. No, I’m not.” Cool hands, smooth on my face, nails painted black. I know her. Doesn’t matter, though. “God, you’re burning up…”

“Can you take me to Danny?” Because that’s important, somehow, that’s a necessary thing. It won’t get better until then. My vision keeps turning into one big smear of gray and sand and stars. It isn’t night out.

“I can bring him here. Will that work?” Her voice is shaky. I think she’s scared. And honestly, there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a little rain and some thunder. “But first you need to get up, okay? I can’t carry you.”

“Fine. Fine. That’s fine.” Hands on my ribs, tugging me up, making the world spin and darken and that is a damned good reason to be afraid. I’m trying to struggle up to my knees, but nothing wants to work, not my legs or my eyes or my head or my words. “Fine… find…”

Find. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but-

I’m halfway on my feet, and the ground is lurching. Handfuls of leather jacket in my hands, and she’s stumbling, and I’m stumbling. No time left. I have to tell her something, something important, I can’t even remember it myself and-

“Find him.” My legs go out from under me and I go down. “Need him. Find-“

“Tim-“ And she sounds urgent, terrified, but I can’t help her. I hit the sand and the air goes out and the world caves in around me.
****
(Danny)

The studio. Bright lights, bad coffee. I leave the air conditioning on high to keep myself awake. Steve doesn’t say a word about it, but the occasional techie wanders through and shivers overdramaticly. Whiny bitches. Just because they can see their breath…

“There’s something off in this line right here,” Steve says suddenly, breaking the silence that twenty years of working together has let us operate in. Pointing at the offending note sequence, he lifts his head to look at me. “Won’t quite mesh with the rest of the piece. Or anything else, really.”

I start to snap back on reflex, ready to defend what I put down, then realize that I don’t know why the fuck I put it there in the first place. “Oh. Yeah. Shit. Okay, just replace that with this-“ I scribble something in the sequence’s place, “and it’ll be good.”

“Hm.” Steve rubs a hand through his hair. It’s the same mess it always was, but graying at the temples now. None of us are getting any younger. “I’d have thought you or Tim wouldn’t let that slip though.”

“I’ve been distracted.”

“Obviously.” Flipping through the last couple of pages, he nods finally and pushes the piece of paper back at me. “The Academy will despise you for it. Be proud.”

“Ah. My job is done, then.” The piece of paper goes in its proper place on the pile of already written score. “So what now?”

Steve snorts. “You’re never satisfied, are you?”

“No. Do you have the orchestra set up to go through the cues for the scenes that’re already in the can?”

The slow, crooked smirk tilts his mouth up. “Guess.”

“You knew.”

“I knew.” Reaching out, he tweaks my nose with an all-out grin, knowing damned well that I’d bite anyone else’s hand off. “C’mon, it’s been twenty years. We might as well be fucking married. I know the ‘dear God please give me something to do before I break down’ look.” Slanting me a sidelong look, he asks in a studiously neutral voice, “Should I ask?”

“Don’t bother. You won’t get an answer.” Suddenly the floor is intensely interesting.

“I figured.” Steve glances at his watch, then sighs. “Unfortunately, it’ll be another half hour before the union’ll let the musicians work.”

“Bastards.” I reach for the coffee cup on reflex, just something to do with my hands, then stop and scowl when it comes up empty. Setting it down with a thump, I lace my fingers behind my head. “They didn’t used to be this fucking touchy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a changing business, Daniel.” Unfolding himself from the chair, Steve gets to his feet and winces as his back pop. I wince for an entirely different reason. He’s still the lanky, tall guy I knew, which means he towers over me, which means I have to look up to follow him. After almost twenty-four stressful, caffeinated, traveling hours, my head is not up to that kind of tilting back and forth. The world is starting to tilt with me. It’s depressing.

Steve smirks a little, sympathetically, looking far from fresh himself. “Mind if I go upstairs and steal some of your coffee?”

“That’s what it’s there for.” Letting the chair cant backwards, I jab him in the stomach with a toe and fake up a smile. “Bring me a cup and I promise not to beat you to death.”

He gives me a mock-wary look, but nods. I’m not so sure he won’t spit in it, but honestly, it’s not like we haven’t traded spit before. Caffeine takes precedence. After the nightmares I had on the plane, I’m not taking any risks. Not until I’m sure I can close my eyes safely again.

Or as safely as I get, anyway. Which means I only wake up with the taste of ashes and wine on my tongue and the memory of groping, bony white hands, gentle black ones, once every week or so instead of every fucking hour.

Christ. Way to hold on to the trauma, Elfman.

Steve’s footsteps fade into quiet creaking over my head, then silence. Silence. Too much silence in here. I got used to it after the divorce, but with Tim, the occasional little reminder that someone else was here and waiting and alive…

Another problem with the silence. It’s far too easy to slip into brooding over such minor concerns over the fact that Tim’s cel phone was apparently disconnected; he never turns the fucker off, not after he started quietly growling at me for leaving home without one. Or the fact that I haven’t heard anything from Lisa-Marie despite the fact that it’s been almost thirty hours now. Or the fact that I’m a paranoid, clingy bastard. Or the fact that it’s hard to breathe around the growing conviction that he’s not coming back. Or-

The phone rings.

It’s a startling sound, tinny in the silence, echoing flatly off the walls. Discord, wrong note at the wrong time. Why the fuck am I suddenly afraid of a phone?

It rings again, high pitched and jarring.

Don’t pick it up. I can almost hear the voices in my head whispering a warning. It’ll ruin everything. Don’t pick it up, just ignore it, just-

Tim.

My hands move automatically, flipping up the phone and holding it to my ear. The connection crackles and spits with static, like the person is indoors. My voice sounds off. “Hello?”

“Danny?” Something’s wrong with Lisa-Marie’s voice. It sounds too high, too strained, hard to hear over the background voices. “Oh, thank God. I’m so sorry, honey, I’ve been trying to reach you but they kept giving me paperwork and asking me questions and I had to call around for the answers, and fuck, I should have called you first-“

It’s entirely too easy to forget that Lisa-Marie is still a baby compared to Tim and I, until you hit moments like this. She sounds fragile. I don’t want to know why she sounds fragile. “All right. It’s okay, just calm down, just breathe. Where are you?”

A few deep, trembly breaths. Then, shakily, “Maui General Hospital.”

The hospital. No. Please, no.

Somehow I’m back in the chair, with no real knowledge of how I got there. My heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears. “What happened?”

“He… he just collapsed, Danny. He got the filming done, waited until everyone had left and the storm had already started, and he just crumpled right there on the beach like that was the only thing keeping him moving. Of all the stupid, stubborn-“ She cuts herself off and makes a noise very much like a sob.

A sound behind me makes my head snap around. Whatever look is on my face makes Steve stop dead. Cupping my hand around the reciever, I snarl because it’s better than breaking down, “Maui flight schedules. Now.”

He knows that voice, and doesn’t ask questions. Turning, he goes back upstairs, leaving me alone with my impending nervous breakdown.

“What’s wrong with him?” Which is easier than asking how bad it is. I’m not sure I could deal with the answer.

“They don’t know. His fever’s at 104 and climbing, they can’t get it to break. His lungs are clogged, they’re saying something about pneumonia, and… fuck.” Her voice cracks into silence. If I hold the phone any tighter, it’s going to crack. Drawing in a shaky breath, she says finally, “Get down here, Danny. As soon as you can.”

That’s the beginning of a dismissal, I can hear it in her voice. But there’s one more thing I have to know. I can’t make myself move until I know. “Lisa.”

“What?” She sounds sulky, her voice too thick. I’m not wired to handle crying women when I’m about three seconds from doing something incredibly stupid.

“When did it happen?”

"I don’t know. A few hours after you left. Not too long. I told you, the paperwork… why does that matter?”

A few hours. A few fucking hours, and I could have been there to make this stop. I don’t know how, but damn it, I could have done something.

“It doesn’t.” Even to me, that sounds flat. “Look, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Call me if anything else happens, okay?”

Neither of us have to ask what ‘anything’ is supposed to mean. Two of the ‘dark people’, dancing around death with pretty words and euphoniums. I make myself fucking sick sometimes.

She mutters an affirmative, her breath hitching. It’s almost enough to make me feel bad for hanging up on her.

The second the phone flips shut, Steve pokes his head through the doorway and shoves a print-out at me. “You’ve got an e-ticket for a flight to Maui that leaves in an hour. Move your ass and you’ll make it.”

Without even a question. Thank someone or other for tall ex-guitarists who know when to keep their mouths shut. I grab the paper and slide past him, up the stairs. I don’t bother to thank him, like I don’t bother to grab a suitcase or clothes. I don’t need any of that. The only thing that’s necessary is getting on that fucking flight.

I shouldn’t drive like this. My hands are shaking too hard. The radio is still playing from when one of the kids stole the car; I don’t want to risk taking my hand off the wheel to turn it off. It’s too bright out, too hot, too busy, too unreal. It feels glassy, like the slightest brush of someone else’s hand will jerk me out of this.

Someone wake me up.

I should have stayed with him. I knew something like this would happen, but I walked away anyway because I’m a sick, petty bastard and now Tim… he…

People die from pneumonia. People die from fevers like that. He could die on me. Like everyone else. Like…

I slam my hand against the wheel, hard enough that my hand aches and something could break. Everything could break. Fragile world, fragile lover and why the fuck did I fall in love in the first place?

An hour until the flight leaves. Another few hours before it lands. Another hour waiting for a ride, waiting in the sterile hallways, waiting… My life has fractured into hours.

Don’t you dare die before I get there, Burton.

Don’t you fucking dare.
****
(Tim)

Black and red and black again, pushing in, crowding in, crushing in. I keep falling deeper and deeper into it, into the dark tar so cold it’s hot that clings to my skin and pulls me down where there’s only silence. I hang on the sides of what looks like a cliff, stretching on forever above my head, pressing my fingers into tiny notches of rock until my fingernails curl back and the bones start to fracture.

“Jesus. Somebody help me.” I don’t expect the muttered words to get me anything besides the sound of my own hoarse voice rasping and echoing back at me. My chest aches deep, so deep it’s hard to breathe, like something is crushing me slowly. Ribs break inch by inch, sharp bone pressing back against soft fleshy lungs, ready to slice and stab and steal the air. Ready to kill me.

Panic ripples in a hot wave, hard and bright up my spine. I gouge my fingers into the rock and struggle my way up. Blood trickles down my hands. My muscles burn. Pain. It would be so easy to just fall.

“Shh.” Something cool slides over my skin like a blessing, brushing back sweaty hair, wiping the blood away. My breath catches on a desperate moan, welling deep like poison. Fingers comb patiently through my hair, petting, gentle.

The tar starts to loosen its grip, sliding fractionally away. That crooning female voice pushes the darkness away.

I lean against the stone, feeling it rough against my cheek, and manage to rest for a few precious seconds. I’ve been fighting like this for hours, days, maybe weeks, maybe years. I can’t remember not fighting. I’m tired. So very tired.

The slow, easy touches stop, making me jerk back into tension. The dark starts to tug at me again, starts to pull and drag me down. I can’t fight forever. I’m not even sure of every second that ticks interminably by. I can’t wait for-

His name slips through and echoes in the dark like a prayer. The darkness is unimpressed. Obviously they’ve never met.

Within a few seconds, that gentle touch is back. It strokes away the sweat and eases the shaking in my slowly numbing hands, pushing away the nightmares that linger at the corner of my vision. They’re usually a blessing, company in the darkness of my mind, but not now. Now they’re hungry. They stare at me and gnash their teeth and stare with blank unblinking eyes, and they know I don’t belong in this untouched place. They want me gone one way or another, up or down, brought out of the dark or crushed by it.

“Relax, baby. Just hang on. He’ll be here soon.”

Soon. And the promise gives me something to cling to, an extra handhold to wrap my bloodslick and dirty fingers around and to haul myself up by. Hurt, pain, fear of falling. Fear of what waits in the dark.

Please. Danny. Soon. The words bring back memories of a hundred sweat-soaked and sweet nights, the arch of his back and his throat, the baring of those white sharp teeth, the line of his shoulderblades, the feeling of his arms around my ribs to hold me still and hold me close.

Sweat-soaked. Fever. There is no abyss, just a fever-

The handhold slips, and I slide down a few inches I can’t afford. Sharp rocks tear open my skin. My blood wets the stone.

It’s real enough, apparently. And if I slip…

“Soon. He’ll be here soon.” Slow stroking hands come back again, neutral touches. Her hands smell like antiseptic. The nightmares retreat, but they don’t go back as far this time. Their teeth flash at me in the dark, a silent promise.

Yes. Soon.
******
(Danny)

I fucking hate hospitals. They have too many bad memories, too much white bright sterility pressing in on all sides. I hate them almost as much as I hate waiting. Between the time zone change and the travel time and the two hour delay in LA, it took too long to get here. My nerves are frayed to the snapping point, and the iron-haired bitch behind the counter doing her best to ignore me really, really isn’t helping.

“Excuse me.” There. Polite. I can do polite, though I don't know why it matters anymore.

She glances at me over her glasses, then sighs and turns her chair until she can look at me. “The psychiatric clinic is down the hall, sir.”

At any other time, that might be funny.

Leaning against the counter, I inform her rather tersely, “No. I’m here about a patient. Tim Burton, he was admitted about a day ago. I’m-“

Something behind her eyes snaps shut at the sound of his name. Sitting back, she looks at me coldly as she recites what’s probably a pre-written speech. That or she’s memorized it, trying to beat off the press. Or both. “I’m sorry, sir. Only the family is allowed to see Mr. Burton right now.”

“I’m part of the family-“

One gray eyebrow tilts up and she eyes me skeptically. I swear, if I have to dye my hair black to sneak past this battleaxe… “Can I see some ID to prove that, sir?”

I am about two seconds from wrapping my hands around her throat and squeezing. The security glass isn’t going to save her if I snap. “I’m his-“

Shit. We’re not out.

Faltering to an awkward stop, I say lamely instead, “A friend. A close friend. Look, I should be listed as one of the next of kin-“

She rolls her eyes, and something in me tightens into a knot I can’t breathe around. I take one threatening step forward, and she starts to reach for the button to call security. My lips curl back into a tense, humorless smile.

And a familiar voice breaks in mid-stride.

“Danny!” Lisa-Marie’s weight as she throws herself on me and into a tight, rib-cracking hug, nearly throws me off balance. I can feel her shaking. Her voice is muffled on my shoulder. “Thank God you’re here.” Letting go, she rubs at one dark ringed eye and offers a weak smile. Her hand is like an iron band on my arm. “Come on, you need to see him. He’s been-“

“Hold on a second, sir.”

The bitch’s voice isn’t very loud, but it stops us both dead. There’s a warning there.

Untangling myself from Lisa as gently as I can, I walk back to the window. “Is there a problem?”

Most people would back down from the quiet snarl in my voice, but I somehow pissed this one off. She meets my eyes, her lips thinned as she shakes a crinkled form of paper at me.

“This,” she says it very calmly, so calmly I almost miss the grim satisfaction in her voice, “is Mr. Burton’s medical record, faxed in from LA. It lists his next of kin. And the only one he listed is that young lady right there.”

My world tilts.

Grabbing the counter so I don’t fall, I stare at her, disbelieving. Not wanting to believe.

No. It’s been almost a year since those two broke up. He had time to take her name off, or put mine on, in case something like this happened. He had almost 12 months. He could have.

Maybe he just didn’t want to.

The look on my face must be terrible. Her expression changes to something almost sympathetic, but all she says as she folds up the paper is, “I’m sorry, sir, but until the doctor changes his status to something more stable you’re not allowed to see him. It’s hospital policy.”

Someone nudges me, and I move stiffly aside to let Lisa-Marie lean where I was standing. I feel like if I move too fast I’m going to break. There’s a kind of desperation on her pretty face as she presses her fingertips against the glass and pleads where I can’t let myself. “Ma’am, please, if he could just sneak through for a few minutes. He and Tim are close, like brothers. Tim’s been asking about him for hours, it’s about the only coherent thing he can say…”

Hmm. I’m not sure if she deserves an Oscar or an award for world’s most blatant bullshit-artist. Probably both.

I feel hollow when I carefully prop myself up and start walking, step by precarious step, towards the waiting chairs. I’m probably moving like an old man. It’s appropriate. Lowering myself into the chairs, I stare at the ceiling for a while and try not to think. If I think, I’m going to snap and start throwing things. If I listen to Lisa-Marie’s quiet little voice as she pleads, I’m going to scream and this time I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.

I’m such a fucking idiot.

“Mr. Elfman?” The edge on the bitch’s words make it very clear that it’s not the first time she said my name.

I raise my head to look at her, my expression carefully blank. I don’t say anything, just wait.

“What is your relationship with Mr. Burton?”

Now there’s a good question. Makes me wish I knew the answer.

I consider for a long few moments, recalling his smile, the way he made hand gestures so expansive it threatened the furniture, the way the Christmas lights reflected on the tear streaks on his face.

“We fucked,” I inform her flatly and put my head down back again.
*****
(Tim)

She always smelled like cheap cigarettes, the ones that stained her fingers yellow and eventually killed her. They lied to us in school, on television, telling us that grandmothers were supposed to be big huggable women who made cookies and gave hugs and smelled like peppermints.

My grandmother got arrested for throwing a brick at a police officer and inciting a riot at Haight-Asbury. This was far before the ‘make love, not war’ movement. She always claimed that it was because she thought he was an alien possessing a human body, but every time I asked her about it she just smiled this strange, crooked smile and didn’t say anything.

Her house was a grand assortment of the strangest, darkest, most wonderful things. She had a wall that was covered with yellowing obituaries. Crosses, vases, voodoo masks, drawings by children that weren’t hers covered pretty much every surface. She would start drawings or sewing pieces, then lay them aside and ignore them. Her house was a mess. It got tore down in ’89 for some sort of building violation shortly after she died.

Yet I’m kneeling on her carpet, shaking with bone-deep cold, my fingers slowly bleeding everywhere. My shoulder is hanging like it was broken. I grip it with my fingers absently, wondering if I have the balls to set it, watching her watch me watch her.

My grandmother is rotting on the carpet.

One side of her mouth curves up, and flakes of decayed skin flutter from her face to the floor. Raising the cigarette, she takes a deep breath of smoke. It seeps up from below her tattered and worn old dress. She hated that dress. Mom had her buried in it anyway.

“So.” It’s impossible for a corpse that badly rotted to talk, but her voice comes out anyway, almost unaltered. “Look who came for a visit.”

“Where is this?”

That smile again, the one that always made me doubt whether she was really just a ‘poor senile thing’ as my mother claimed. Even with her eyes hollowed out, eaten away, there’s an intelligence to her withered face. “You’re the wunderkind director, boyo. Guess.”

“I’m dead.”

“No. Not at the moment, anyway.” Turning her head with the creak of something barely moved, she gestures at the kitchen. One of her ears falls off and hits the floor with a soft, wet thump. I reach out with my good arm, gather it up and offer it back to her. She ignores that until I put it carefully back down again. “I’ve still got some of your pictures up there, you know. On the fridge. That pissed your mother right off; I wasn’t supposed to encourage you.”

“I remember.” Sitting back, I rub my fingers together and watch the blood flake away to the floor. “Grandma, what about the pit-“

She makes an impatient gesture with one hand. The skin slides out of time with her bones, like a bag of liquid around her skeleton. “Forget it. You’ll go back there soon enough. I wanted to talk to you.”

“So I’ll go back to the pit-“

“Forget the damned pit, Timothy!”

I flinch. I can’t help it. The iron in her voice is new, nothing aimed at me before. She sounds suddenly, terrifyingly sane. Folding my hands in my lap as best as I can with one arm going slowly dead, I look up at her through my hair. I don’t say anything. I’d stammer if I tried.

She takes a deep breath she doesn’t need and reaches up to brush hair out of her face. Her hair has long fallen away except for a few pale strands, like spiderwebs. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“W-what-“ Damn. I grit my teeth and try that again. “What do you mean?”

Flicking her ash at a passing cat, who hisses and skitters under the coffee table, she shrugs one shoulder. White bone tears through the skin, then disappears under it while I stare in a horrified sort of fascination. At least I have something to draw when I get back. If I get back.

“According to some reports I’ve been getting, you aren’t meant to be Here,” she says the word like it should be capitalized, “for a while yet. Something’s rotten in Denmark. And it isn’t me.”

I duck my head, staring at the scars on her floor. It occurs to me when I stare at the floor for a while it seems to flex ever so slightly. Flex, relax. Flex, relax. Like something breathing.

I stop looking at the floor very quickly.

“I f-fucked up. If I hadn’t kept pushing myself-“

Her snort cuts me off. Dropping her cigarette carelessly to the floor, she leans forward to put her elbows on her knees and stare at me with her vacant eyes. The smell of her, something dry and dusty and obviously long dead, rolls over me like a wave. “Arrogant little bastard,” she mutters, almost fondly. “You really think just not sleeping off a little cold could put you in an early grave?”

Realization settles like a cold weight in my chest. “You mean somebody else-“

Sitting back with a creak, she puts her feet up on the table. “Someone has thrown off the balance of things. Shortly, someone will restore it. It’s simple.”

“Wait, but who-“

“So I hear you’re a cocksucker now.”

The non-sequitor catches me completely off guard. Blinking, I stare at her for a few seconds.

Taking silence as an answer, she smiles a grim, toothless smile. “I figured. You always were a little off. You fucking artists…”

“I love him.”

“You think we don’t know that?” She steeples her fingers together, a gesture that looks eerily familiar to one I’ve seen in the mirror. The bones show through the gaps in her skin. “We see a lot of things. And he is exactly the reason I was supposed to give you this little talk.”

“What little talk? All you’re done is be cryptic at me!”

“Don’t give me shit, Timothy. You’re not too old to get belted upside the head.”

I have to take several deep breaths. I don’t remember her being this aggravating. “What about Danny?”

She blinks empty eyes at me. “What about him?”

“Why did you need to give me a talk because of Danny?”

“Ah. That one.”

“Yes. Him.”

“You ought to have a talk with that boy.”

I’m good. I wait for a couple seconds, giving her the benefit of the doubt. But when she doesn’t say anything, I can’t much help snapping. “Is that it?”

Her hand smacks into the side of my head. I can feel something wet and thick sliding down my cheek, but it isn’t half as disturbing as the way she rasps, “That’s everything! Don’t you see that this sort of poison spreads in silence?”

“What are you talking about? What poison? We’re fine-“

“The fever has baked your brain, boy.” Disgusted, she climbs unsteadily to her feet. Something drips from her face to spatter on the floor as she takes a few shaky steps forward.

I know this ritual from countless long nights spent at her house to avoid the silences at home. Getting up, I slide my arm around hers, letting her lean into me with every other step. She snarls and grumbles at me, but doesn’t shove me away.

It’s a long, wobbly walk to the kitchen. She mutters under her breath, disjointed half sentences, words that don’t make any sense.

“What poison, Grandma?” I prompt her as gently as I can, despite the fact that my nerves are on edge and I’m trying not to let my hands shake. “What’s happening?”

She stops mid-step, and sighs so heavily that something deep inside her gives with a brittle snap. Probably a rib. It doesn’t even make her falter.

“You aren’t the only one hanging over the darkness, Timothy. If you fall…”

It’s suddenly very hard to breathe. I lean against the door, barely aware of the fact that I’m doing it. I think I’m shaking, shaking all over. “No. He wouldn’t do that.”

She looks me over, and for a moment, her smile looks almost sad. “There’s more than one way to kill yourself.”

Before I can react to that, she shoves her palm against the door with a strength I wouldn’t have expected. It swings open into nothing. I have no way to balance myself; I fall back into the dark.
*****
(Danny)

He’s screaming.

I don’t know what time it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here on the floor outside his room, my back against the doorframe, as close as I can get to him. I’d bet you money, though, that I can recite back every half-heard phrase that he’s mumbled out. His voice rises and falls in a broken rhythm, something horribly wrong. Every once in a while I can hear Lisa Marie’s voice, soft and soothing, making promises.

I suppose she’s better off in there than me right now. I can barely choke out answers to the routine questions the nurses bounce off of me in passing.

“Are you all right, sir?”

No, actually I’m dying inside. “Yes.”

“Let us know if you need anything.”

I need to get into that room. “Of course.”

They turn a blind eye to the fact that I’m sitting here. Apparently ‘we fucked’ got transformed into ‘we’re lovers’. Seems to be a common mistake around here.

“No! Please, I can’t- no!”

Funny how his screaming makes me flinch. For the first couple of hours, I would rock back on my ass and start to reach for the knob without thinking every time he even whimpered. Now… it’s not my place to act like this, really.

I can’t deal with this much longer. I’m going to crack. The tension keeps winding tighter and tighter in my chest, a precursor to what could be a hell of a panic attack.

I have to get out of here.

The hallways are empty. A quick glance at the clock tells me that it’s after midnight. The lights flicker on and off, a nice touch of claustrophobia I really didn’t need right now. The night nurses look me over with a touch of sympathy and let me go; apparently the story’s gotten around. Fucking wonderful. I wonder how long it’ll take for one of them to spill to the press. Probably as long as it takes a smart little reporter to pull out his wallet.

And speaking of the press…

There’s a reporter waiting just outside the front doors, a camera crew in tow. He glances up from where he’s sitting on the curb nursing a cigarette, and for a second I can almost pretend that my relative obscurity will protect me.

His eyes widen behind the ever so trendy wrap around mirror shades. No such luck.

Climbing to his feet, he has the cameras on and a microphone in my face in a remarkably short amount of time. They’re training them well these days.

“Mr. Elfman, do you have any information of Tim Burton’s condition-“

Nobody said I had to be polite. Placing my hand over the camera lens, I offer the puppy a smile that’s mostly teeth. “Fuck off.”

His ‘solemn expression’ falls into a sulky look. “I’m just doing my job here, sir.”

“Yeah. Well, do it somewhere else. If his family shows up, which I doubt, you can bother them. ‘Kay, Junior?”

Snarling at the press usually eases the pressure. This time it doesn’t help. With a sigh, I take my hand off the camera and keep walking. The puppy doesn’t know when to quit; he keeps yelling questions at my back. I’m going to look like a cock when this hits whatever tabloid smear he’s working for. I’d be apathetic, but it’s not even worth that.

It’s balmy in Maui tonight, the air thick enough to choke on. The hospital is in the bad side of town, where trash is scattered in the street and the poor who get pushed aside in the pretty fake brochures sleep in alleys. If I look down the street, I might be able to see the lights from the tourist district. I don’t look.

The streetlamp makes a good place to lean against, cool against my forehead. I close my eyes and just breathe for a while. It’s harder than it sounds. I keep jerking back into panic, my hand twitching towards the cel phone in my pocket to check if my lawyer has called back yet, my eyes flaring open as another ‘what if’ occurs to me. My muscles are so tense they’re trembling.

Air moves across my face with every passing car, almost soothing in ways that the occasional drunken catcall can’t be. I should call somebody, tell the kids where I am. I want to call John, as much of an etiquette no-no it is to call an ex-lover for reassurance about a current-lover. I can’t afford to miss a call-back from my lawyer, though. So I just have to stand here and deal.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Forget everything else. If you think about it, you’ll snap. You can’t afford to snap. So just breathe and don’t think about it for a while. Just…

Remember.

”How old are you?”

He’d been so caught off guard he’d actually started, almost sloshing entirely too expensive coffee on his hand. Roger had paid for the coffee, as he had insisted on doing since the start of this awkward little whatever the fuck it was. Whenever he’d tried to argue, he got his hair rumpled and a broad smile for his trouble. ‘Can’t take it with you’, Roger always replied. ‘Gotta spend it somehow.’

“I thought we said personal questions were off-limits.”

Roger shrugged one broad shoulder. “Figured that it’s been two weeks and almost thirty cups of coffee between us. I’m not asking for a home address and your credit card number.”

Common sense told him to refuse. Instinct told him to answer. He went for the compromise. “Eighteen.”

Roger eyed him, then snorted and took a sip of coffee. He got distracted by the elegance of his long artist’s fingers, not for the first time. The other man’s words jerked him straight out of that. “Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bull. Fucking. Shit.” Roger grinned at his indignant glare, then reached out and poked his nose gently. “You’re 17 if you’re a day.”

“I-… I am not-…” The unfailing smirk on Roger’s lips broke him. With a disgusted sigh, he sat back and glowered. “Yeah. I’m turning 18 in May, though.”

“Mmm.” Taking a sip of coffee, Roger winced as it burned his tongue and dabbed at the soreness with a cloth napkin of dubious cleanliness. Danny wondered if he should be watching another man’s mouth and hands so very closely. “What are you doing out of school, boyo?”

“Graduated early. I had enough credits. If I stayed there I was going to go insane.”

Roger snorted again and set the chipped coffee cup down. He always seemed to be in motion. Even when his hands were still, his leg bounced idly. “You are insane. There’s a brightness on your eyes…”

“I am not-“

“Yes. You are. Consider it a blessing.” Roger seemed to waver for a moment, unsure, then smiled an odd, sad smile and reached across the table to touch his shoulder. His hand was warm and smooth, strong and callused at the fingertips. He shouldn’t be staring, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. “I like it.”

There was something there, something unsaid that wavered in the smoky air between them. Roger’s dark eyes burned into him, trying to tell him, trying to-

Danny dropped his eyes to the scarred surface of the table. “Thank you,” he muttered, suddenly uncomfortable.

Roger sighed. “Yes.” After a moment, the air seemed to change back into something lighter, something false. “Do you want a refill-

Something touches me.

Jerking upright, I start to pull away. If it’s a reporter…

I look up through my eyelashes and mutter something even more profane. It’s not a reporter; it’s worse.

“Hi, Rick.”

My big brother, who has the mental maturity of a fifteen year old boy at the best of times, blinks at me. He smells like alcohol and cigar smoke; he’s been bar-hopping, apparently. At least I already called my lawyer. Saves me a phone call.

“What’s wrong?”

Never let it be said that Rick isn’t too fucking perceptive. Straightening, I stare at the hospital doors and cross my arms over my chest. If I meet his eyes, I’ll lose without even a fight. “What’re you doing here?”

“Planning for another Charged column, much to my considerable pain.  They fuck me over regularly, the least they can do is cover the bar tab.” Out of the corner of his eyes, I can see him sitting on the curb with a grunt and a sigh. So much for any hope of him getting distracted and wandering away. “Why are you here?”

“Tim’s in the hospital.” There. That should be fairly self-explanatory.

Rick waits for a second, then shrugs and sits back on his braced hands. To give him credit, that’s damned near patient in his terms. “I hadn’t heard. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

Fuck. I’m not in the mood to explain this. “He’s my boss.”

“That’s great. But if that was it, you wouldn’t be standing out here like some kind of doting lover.”

I turn my head and look at him through my eyelashes. And continue to look. And keep looking, even.

It takes him about ten second of continuous looking before his eyes widen and he suddenly sits up sharply. “Oh. Oh. So you two are…?”

“Yeah.” So there are advantages to having a sibling who can read you with a glance. I’d been wondering.

“Since when?”

I manage an uncomfortable shrug and put my hands in my pockets. “A while. Almost a year.”

“Fuck. I didn’t know.” Rick climbs to his feet, suddenly steady. I’ve never seen anyone shake off the effects of alcohol as fast as he can. His arm slides around my shoulder, heavy and warm and almost comforting. “So he’s in the hospital.”

“Yeah.” The words spill out like blood; I can’t seem to shut up once I start. “Stupid fuck gave himself pneumonia. They won’t let me see him, since I’m not family or listed as kin, but…” The shudder takes me off guard. I hug myself a little tighter; Rick shoulders his way a little closer. I should be too old to get the protective arm grip. I’m half glad that he doesn’t seem to think so. “It’s bad, Rick. It’s so fucking bad.”

He rumples my hair and doesn’t say a word, letting me shake for a few seconds. It feels cold, even if the air is warm on my skin.

“C’mon,” he says finally, using his arm to nudge me forward a step. “Back inside. The vultures have the cameras on. If you’re gonna have a breakdown, they probably have a private bathroom somewhere. ‘Sides, we should check on him.”

The pronoun catches me off guard, so much so I almost trip. “’We’?”

“Yeah. We.” Rick doesn’t even look at me, his eyes fixed on the door. He looks through the puppy. Impressive. “If you two crazy kids have managed a year, I’m gonna meet him and offer my sincere sympathy.”

I don’t want to explain this situation right now. So I punch him in the stomach without much energy instead. What, me, avoidant? “Cock.”

“Circumcised, last I checked. Step over the curb, now. Are you running out of caffeine or what?”

“Yeah. Kinda.” The doors whoosh open and shut on the puppy’s face. He makes rather satisfying muffled indignant noises, and Rick grins so widely that timing can’t have been accidental. He’s still smirking when he leads me to a chair in the waiting room. It occurs to me that I’d be on my ass if I weren’t leaning on him. As it is, I drop fairly heavily into the chair. The oddly comfortable chair. The oddly comfortable chair that’s threatening to become a makeshift bed.

He kneels in a blur of motion beside the chair, fingertips resting on the arm. “I’m gonna get you some horrible substandard coffee. You stay here and try to remember how your legs work. Sound good?”

“Sounds funny, coming from the drunk guy.”

“I’m not as think as you drunk I am.” Straightening, he rumples my hair. “Be right back.”

I don’t have the chance to thank him before he’s abruptly gone. Yet he somehow has time to throw his jacket around my shoulders, thick rich smoke smell rising up like incense. It’s comforting, in a clumsy way.

A sudden howl from down the hall shreds that illusion before I can even enjoy it.

So. It’s back to the breathing again.
***
(Tim)

The fall was not particularly fun. It was still better than the landing.

There’s nothing to grab on to; the walls are suddenly too slick, any handholds gone even while I scrabble at the smoothness and try to gauge my fingers into the stone. The darkness draws closer, rushing up to meet me like the opening mouth of hell. It swallows me, feet legs hips ribs shoulders neck face, pressing in, crushing-

Something, somewhere, shrieks a sudden alarm.

My fingers catch on a notch in the rock, and through some miracle hold. I pull myself up, out of the viscous stuff that pops and flows into my mouth. It tastes bitter on my tongue, enough to choke on. I can feel my shoulder jerk straight out of the socket in a searing flare of pain that runs through my veins and out through my mouth in a broken cry.

Pain. And cold. The darkness is like cold itself, bitter and almost burning hot as my nerves try to figure out how the fuck to convey the fact that they’re being killed. I can see my breath coming out in slow, shuddery gasps that mist in the thin air. Even if they burn their way down my throat, each breath is more than welcome.

I spit out the taste of the dark, but it lingers like a warning. I can feel it drying on my face, clotting, a thick layer of something I don’t think I want to see.

My arm is truly useless now, just dead weight at my side. I can’t let go to snap it back into place. My fingers are already going numb from holding so tightly. If I stay here, I’m going to slip. If I slip, I’m going to drown. And die. And if I die before I wake…

Danny.

Which is screwed up, really, thinking about the guy who’s probably safe and sound and driving himself slowly insane while I’m about two or three breaths away from drowning. But nobody said I was sane myself.

I didn’t put myself here. This was not my fault. I’m the only one who knows that. Therefore if I just let go, the one who is fucking us both up, who is fucking everything up, is going to get off without even a suspicious glance in their direction.

No. I can’t let that happen.

Whoever did this has to pay.

It takes too much energy to move in the darkness that’s pooled up around my waist now, like moving through molasses. My leg muscles ache and burn. But finally, finally, I make my leg move. My foot slides over the cliff side, searching blindly, sliding over slickness without any effect. Slide, nothing. Slide, nothing. Slide-

My foot slips into an almost nonexistant notch in the wall.

I can’t help the grim smile that curves up my mouth. It makes the darkness crack and fracture on my skin, falling harmlessly away. Taking a deep breath that doesn’t seem to give me much air, I force my leg to straighten. The muscle falters, wanting to just sink into the cold, but finally, inch by halting and painful inch, straightens out. The darkness clings but gets forced away with little popping noises like bones breaking.

Feeling surges back into my leg in a hot, painful rush, almost staggering me. Biting my lip until I taste the blood on my tongue, I lean against the cliff for a moment until the tingling begins to ease into something bearable. Then I reach up with my good arm, searching the cliffside for another place to hook my fingers.

I look up out of reflex, searching fruitlessly in the abyss of inky black. Far, far above, what looks like an eternity away, a weak light seems to reach for me.

One good arm. Numbing cold. No light. An eternity to climb. I can never make it. This is absolutely insane.

Well.  That's never really stopped me before.
*****
(Danny)

“So the studio’s been giving me the run around. First they want the movie unedited, then they want a few scenes cut. Then they get pissed off when I tell them they can go fuck themselves, nothing gets cut unless I goddamn well say so, and start sputtering about how I can’t afford to alienate people like this and that I’ll never work in this town again and yadda, yadda. So I hang up. Three hours later, they’re calling me back with an offer and some imitation of an apology.”

I’d forgotten how long Rick could ramble without any actual direction or point. I’ve found that I only have to listen to every third word out of his mouth to get the general gist of what he’s saying. He has a voice you can just zone out to. It’s not an insult. He just has this natural rhythm in his voice, a steady rise and fall that’s almost soothing.

I can recognize it from those few times I was able to be around while he was raising his kids, coaxing Bodhi into sleep by rambling about nothing and everything at once. He’s gone from his argument towards capital punishment to the importance of shaved pubic hair during oral sex. Which is, in fact, far more than I ever needed to know about his sex life. Ever.

“Rick?”

The sudden break from my standard response of silence or a mumbled ‘yeah’, just enough to let him know I’m listening, is enough to catch his attention. “Yeah?”

“It’s not working.”

“Yeah. I figured as much.” His hands twitch towards his jacket pockets, an abortive motion that he doesn’t quite manage to cover by folding his fingers over his still sickeningly flat belly. He wants a cigarette. Jesus, how long has it been since we came in here?

Turning my head, I bite back a reflexive hiss of annoyed pain as my neck pops and the first rays of pre-dawn twilight hit me. I have to rub the burn out of my eye. I forget the last time I managed decent sleep. Before this whole thing started, at least. Thank you, caffeine.

Everything seems to pop, a satisfying staccato sound as I climb slowly to my feet. Grimacing, I rub at the lingering ache in my neck and stagger to the receptionist’s desk. Status check. I know it’s a moot point, but if I didn’t at least make a token effort to lie my way into that room I’d feel… I don’t know. Like a traitor.

Yeah. Because Tim really fucking cares whether I’m there or not.

Speaking of moot points…

I lean my hand on the wall beside the glass and lean in, offering the cute little fragile looking thing behind the counter my best attempt at an ingratiating smile. Judging from the fact that even I think my reflection looks unhinged, I don’t blame her for scooting back a little. I start to try the coaxing again, letting my voice drop into the lower register-

And something, down the hall and through a door I know too damned well, shrieks a flatline.

Nonopleasenonotnow-

I’m not entirely sure how I move so fast, or whether I could do it again. But I move faster than security, faster than the receptionist can hit the button to call in the response unit or whatever the fuck they do. I hit the door still at a run, my hands smacking into the doorframe hard enough to bruise just in time to stop myself. The doorknob turns at about the same time the shrieking stops. I catch sight of dark hair spread over white pillow, skin so pale it almost matches the bedsheets, thin broken body that I know every inch of lying way too fucking still. He draws in a shuddering breath, too painful and too labored but blessedly there.

And my world comes tumbling down at the soft word that comes through with that one fought for breath.

Lisa. Breathed like a lover. Lisa.

My knees buckle about the same time security grabs me around the waist and hauls me backwards with a hell of a lot more force than necessary. The steady beep of the machine as his heart starts beating echoes louder than my own heartbeat in my head as I get shoved roughly back. I’d hit the floor if someone didn’t suddenly grab me, holding me up as the world spins and tilts and breaks apart around me.

My own laugh sounds brittle, edged with something way too close to actual madness. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Danny-“

I shove him away, not the wisest of decisions considering that Rick can still kick my ass, and snarl when he touches my shoulder. It’s not quite a human noise. He backs off that time.

Deep breaths. Jesus, Mary and every single one of the fucking saints, I refuse to break down in this shitty little hallway of this place. I can’t breathe in here, I can taste the sickness and the cleaners and the betrayal that was my own goddamned fault in the first place.

I’m overreacting. But this is too much. I’ve officially reached my limit and got shoved past it. I’m fucking done.

There’s a door to a stairwell down the hall, where the press isn’t camped out and waiting and drooling for a comment from one of Tim’s pet tortured soulmates. It’s empty; each step echoes loudly off the walls. Halfway down the stairs I hear the door open and more footsteps as someone follows me. Funny how I can’t seem to care.

The stairs open into an alley that smells sweet with decay that drips from the fire escapes and has soaked into the graffitied walls. Even the pretty places have their hidden spaces. I lean against the wall and let the thickness of it comfort me.

Her voice comes out of nowhere, part of the steady drip and whisper of trash. “What in the fuck did you do to him?”

I glance up, pulled out of my misery, and see dirty pale feet in Birkenstocks. Her toenails were painted black at some point. Now they’re just chipping.

“Go away, Elise.” My voice comes out as a low, ominous growl. That could be construed as a threat. That could also be construed as me giving a flying fuck.

She doesn’t move. She looks awkward, the clothes hanging off of her. Her roots are showing under the mop of blond, and there are streaks of tears on her dirty face. She looks about how I feel. Dirty and hateful and falling apart.

“You bastard,” she hisses, looking shaky. “You cocksucker.”

Oh, look. Somebody leaked to the press.

“Don’t get jealous, princess. It’s not becoming.” Ooo, that was almost steady. Taking a deep breath, I slide my hands into my pocket and offer her a grim little smile. “Don’t get petty just because he wouldn’t fuck you.”

Her smile turns suddenly nasty. It’s not quite enough warning for when she lilts all too sweetly, “Wanna bet?”
***
(Tim)

I enjoy shadows. I like the lazy stretch of them when the sun’s going down, the way they look in the flat light of the streetlights, the way they turn into bars of darkness when the sun goes through the bedroom blinds.

So, naturally, they come back to haunt me.

It’s completely black here now, no sign that light was ever here at all. Even the light at the top of the cliff is gone, leaving me nothing. I seem to recall telling Lena once that if I ever went blind, I’d slit my fucking wrists. I meant it. I can’t survive without seeing anything, without the comfort of the momentary peace I can scavenge out of drawing. I don’t know how I’m surviving here, how my fingers are still finding handholds and pulling up in this twisted little rhythm.

I suppose the fact that it’s all just a fucked up fever dream has something to do with it. I’m not going to think about everything I heard once upon a time about how fever can burn out the part of your brain that lets you see. I can’t think about my world crumbling around my fucking head.

I’m not sure whether I’m glad or not that I can still hear. It’s confusing, an overlay of eerie giggling and growling from the gallery of monsters patiently waiting in the dark for that moment where I fall, and the quiet voices arguing back and forth elsewhere. Elsewhere, where rough hands are shoving me back and forth, poking and prodding, where there is only horrified silence and fingernails digging in my arm.

“Lisa?” It’s an idiot question, since I know the answer damned well. This time there’s no reassurance, as the sounds on one side of the two worlds of noise burst into sudden chaos.

“Get the fuck away from the door! We told you-“ Unfamiliar voices, harsh and vulgar and not at all welcome. I wince, wanting to cover my ears.

“Danny, baby, it’s not- please, just… Danny! Danny!” The raw desperation in Lisa’s usually quiet voice doesn’t help that feeling at all. I can feel my fingers slipping the second I stop climbing, but I cling on anyway. Can’t move until I know what happened.

Fear grabs my heart with cold fingers and starts to very quietly squeeze.

“You idiots, his lover just flatlined and you’re shoving him around like he tried to commit murder?”

It occurs to me that Lisa just outed us. Then it occurs to me that somebody was apparently shoving Danny around, which makes my almost non-existent protective instincts sit up and beg for blood. And then, only then, does the last part of that sink in.

Flatlined. My heart just fucking stopped.

I hadn’t thought I went under that long. I thought I was safe because I got my head up in time. But now I don’t… I can’t even… I don’t remember how long the brain can go without air. One minute, two? Am I trapped here now? Is that why the light’s gone? Am I trapped in a broken body, just a fucking vegetable who can’t even do anything but stare with dead eyes and try to scream-

Breathe. I just have to breathe.

The stone feels cold and rough against my forehead, entirely too real. It feels realer than the soft, faint sound of Lisa crying.

Okay. Think, Burton. Time works differently here. It’s been days, weeks, an eternity since I fell, but the backlash of it only happened now. That means I’ve got time to work through the cryptic gibberish my grandmother threw at me. It’ll give me something to do while I climb.

Reach up. Grip the rock. Pull up until muscles burn and ache and stretch. Repeat. The monotony is killing me.

Someone has disrupted the order of things, she said. Someone has done their best to kill me, and has been doing pretty damned well. They couldn’t have conspired to make me catch the flu, or whatever the fuck this is. So the weakness, the fatigue, the hot and cold and fever, the coughing… it must have been from something else, some drug, some poison.

Even thinking that feels strange. My life has somehow fallen into an episode of Murder, She Wrote. I still don’t think of myself as a ‘Hollywood star’; I’m not worth much money, I’m not that fucking famous, and I’ve been trying very hard not to piss anyone off enough to kill me. On top of that, I haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come from a hotel vending machine in almost three weeks. It’d be damned near impossible to poison something inside of a wrapper, then stash it in the machine and know that I’d pick it up. All I’d had that last twenty hours was a cup of coffee. That was the one thing that assistant was good for; she always had a refill of coffee handy. Even if it tasted off, something to do with the water, it was still caffeine. Hell, at times she was fucking pushing it at me-

Oh, God. I’m an idiot.

The look in her eyes, the way she would smile when I knocked a cup back and handed it to her… she did something to the coffee. She drugged me.

It was Elise.
*****
(Danny)

“He didn’t have sex with you.” If I say it calmly enough, maybe I can convince myself. Shoving my hands in my pockets to hide their shaking, I stare at her. Anybody with sense would back the fuck off. “He would never touch you. People like you make his skin crawl.”

Elise sniffs and tosses her head, a motion that’s supposed to look graceful and only comes off as fake. “People like me?”

“Starfuckers.” The word makes her eyes flare open. She’s pissed. I’m glad. “What was he, another notch in your bedpost? Wanted to see if the ‘childlike’ director still had a functional cock?” My lips curl up on a smile so bitter I taste it. “Trust me. He does.”

It’s satisfying, in a sick sort of way, to watch her lower lip quiver. Then she makes some sort of noise and firms her mouth to a narrow little line. Her lips are sticky with lip gloss; it shimmers like mucus. “Fag.”

I straighten, and she backs up a step. “Is that the best you can do? I’m almost fifty, sunshine. I’ve heard much worse.”

She clenches her fist, fingernails digging into her palm. I should stop this before one of us snaps. I should be the mature one here. But it feels good to hurt someone, to watch her pretty little face crumple second by second. It’ll hurt her almost as much as the fact that I almost believe her hurts me.

The door creaks open behind me, and I catch the smell of cigar smoke. Rick. I don’t bother to turn my head; Elise doesn’t even glance away. There’s something dangerous in her eyes, something wild that glitters and dances and waits to pounce.

“I bet I can do better, then,” she sneers, her voice high and shaky and sharp. She sounds too calm to be hysterical. “He could do so much better than you, Elfman. I barely had to tempt him. Obviously you weren’t doing it for him, because one flash of leg and a hint of cunt and he was mine-“

Something rips, too close to home. “Shut the fuck up, Elise.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. Triumph twists her lips; she smells blood. Suddenly haughty, she lifts her hand to examine her chewed on nails. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let him fuck me, though. I didn’t know he was queer.” Lifting her eyes in a sick imitation of coyness, she purrs, “I could get AIDS.”

The world goes cold.

It occurs to me that I’m shaking. It occurs to me that time is passing, and that the color is draining slowly out of Elise’s face for every second I stare at her. It occurs to me that I don’t care.

Moving feels strange, a headrush. I take one step towards her, slowly, almost idly. Then I grab the collar of her jacket and slam her into a wall. Something cracks, and I hope it’s her skull.

AIDS. Fuck, she would have to bring up AIDS. Stupid, stupid little girl.

I bring my face up close to hers, so close I can feel her pant. She’s scared. Grabbing her chin with firm fingers, I inform her, “That was a mistake.”

The defiant sneer might work better if she wasn’t trembling. “What’re you gonna do? Kill me?”

I smile.

A hand grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me backwards and off. For a second, I turn my head, catch a sight of Rick’s unnerved stare, and snarl anyway. Which is a mistake. Rick pulls me, his hand on my arm gripping hard enough to bruise. His voice is a dry hiss in my ear, the whisper of dead leaves over stone. “Stop it. The little bitch isn’t worth it.”

“I don’t care.”

He blinks, looks me in the eye for a moment, and very quickly looks away. When he lets go, he knows enough to put himself between me and Elise.

She bats her eyes at him, fluttering big long lashes clumped thick with mascara, and has the nerve to slide her hand up his arm. "Thank you, I thought he might-“

Rick knocks her hand away and turns just enough that I can see the look on his face. If he ever looked at me that coldly, I’d have the sense to back up. Elise doesn’t even seem to notice. “Sugar,” and he spits the word, “I didn’t do it to save you. He would’ve killed you without thinking twice.”

I turn away, back towards the end of the alley. I don’t want to see her simper. I only make it three steps before I hear a sound that makes my blood run cold.

“Believe me, ‘sugar’.” Elise’s voice… changes, somehow, drops into something low and silky and incredibly cold. “It goes both ways.”

I turn just as the metallic sound of a gun being cocked rings off the walls. The shot is loud enough that it feels like the world should fall away, but the only thing I see falling is Rick, crumpling to the ground in a tangle of red and black and white. The world goes to crystal, every detail abruptly too clear, like the way blood spills over his hand where it’s cupped against his hip. It trickles over each finger, one by one, as the stain spreads over his white dress shirt.

Elise smiles at me when I tear my eyes away, a slow happy smile at odds with the gun in her pretty pale hand. I take a step towards her with no idea what the fuck I’m planning to do, and she moves quicksilver fast. The gun is suddenly whipping through the air so fast it blurs into a streak of black at the corner of my eye just before it cracks into my temple so hard the world dims and my knees go out from under me. Rick’s blood soaks through the knee of my jeans as I lay there, shaking and stunned, struggling to make the world hold still long enough to let me up. I feel dizzy. I feel sick.

She crouches, clumsy but dangerous, looming over me in her tattered jeans and Birkenstocks and ridiculously wide eyes. The gun has been tucked away somewhere, but there’s something in her hand that glimmers like her shiny blue eyes.

“Sorry, honey,” she murmurs like she actually means it, “but it’s for the best.”

Then the syringe in her hand slams into my side hard enough that I expect the glass to shatter. The pinprick becomes a pressure, and then a burning that gets hotter and brighter until it burns everything else away and there’s nothing left at all.
***
(Tim)

I’m getting close.

With every handhold I pull myself up into, the voices below that giggle and howl and purr start to fade into quiet, and the voices above, the steady beep and the soft rise and fall of Lisa’s voice as she reads poetry aloud until her voice cracks, get louder. I can smell antiseptic and Lysol if I stop and concentrate. I can almost feel warmth on my skin. It feels like if I open my eyes, I might finally see sun.

In any other situation, the duality would be just fascinating. Death and life, below and above, nothing and everything that’s waiting. At the moment, though, it’s starting to feel vaguely schizophrenic. Go figure.

Every once in a while, Lisa’s voice stops for what feels like both a few hours and an eternity. Then the impersonal hands come, not exactly rough but far from gentle, checking temperatures and fixing needles, turning me over and rubbing the blood back into flowing. It’s a strange counterpoint to fingers that are so cold I can’t tell the difference between them and the rock they’re holding on to. When this is over with, I’m not going to complain about the heat in Maui ever again.

Sometimes, if I stop to rest and catch gasps of air so cold they make my lungs ache, I can hear them talking in low voices over my head. Sometimes the words even make sense, snatches of conversations that seem surreal out of context.

“-nother few days and we might have to cut his hair down, make it easier on ourselves.”

“Like that cold little bitch that’s always in here would ever let you touch him.”

Lisa-Marie’s been giving the staff hell. My lips curl up into a smile that makes the skin, dry from what feels like years without a drink, cracks and bleed. Good girl.

“She’d never know now. Exhausting herself, running between this room and the one with the weirdo down the hall.” Cold fingers grab my shoulder and knead, painfully hard. It comes out as a phantom pain in the dislocated arm, the first I’ve felt out of it in a while. Making a face, I wrap my fingers around the stone and haul myself up another few precious inches. “She’ll have to go get some sleep sooner or later. Go join the boyfriend in wherever the fuck he ran off to.”

The nurse’s groan comes out as a counterpoint to the sudden gibber from far below. “God, he’ll be a pain in the ass to deal with now. First this one,” and somebody yanks at my hair in emphasis. This is just a malpractice suit waiting to happen. “And then his-“

The voices start to fade out again, whether it’s because they’re leaving or because I can’t keep concentrating on them I’m not sure. But it quickly becomes unimportant, because the next time I reach up…

My fingers close on air.

The air jerks out of my lungs in a startled sob that echoes in both places of sound, real and unreal. Groping into the empty air, grabbing handfuls of nothing, my hands scrabble in the faint light and finally slide across something even more welcome than the end of this godforsaken climb.

A rope is laying in the dust and the dry dead grass, within reach.

I can barely dare to breathe. I think I’m shaking, when I take the thing in my hand and give it a very tentative tug. I half expect it to go flying back, taking me with it, but it holds. One tug, then another, then I put my whole weight on the thing and nearly whimper when it doesn’t break under the strain.

“Thank you.” My voice comes out as a broken, rough whisper, something long unused and half-forgotten. Closing my fingers around the rope, I ignore the pain of rough hemp on raw skin and pull. It takes a moment to realize that my arm is working again, through some twisted miracle I’m not gonna question. Each pull takes me up a little bit more, closer to the warmth and the light and life. I almost expect a fanfare when I finally make it the last few precious inches and let go of the rope, laying on my belly in the rough grass, dust in my mouth and stones jabbing into my cheek. Safe now. Finally safe.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” it comes out a breathless and babbling litany. “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome,” someone comments wryly from beside me. When I tilt my head up, I catch only a flash of dark skin, toothy smile and graceful hands. Then whoever it was is gone. I’d be concerned, but I can’t seem to care enough to be anything but gratefully exhausted. They obviously didn’t mind. So I’m just gonna lie here for a minute…

It feels like forever before I can manage it, but I turn on my back and stare up at the almost painful whiteness that is the sky here, apparently. I take in the grass, the warmth, the fading screams and the feel of the rope digging into my spine. I enjoy it for a second.

And then I open my eyes.
*****
(Danny)

Roger’s apartment was tiny, cramped and muggy with the heat of sweaty bodies trapped in a place with no moving air. The wooden floor stuck to the skin between Danny’s shoulderblades, making soft smacking noises every time he exerted the effort to raise himself on his elbows and reach for the glass of ice water between them. The ice had melted rather quickly in the oppressive Africa heat, leaving only slivers to clink weakly against the sides of the glass. Taking a sip, he savored it on his tongue, then set it down on his stomach. The cool glass against his bare stomach felt surprisingly good. The jab Roger aimed at his ribs did not.

“Don’t drink it all.”

“I won’t. I’m just enjoying it.” Making a face at the older man when Roger simply rolled his eyes, Danny set the glass down again. “There. Better?”

“Much.”

Rolling over on to his stomach to look at the other man, Danny propped his chin up on his arms, then reconsidered it when he realized that even the touch of his own skin was too hot right now. “Is it always this hot?” he demanded irritably, well aware that he was whining and not really caring. “This is making LA seem like Alaska.”

Roger snorted. “You came to Africa. What were you expecting?”

“Hey, I was supposed to be in China by now by my plans. Not my fault that it’s too fucking interesting to leave.” Danny squirmed for a moment, then sighed and laid his face flat against the floor. “Jesus, how do you stand it?”

“Run around in as few clothes as possible.”

Glancing at the boxers sticking to his thighs with sweat, Danny muttered wryly, “Check.”

“And think about something else.”

“Like what? The fact that I’m going to melt?”

Roger gave him one unreadable look, then propped himself up on his elbows. In one easy motion, he was up on his feet and looking down at Danny from his considerable height. “You still have that violin of yours?”

It was the only thing that could have gotten him up. Without even a grumble, Danny rolled to his knees and went for the battered violin case laying by the door. Flipping it open, he reached in and drew out the already worn instrument with a reverence usually reserved for newborns and fragile valuables. Roger dropped to the floor beside him, watching as he brought the violin up and tucked the edge against his chin. This had become something of a ritual very quickly, a ceremony between them.

“Show me what you’ve got,” Roger muttered, an open sort of challenge. Danny shot him a look through his eyelashes, then closed his eyes and ignored him.

The first thing that sprung to mind, he noted with distracted disgust, was one of the hymns that the missionaries had their little minions wailing almost daily in the street. Something about redemption and rebirth, forgiveness and love for a price. He could relate. It sounded good, the music rising above the clatter and noise from the street below. One of the neighbors thumped on the wall hard enough that plaster drifted down from the ceiling. Whether it was in approval or a demand that they shut up because ‘some people have to work for a living, you know’ didn’t matter. The slaughterhouse smell of bodies crowded together didn’t matter. Even the heat didn’t matter. All that mattered was hitting the right note, getting it to moan and wail like a tortured soul, making it different, making it his.

When firm hands closed over his, he started, hitting a note so off he cringed. Roger, standing behind him, made a ‘shh’ noise and gentled his grip. “Like this,” he murmured, his breath warm and disturbingly intimate in Danny’s ear. The apartment suddenly seemed a lot warmer. “You’ve got to tilt it a little more on the C, press a little harder.”

Swallowing thickly, he complied. Roger didn’t take his hands away, just moving with him, guiding him on some moments and letting him go his way when Danny ‘mmph’ed at him in protest. The music changed somehow, turned into something that wasn’t just his or Roger’s, but theirs and all the better for it.

It ended much too soon, and the silence was far from welcome. Roger’s body was suddenly like a pressure against his back, and not a bad one. His hands looked almost white against the graceful black of Roger’s long fingers. Roger eased his grip on his hands, only to curl his fingers around Danny’s wrists. And that wasn’t normal. And that wasn’t necessarily bad.

His mouth felt paper-dry. Swallowing, he lifted his eyes and met Roger’s with some strange tangle of panic and heat. “I should,” he began, his voice sounding strange in his ears, and then Roger’s lips were on his and his back was against the kitchen table and he was getting the best kiss of his seventeen year life. He felt vaguely cheated that it had taken him this long. Then his hands were wandering, grasping hold of whatever they could, gripping and releasing and his knees were about two seconds from buckling. Roger pulled away before they could, a strange trapped look in his eyes.

Then he had started coughing.

Coughing. A sound right beside my head, sputtering and choking like he used to, like Tim was, except different somehow. Mechanical. I should know this. Why can’t I think?

Turning my head hurts, a sharp sickening pain in my head that makes my stomach roll. I think I  whimper. I try to open my eyes, find some escape from the pounding in my skull, but the only thing beyond them is thick dark.

A hand strokes my cheek, pets my hair, and feels wrong somehow. “Shhh,” she croons, her voice low and sickeningly sweet. “You should be sleeping. Wouldn’t want you to end up like Tim, now would we?”

I know that voice. I know enough to recognize that it’s bad, someone to hate and get the fuck away from. I try to jerk my arms away, but there’s something binding them together. Same for my legs. I try to roll to the side, but something shoves me on my back and punches me hard in the side. I feel a rib give, and suddenly I can’t get a deep breath without pain.

“I told you,” she sighs. Then something stings into my arm, snake-bite fast, and the world slides out from under me.
***
(Tim)

Falling up. It’s a strange phrase, about as illogical as I am, and an oddly appealing feeling. Like falling into the dark in reverse. Light and warmth against my face, the feeling of actually breathing, the promise of some sort of peace…

And then reality slams into me like a brick wall.

Too many things come flooding in at once. Bright lights, harsh cloth against my raw skin, sharp smell of chemicals burning the inside of my nose, taste of chemicals bitter on my tongue, loud beep of the heart monitor as it suddenly spikes. There’s something hard and plastic in my throat, choking me. I can’t cough around it, and all too abruptly I can’t breathe.

No. Fuck no. I did not struggle through all of that just to die here.

Reaching up, I grab at my face. My fingers close on soft plastic and pull it away, throwing it aside so I can put my fingers around the thin tube and yank.

It slides away, thankfully, slick like a snake with my spit. It drags along my gag reflex on the way out, and I retch on air. There’s nothing in my stomach to get rid of, but it does its damnedest anyway. My stomach cramps up hard, making me double over and curse between gasps even while I shove the wretched tube on to the floor. The air, even if it tastes artificial and too clean, is a blessing. I sit there for a moment, my knee pressed against my head, and breathe. Funny how death makes you appreciate the little things.

My head feels wobbly on the end of my spine, jerking back and forth like my neck is elastic. The room keeps spinning. I have to squint to see when I reach down and rip the heart monitor cuff off my arm with the harsh tearing sound of Velco coming undone. The serene beeping goes straight into the whining shriek of a flatline, setting off what feels like a supernova behind my eyes. Jesus. Even if Elise hadn’t fucked us both over, I’d kill her just in revenge for the migraine.

They’ve got an IV strapped to my hand, the one last step slowing me down. I didn’t even realize it was there until I was halfway off the bed, wobbling on my feet. Blood trickles down the back of my hand from the way the needle jerked, and I ignore it, tearing the tape off and pulling the needle out of my skin. It’s not important, not as important as getting to Danny and making things better and then stapling Elise’s skinny little ass to the wall. Possibly even in that order.

I wish that stupid shrieking would stop. It’s making it hard to think, and it’s taking all my concentration to make my legs work. I’m not entirely sure I can move away from the bed. I only get two steps, leaning heavily on the railing, before the door bursts open and my focus breaks.

The doctor, cardiac paddles in hand, stares at me. I stare back at her for a moment, frowning, but she doesn’t move beyond her mouth opening and closing. Maybe if I’m polite she’ll go away. It’s worked before.

“Yeah,” I offer in a ragged awful sounding croak. “Hi.”

Her expression melts into a bemused smile. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Burton.”

Well, that’s nice and melodramatic. I only left for a minute…

I wave a hand at her distractedly, then force my legs to straighten out again. The hospital gown is less than dignified. So much for Hollywood thrust. I lift my head to ask her if she could either lend a hand or move out of the doorway, please, when somebody pushes her aside and takes care of it for me. Lisa-Marie, looking painfully scared, starts to snarl, “Why are you just-“

Then she sees me. And she shuts up, except for this choked little sobbing noise. Falling back against the door, looking disturbingly pale, she lays her fingers over her mouth and just stares. There are dark circles under her eyes, black like her eyeliner has been running. Except she hasn’t worn eyeliner in a year and a half.

“Tim,” she says brokenly around her fingers. “Oh, baby. You’re…”

“Lisa,” and it hurts to talk, more than I expected it would, “you look like hell.”

Her giggle sounds oddly hysterical. She takes a half-step forward, then stops, clumsier than I’ve ever seen her. Sniffing, she wipes the palm of her hand against her eye and gives me a watery smile. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” It’s an honest apology. I’ll buy her flowers or something later. Right now… “And thank you. Now help me up.”

The doctor finally speaks up, that note of forced authority in her smooth voice. “Mr. Burton, you should be in bed.”

We both ignore her. Lisa crosses the room and gives me her hands, letting me pull on her to drag myself up even if my weight nearly takes her down. She practically props me up against the railing, stroking my arm absently, staring intently at my face. Her smile is shaky.

Dropping my voice with a glance over at the battle-axe, I murmur, “I have to see Danny.”

Something in her face… changes. I don’t like the look in her eyes. I definitely don’t like the fact that suddenly, she’s looking at everything else in the room but me. “Later. Y-you should-“

“What’s wrong?” When she bites her lip and looks away, fear digs itself a nice little hole in my chest and curls up there. I grab her shoulders. “Lisa-“

The doctor grabs my shoulder and pulls. One disadvantage to this whole coma thing: I don’t have the strength to keep from ending up on my back again. Damned if I don’t almost take Lisa with me, though.

She smiles at me, weakly. “Look, everything’s gonna be fine. He’s probably just back at the hotel-“

“Probably?” I almost manage to prop myself up, but the doctor has an iron grip on my arm. I can feel the cuff being put on and tightened, the sting of the IV being pushed back in. “You don’t know where he is?”

“Forget it, Tim.” Lisa almost puts enough iron in her voice to shut me up. Almost. “Not until later.”

“Fuck you. You can’t expect me to just-“ The jab of a needle into my thigh makes my head just snap around. The doctor smiles at me. There’s nothing to keep me from snarling at her. “What in the hell was in that needle?”

The growl, stolen from Danny, serves me well. The doctor backs up, her smile faltering, then steels herself as soon as she is coincidentally out of arm’s reach. “Just something to help you sleep.”

“I’ve been in a coma, I don’t need fucking sleep!” Tilting my head around, I watch the room blur and spin. Christ, that’s fast. “Lisa…”

“He’s delirious,” the doctor explains to Lisa, like a drug in my system means I’m deaf now.

My ex-wife crosses her arms over her flat belly and turns away, letting her hair hide her face.

“Lisa. Please.” It’s a dirty shot. It makes her flinch. But she looks up, her eyes too shiny in the lights.

“They think they found some his blood in the alley outside.”

“No.” The word jerks out, past my lips and out into the too cold reality of the room.

Lisa-Marie gives me a small, wavering smile and touches my hair with shaky fingers. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, but I lose half the sound to the pulsing of the drug in my blood.

She has him. That crazy bitch has him.

“Elise,” I stumble out, but the word slurs and drags and echoes into nothing meaningful at all.
*****
(Danny)

It’s unnerving as fuck to wake to darkness. Of course, my skull threatening to crumple in on itself isn't helping.

I manage a weak groan, which is a mistake. It only makes the stabbing pain behind my eyes and all along my left side worse, and brings me to the realization that the inside of my mouth tastes like a gutter. I try to reach up to wipe what feels like a thin layer of scum off the roof of my mouth, but something makes my hand jerk to a stop. A few tugs only makes whatever it is tighten painfully around my wrist, cutting bruises into the skin. The situation is the same on my other hand.

The world swims a bit when it clicks in that I’m kneeling, rough carpet on what feels like my bare knees. Perspective is good. That’s one less thing to figure out. Only how…

It all comes back like a slap across the face, wiping away any trace of fog. The flatline. Tim moaning Lisa’s name. Running to the alley. Elise pulling a gun. Rick falling to his knees, bleeding. The needle in my side.

I’m so fucked.

Like she’s on some sort of cue, her voice cuts through the quiet in an eerie little sing-song. “Danny? Are you awake yet?” Floorboards creak as she takes another step forward. Something tugs at the chain around one of my wrists as air, moved by her moving, flows over my skin and lets me know in no uncertain terms that the little bitch didn’t bother to leave me clothed. Her fingers comb through my hair, then slide away. “Danny-boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…”

Great. Sing a fucking dirge at me. I feel so much better.

A fingernail hooks abruptly under the blindfold and yanks, pulling it away too fast for me to close my eyes. Bright lights stab into my eyes. I hiss and look away, cursing. Surprisingly strong, bony fingers grip my face and turn my head back around.

“There you are,” she coos, and pets my face with the tips of her fingernails. “Thought you could fool me?”

“I was hoping.” My voice sounds like hell. How long have I been out?

“Open your eyes,” all the sweetness dribbles out of her voice, “and you’ll get water.”

“Turn the lights off and I’ll consider it.”

And maybe bargaining with the woman I watch shoot my brother isn’t the best of ideas, but I have to try something. I don’t even know if Rick’s alive… please don’t tell me she just shot him in the back of the head as soon as I was out. I don’t know what this is about, but it has nothing to do with him. I’m not even sure it has anything to do with me. I might be just as expendable.

Then again, she wouldn’t have dragged me here just to kill me. I hope.

No, maybe she just dragged me here to kill me slowly, instead. And might I add, fuck.

She combs her fingers through my hair like someone with a favorite pet, as she considers the offer. Then she sighs and her touch is gone.

This is normally the part where the respective villain gives the warning not to try anything funny. She doesn’t bother, because she doesn’t have to. Whatever these cuffs are made out of, they’re holding.

With a little muted click, the room is suddenly cast into darkness. Two more clicks, and I can see the flare of a lighter in the dark, casting little circles of light around the wicks of the two candles she lights. Somehow, I’m not surprised to see her holding a candleabra so ornate it’s tacky.

Elise looks… different. She redyed her hair, an opaque black that looks fake and has left streaks all along her cheeks and her neck. Her smile looks unhinged. And every piece of clothing…

She grins, plucking at the tanktop with her fingertips. Jack Skellington grins at me from the logo Tim designed. It’s unnerving. “You like? Fifteen dollars at Hot Topic.”

“It’s lovely.” Impressive, that almost sounded sincere. She beams. “Um… the water…?”

“Oh! Of course.” Her mood completely reversed, she sets the candleabra and dances on bare, dirty feet to the corner. When she comes back, she has a glass of water in her hands. At the moment, it would be worth my soul. But when she comes close and starts to tilt it towards my mouth, I still pull away. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just unchain me?”

She laughs, the high and tinkling sound reminding me of glass shattering, and pokes my nose with a fingertip. “Silly boy. I’m not going to unchain you until later. Besides, I had such a hard time getting you chained up like this. You’re heavier than you look, you know.”

For the first time, I look at what I’m chained to. Carved wood, smooth to the touch and very old. It’s almost enough to distract me from the fact that when I lay my head back, it smacks into more wood and a sign. I squint in the darkness, trying to read the letters upside down. When I manage to focus, I wish I hadn’t.

INRI.

A cross. The psychotic cunt has tied me to a fucking cross.

I suppose the religious irony isn't beyond her.

Her giggle brings me back to find her watching me greedily, taking in every reaction like she’s feeding on them. I swallow, hard.

“I thought you’d appreciate that,” she murmurs smugly, crossing her thin arms. “After all, you are the official member of the Church of Satan.”

“I’m Jewish.” My voice sounds oddly disjointed. Can’t imagine why.

“So was Jesus.”

“Turned atheist.”

“So was Judas.” With a sweet smile, she holds out the glass. “Water?”

The water, flat and stale and tasting of chlorine, is almost enough to make me forget this for a moment. Almost. She nearly chokes me with the entire glass of it, then takes time to wipe it off my face, cooing all the while. I may be sick.

Something strikes me suddenly, something off about what she said. “Elise?”

“Hmm?” she replies absently, her eyes distant as she looks down at the waterstains on her t-shirt.

“What did you mean, you’d untie me later?”

“Oh.” With a faint, strange smile, she looks up at me again. I don’t like the glimmer in her eyes. “Well, I learned that the last time. You can’t untie them for the first few days. They fight.”

“What happens after the first few days?” When she just looks blank, panic jerks awake under my skin. “Elise, what the fuck happens?”

She pouts, stung by the curse, then reaches up, grabs the arms of the cross and turns the entire thing around, ignoring my hiss of pain when she leans against my ribs. “You learn to stay,” she says happily in my ear.

The dead boy curled up against the wall, naked and beginning to rot, stares up at me with milky eyes. Half the skin was flailed off his chest, and dried blood is rusty against those places that are starting to blacken. The smell of it, shit and decay, rises up sickeningly sweet and chokes me.

I can’t breathe to scream.
***
(Tim)

It’s nice, to have the luxury of waking slowly. Consciousness came in like the tide, bringing with it an aching stomach and a mouth dry with dust.

Yeah. I never liked the tide.

“Mgh.” Oh. Cool. My voice works. Could be smoother, but I’m still grateful for breathing. I take a deep breath, let it out, and frown. Cigars…?

Blinking my eyes open takes an unusual amount of time and effort. Light slants through the window shades, bars of it warm against my legs. It reflects off the wheelchair parked beside me, and casts shadows on the face of the man sitting in it. The man who’s watching me through narrowed eyes that look somehow familiar.

“Uh… hi.”

The man snorts, his lips twisting in some strange combination of humor and pain as he sits back. The pale blue hospital gown looks very wrong on him, contrasting with the tattoos that squirm over the well-muscled arms. “I sat here for the last twenty minutes poking you, and you wake up when I stop. I can see why you two get along.”

There’s something naggingly familiar about his smile, crooked with a dark and private humor that would send most sane people diving under the nearest piece of furniture. Squinting at him, I finally break down and ask. “Do I know you?”

He aims a long and pointed look at me, then sighs. Lifting his eyebrows, he gives me a manic grin that is mostly teeth and insanity. The resemblance is scary.

“Gah,” I manage coherently.

He lets his eyebrows drop and sits back, wincing. “That’s the usual reaction, yes.”

“You’re… Richard?”

“Rick. I only make the people I don’t like call me Richard.” Laying his head back, he smiles a little painfully at the ceiling. “Granted, what I’ve seen of you has been you in a coma, but this places you one step above most of Danny’s girlfriends anyway.”

“Thanks. And, hey.” I make a valiant effort to sit up, but my stomach muscles, much abused, and my arms, weak from being pumped with drugs for the last… well, God knows how long… fold out from under me. Okay, so much for that. Turning my head, I look him over, taking in the gown, the IV and the bandages that peek out at his sides. “Why are you here?”

“Such tact.” But his smile is thin and ever so slightly shaky. “Why am I in Maui, why am I in the hospital or why am I in your room?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. In order: because I needed a vacation, because I was shot in the stomach, and,” he held his arm up, “morphine.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, I’m rather fond of it. Makes everything all foggy. And thus, I don’t feel it when I nic fit.”

Strangely, that seems almost reasonable. Then the middle part of that statement catches up, and my head snaps around. “You were shot in the stomach?”

He shrugs and doesn’t quite look in my eyes. “Yeah.”

Fuck. Is it genetic? “How were you shot in the stomach?”

“Well,” he doesn’t bother to tear his gaze away from the ceiling, “she pointed a gun in my general direction and pulled the trigger, thus setting in motion the combustion of gunpowder which would propel the bullet forward through the barrel-“

“Rick.”

It’s funny, how quickly the slightest edge in a quiet person’s voice can make anyone shut up. Rick drags a hand over the short spikes of his hair, eyes closing for a moment, then sighs. Any trace of bravado is out of his voice when he asks, “How much have they told you about Danny?”

“Only that they don’t know where he is.” It almost physically hurts to drag the next words out. “And that they… they found his blood…”

Rick makes a hard, cutting gesture with his hand, then winces as the IV stops him short. “Don’t. I saw her pistol whip him and drag him out of the alley. She wouldn’t have taken him if she was going to kill him.”

“She?” And I know it’s Elise, I know it in my bones, but that isn’t going to convince the police. If Rick saw enough to act as a witness… “You keep saying she.”

“Yeah. Some girl. I didn’t catch her name, but she and Danny were arguing about something when I got there.” Hazel eyes flick up to meet mine, a dangerous look in them. “She said you fucked her. Recently.”

“Ew.” Just the thought makes my skin crawl. I rub my arm absently and shudder. “No.”

He relaxes, barely, and even manages a short bark of laughter. “Suppose that answers that, then. You know her?”

“Maybe. Danny doesn’t bother to argue with many people, so it’s a short list.”

“More than argue. He damned near belted her one.” Rick makes an abortive motion for a pocket that isn’t there, then gives a disgusted sigh and mutters something about a no-smoking policy and hell on his nerves. “She went for the throat. He did the same. I had to pull him off, and the second he turned his back she pulled the gun.”

“On you.” Anxiety makes me want that minor clarification. If she drew on Danny and Rick took the bullet, odds are that Danny might be in a ditch somewhere. Even the thought makes my heart wrench, painfully hard, until it’s hard to breathe around it.

“Yeah, on me.” Rick sighs, laying his head back suddenly, then pulls a hand through his cruelly short hair. “She made very sure I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop her. All I could do was lay there and watch and try not to pass out.”

There’s an edge to his voice that isn’t entirely directed at Elise. His hand is white-knuckled where he’s gripping the edge of the wheelchair’s armrest. I reach out with the arm that isn’t tethered down by an IV and put my hand over his. His hand twitches like an animal in a trap.

“You couldn’t help him then. Help me now.”

He takes a deep breath, then grimaces and lays his hand protectively over his stomach. It takes him a moment before he looks up, his skin gray under the pale and his mouth set in a grim line. “What do you want me to do?”
******
(Danny)

I will not throw up.

I will not scream.

I will not give her the satisfaction of watching me faint like a thirteen year old girl.

Breathing through my teeth and trying not to taste the death in the air, I close my eyes on the corpse and grit out, “Why?”

Something creaks as she spins the cross around, thankfully. Bony fingers touch my face, then slide away. I can hear the pout in her voice as she sulks, “Why what?”

“Why this?” Another deep breath, then another, and I force my eyes open so I can look at her levelly. That seems to scare people, take them off their guard, and I could use that now. “What is this about?”

And I was right, she is pouting, her lower lip sticking out like a scolded toddler. It’s supposed to look coy. It looks pathetic. “I wanted you.”

I can’t help wincing and looking away. Fuck. Cult status was supposed to protect me from this. I was supposed to be safe. “I thought you wanted Tim.”

She sighs, a little wistfully. “I did. I do. But everything went wrong. He wasn’t supposed to get sick like that.”

Yeah. Tell me about it.

“So I was the replacement?”

Her eyes go wide. Cupping my face in her dirty hands, she croons, “No. Never. You were always my first choice, Danny, always my prize. I’ve wanted you forever, it seems.” Her face lights up with a shy smile that would look sweet on anyone else. It looks disjointed on her, out of place, like makeup on something rotted. “And now I have you.”

Forever. Well, considering that she was probably born long after Boingo started, I suppose that’s entirely possible. I hate feeling old.

“Why me?” I try to make it sound reasonable instead of slightly desperate, but I’m not sure I succeed. “There are plenty of other unstable redheads running around, Elise. Ones who aren’t twice your age. I’m sure you could-“

The slap takes me off guard, jerking me sideways in the restraints. My ribs scream their complaint, leaving me gasping for a moment.

“Danny,” I hate the fact that my name is on her lips, “do you know why I picked up that thing over there?”

It takes me a second to realize what the fuck she’s talking about, but when I do it makes my blood run cold. Dehumanization of the victim makes it easier to kill. Probably made it easier to pull the gun on Rick. Would make it easier to kill me.

Her hand slides under my chin, tilting my face up until I have to look at her. She smiles a little too brightly and says, “Because he looked like you used to. Before you cut your hair and everything. He was even in a band! Oh, it was almost perfect.” The psychotically happy look on her face slides away. “But he wasn’t you. I knew you wouldn’t like it if I was with another man.”

“So you killed him.”

She nods, looking like she’s expecting a fucking gold star for her thoughtfulness. I close my eyes to shut out her hopeful, too young face, squeezing them shut as hard as I can as long as I can.

For a moment, I can almost pretend that the skinny arms sliding around my neck belong to someone else. That I’m going to wake up to find that this was all just a fucked up nightmare, with Tim in my arms and the world in its place.

Then her breasts push against my chest, and her breath is hot and slightly foul on my face. “I love you,” she whispers shyly, then leans her cheek against mine. It takes everything I have not to jerk away in disgust. “I-I want you to be my first.”

Her first-?

Oh. Oh, fuck.

“Elise,” I can’t quite keep the edge of panic out of my voice, “I don’t think you want to do that-“

She giggles, a jarring sound that scrapes up my spine. “Not now, silly. I want you to do something for me first.”

“What?” It’s a wary question; I’m already swallowing against a gag reflex at the thought of even touching her. If she’s honestly going to withhold food and water until I’m too weak to fight her off, I can’t afford to lose any of it, as satisfying as it would be to throw up in her lap.

Her fingers comb through my hair once, and then, finally, she moves away. It’s easier to breathe when she’s not touching me. “You’ve got such a pretty voice, you know.”

Well. That made sense. I blink at her. “Thanks.”

“I want you to sing for me.”

Okay. I just lost whatever minor connection linked this to the last conversation. It’s probably better not to even try. “Uh… I don’t know what you’re expecting, Elise, but my voice is shot. Too many cigarettes, too many concerts. Not to mention I can’t remember half the fucking lyrics anymore-“

She looks at me, her expression unchanging. “Try.”

Fuck. “Elise-“

The gun must have been hooked in her waistband, because one second it’s nowhere to be seen and the next it’s in her hand. The end of the barrel presses against my forehead like a lover’s kiss, impossibly cold. She stares at me, still smiling, and repeats, “Try.”

Even with all the promises of devotion she was showering on me, I know better than to call a bluff when there’s a gun against my head. I search blindly for lyrics and come up with the first one that comes to mind, thanking whatever god watches over errant composers that I didn’t blank.

“Well, son, let me tell you, I’m so pleased to meet you,” My voice sounds like shit, weak and slightly unsteady, but surprisingly good considering the circumstances and the fact that I haven’t breathed a word of this song for about twenty years. “The boys and I have been expecting to greet you…”

Elise just looks at me, the gun unwavering. I can feel the press of fear, the sudden realization of my own mortality, press against my heart like ice. It’s very hard to breathe.

“Well?” she asks, when I don’t go on with my part.

I close my eyes, blocking her out, and force my mind back to a better association for this song. Showing it to Rick over a couple of beers at two in the morning, sharing an ashtray between us. The way he laughed and messed up my hair, asking if I realized that there was nobody else he’d be willing to cast as Satan. It was touching, in that bizarre Rick way.

Of course, he didn’t bother to tell me that the part would involve groping his wife while she was shirtless. That was distinctly less amusing. Fucker should have paid for my therapy.

If he’s dead, I’ll tear this bitch’s throat out with my teeth.

My voice comes without any actual thought on my part, slightly stronger now. “As guest of honor in the house of the dead… just relax, lay yourself down, say goodbye to your head.”

The gun slides down, a cold caress that runs down my cheek, over my throat, over my chest until it’s resting against my heart. Then it moves away entirely.

Yeah. Okay. I can do this.

I’m Daniel fucking Elfman, damn it. And I will not be cowed by some psychotic little cunt, armed though she may be. Sooner over later, she’ll slip up.

And I’ll be there to take full advantage.
***
(Tim)

“What the fuck do you mean?”

I’ve only ever lost my temper once, and it scared the fuck out of me. I don’t remember most of it, but from accounts of people who happened to be nearby, it was worth being afraid of. Then almost forty years of pent up passive aggression blew up. I was lucky that all that happened was a few screaming matches that left me hoarse.

I tell people that I’m not helpless. I tell them I’m not innocent. I tell them they don’t want to see what I’m hiding under my skin, the darkness that still occasionally scares the fuck out of me. But somehow, they never listen.

And now Lieutenant Wise of the Maui Police Department is three seconds from finding out why some of the people from the Batman Returns are still giving me wide berth.

“Mr. Burton,” he informs me in a deeply bored tone that is doing exactly nothing to soothe down the urge to kill him, “as I’ve told you, at this time there’s nothing we can do. Your… partner… hasn’t yet been missing twenty-four hours, which means that we can’t yet file a missing person report.”

“Listen. Lieutenant. Considering the circumstances, can’t you-“ Words fall out from under me at the worst possible time, and I’m left making hand gestures until they catch up enough to let me finish lamely, helplessly, “Do something? Early?”

“Mmm. Yes. The circumstances.” Wise’s lip curls, and I have to grab a handful of sheet to keep from throwing something at him. Then I have to grab a handful of Rick’s shirt to keep him from doing it for me. I shouldn’t have let him be here. Hell, I’m not sure I should be in here right now. “Have you checked at Mr. Elfman’s home residence in LA-“

“Yes. We did.” I have to give Rick credit; his controlled growl manages to sound intimidating without any actual threat. “Both of us did. Like we told you two fu-… two minutes ago. He didn’t just take off.”

Wise isn’t listening, taking notes on a notebook smaller than his huge hand. “Some of the night staff noted that he left rather abruptly, and appeared quite upset-“

“I died.” That finally makes his eyes jerk up. It’s almost satisfying. “And that same night staff wouldn’t let him in. So he had to stand outside the door and watch me not-breathe. Tell me, Lieutenant, wouldn’t you be rather upset if you and your… partner…” Funny how using the exact same emphasis he did makes him bristle. Feeling ruthless, I smile at him without much actual joy. “were in the same situation?”

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out, slowly. “Granted,” he says finally. “But-“

“But if he was distraught, he wouldn’t have left town without a go-…” Rick makes himself stop again and grits out, “without a word.”

“Yes. Well.” Snapping his notebook shut, Wise tucks it back into his pocket. “This is all fascinating speculation. But that doesn’t change the fact that it will be four more hours until our police department is legally able to pursue any leads-“

“Even with the bloodstain in the alley?”

He nods sagely. “Could’ve been a cat.”

Rick opens his mouth to snarl something, then shuts up so abruptly his teeth click. The rigid, almost painful control in his voice is back when he demands, “And an eye-witness account?”

“Isn’t worth much when the witness is doped up on morphine.” Wise’s smile turns just slightly nasty. “And has a criminal record.”

The moment of silence draws out for so long that I start to reach out and grab Rick’s shirt again. But when he moves, it isn’t towards the lieutenant.

Reaching down, he grabs the tape on the back of his hand and jerks it away. Then, grimacing, he draws the needle out of his skin and drops it to the side. It dangles there like a dead snake, clear venom dripping methodically on to the floor.

Rick smiles a smile that is mostly teeth and almost purrs, “What is my eye-witness account worth now, Lieutenant?”

Something close to respect shines in Wise’s eyes. What is it with these fucking bull-headed males and their pissing contests? Would he listen if it was just him and me, the tough cop and the fragile little artist fag?

I don’t want to think about that too long.

“In a few hours, Mr. Elfman? A hell of a lot. If you don’t pass out.” There’s a sick sort of challenge in that. I don’t think I can look at this anymore. So I look across the room, instead. There’s a brick wall outside my window. Nice view. “Until then, hold that thought.”

Lieutenant Wise is kind enough to shut the door behind him when he leaves. Which is good, because the second he’s gone Rick starts cursing. It starts out quiet and intense and builds to snarling and intense, spitting out each word on to the floor like blood.

Finally, he slumps back in the wheelchair, one hand over the bandages, and stares tiredly at the floor. His voice is low, defeated, and entirely too much like Danny’s. “I can’t believe the cocksucker just did that.”

I toy with the IV in my own arm, touching the little plastic tube tying me here. I feel too hurt to be pissed. Maybe too useless. If Rick hadn’t been here… the thought keeps nagging me. “Went by the book?”

“Held a fucking pissing contest when Danny could be-“

“Don’t.”

I don’t think I had to warn him. He looks stricken as it is, even with the words just dangling in the silence. Taking a deep breath, he winces and mutters, “Sorry.” Another moment, and he lets out an explosive sigh. “God, I hate cops.”

“I hate this.” And that’s all that can be said.

I was counting on the police. They were supposed to fix this, get a name and find Elise and with her Danny, and make everything right again. They’re supposed to be the fucking good guys. I should’ve done something, used some thrust, anything but sit here like a coward.  But that window of opportunity’s gone past now.

Four hours. How many different times can you die in four hours?

I suppose it’s not important. It only needs to happen once.

My fingers dig into my arms, trying to rub the warmth back in. Works better when Danny does it. “Can you hold out for a few hours without passing out?”

Rick lets out a slow, shuddery breath, then laughs a little shakily. “You know, I honestly don’t know? I think so. I mean, I’ve got experience; boxing is pretty much professional trying-to-stay-conscious. The eyewitness account might not be worth much, but I should be able to slur it out.”

“Any little bit…” Turning my head, I offer him a probably weak smile. “Rick?”

“Yeah?” And he’s already starting to look a little paler, a little strained. Yet somehow he manages an encouraging, shaky grin.

“Thank you.”

The grin relaxes into something a little less desperate, a little more real. He reaches over and swats at my head without much energy. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

And the unnerving thing is, I think he means it.

I lay my head back and stare at the ceiling for a while, listening to my breathing rasp in my throat. My chest still feels tight, and my throat still aches with the echo of the tube. For some reason, I’m so tired I’m fucking dizzy.

Maybe it’s because they have the same eyes. Maybe because it’s because of that manic smile, turning slightly shaky on the edges with pain. Maybe it’s because I’m a push-over.

Maybe it’s because I owe him.

“Rick.”

“Mgh?”

I reach blindly across and grab the bottle without looking, fumbling it a few times before I manage to drop it unceremoniously on Rick’s lap. “Morphine isn’t the only painkiller.”

Rick looks at me, then at the bottle, then laughs. “Sure. Deprive me of my heroic gesture.”

“It’s the thought that counts.” I wait for the rattle that means he took some, then close my eyes.

Four hours, Danny. I held on for you. Hold on for me.

Don’t do anything stupid.
******
(Danny)

It was always the same, the press of so warm- it felt like the man was constantly feverish, no one could really emit that much heat- dark skin against his, the stifling factor of clothes between them, that damned talented hand working at him until he was shuddering and snarling and coming harder than he’d managed with any of the inane little LA princesses. A sad fact, one he was coming to realize all too quickly; for at least the span of a few short moments, his mind and his body and everything about him lay in the control of a man who would always croon at him, press dry kisses to his mouth and move away before he could reach out and touch. Always.

Damn him for it.

Danny thumped his head against the wall, ignoring the crackle of peeling floral wallpaper. He didn’t bother to zip his jeans up, simply stood still in the sweaty heat and waited for his muscles to stop trembling. Bracing his hands on his thighs, he waited for a moment, then raised his head to stare at the other man’s back.

Roger was at the sink, running his hand under the sputtering water, humming. Fucking humming. It made for a sickeningly domestic picture, if you ignored the rasp in his breathing and the large, purple lesion creeping across one shoulder. Danny had learned to ignore it by necessity.

“Why the fuck won’t you let me touch you?” His voice sounded too young, in his head and in the echo of the room. Too desperate.

The broad shoulders, getting steadily narrower as the months went on, stiffened. But Roger said nothing.

Straightening in a sudden rush of energizing anger, Danny demanded, “Is this a dominance thing? Because I didn’t sign up for that bullshit. So you can just take this stone butch act-“

Roger’s sudden, choked laugh cut him off mid-tirade. The other man’s voice, when he spoke, was thick and weary, almost enough to make him relent. Almost. “Where on Earth did you learn that term?”

“I’m from California. All the people who get rocks thrown at their heads everywhere else get parades in California.”

He wasn’t really expecting a laugh, and didn’t get one. What he got was a long, tired sigh, as Roger bent to prop his head up on his hand as if he couldn’t even support its weight anymore. His words were muffled under the roar of a passing truck. “Jesus, Danny. Sometimes I forget how damned young you are.”

“And you’re, what, ancient now?”

“No, I’m-“ Roger cut himself off sharply, with the edge of a bitter laugh. Standing up straight, albeit slowly, he leaned his forearms against the countertop and stared out into the brightness of the sun. “I’m twenty-five.” His voice was soft and rough, like he was reassuring himself of something. “I’m only twenty-five.”

Danny tilted his head, noting the shivers sliding up and down Roger’s spine despite the heat, then sighed. The rest of his anger trickled through his fingers like water. Crossing the room, he leaned against the larger man’s back, resting his chin on one broad shoulder. He could feel the harsh drag and crackle of each breath as it slid into Roger’s lungs, and worried. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re still sick?”

That bitter laugh again, then, shortly, “Yeah.”

“You’ve been sick for a month now.”

“I’m aware of that, Daniel.”

He hated being called Daniel. It reminded him too much of Rick, and home, and Roger only did it to annoy him. Flicking his fingers against the curve of Roger’s spine, he muttered, “Dick,” then remembered the conversation at hand and forgot to be annoyed anymore. “Is that why you won’t…?”

“Let you touch me?” A nod against his back. “Yeah. It’s… it’s something… I don’t want you to catch this by mistake.”

“Don’t be paranoid.” Wrapping his arms around the other man’s chest, Danny noted absently that he’d seemed broader a month ago. “It’s just a cold, for fuck’s sake.”

Roger was silent.

He laid a palm over the other man’s heart, felt its too fast beat, and frowned. “Hey. It’s okay. Look, I shouldn’t have said…” When Roger simply shook his head, Danny shrugged and let it go. Resting his face against one shoulderblade, he asked finally, unable to resist, “When you’re better, then will you let me?”

The other man was still for a too long, moment. Then all the air seemed to slip out of him. Leaning against the counter a little harder, he said softly, “Yeah. When I’m better.”

“Cool.” With a last squeeze, Danny let him go and moved away. Before he could go back to the tuning that had been so nicely interrupted with a hand down the front of his jeans, Roger grabbed him by the elbow and turned him around. “What?”

Roger looked at him, nearly stared though him, dark eyes piercing. Something hummed between them, thick as smoke and loud as screaming, but it was in a language he didn’t speak. Finally, Roger sighed, brushing callus rough fingers across his cheek, and murmured, “God, boy. I’m going to ruin you.”

Danny blinked, and opened his mouth to ask, but before he could Roger was sliding past him, moving into the living room again.

They didn’t mention it again.

It’s funny, how I don’t have to think to sing. Seventeen years of throwing your soul into performances, you’re allowed to mail in a couple of concerts. All the concerts from just before the divorce are a blur. Sometimes I think I have an easier time if I’m running on auto; at least then I don’t need a prompter.

I don’t want to know what the bitch would do if I missed a couple of lines.

“Who in the world would ever know
If you walked out the door and never came home…”

I sound like hell. It’s been a while since I did this, and never for this long at a stretch. My throat feels like it was ripped up from the inside, seeping blood and music. I wonder how long before it completely breaks and I’m left with nothing. I wonder if she’ll give me enough time to let it recover before she fucks and kills me.

I’d love to know when my life became such a fucking drama.

Lifting my head makes the room start a slow, nauseating spin, but I’m half used to that now. Probable concussions, yay. Wincing, I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and rasp out, “Elise?”

No answer.

Okay… I have to force my eyes to open; even the dim light of the candles fucking hurts. Squinting through the gray half-light, I catch sight of a curled-up bundle against the wall and freeze.

She’s asleep. Deeply asleep, in fact, with the rapid eye movement and the occasional mumbling noise included. It would take a fucking earthquake to jar her out of it.

I shouldn’t hope. I shouldn’t risk it. But now’s as good a time as any.

What feels like a small ice age slides by. Public school education in LA didn’t exactly include a lesson in how to get yourself untied from a cross, but twisting my wrists in their bonds seems like a start. At least until the cloth- leather, maybe? It would figure- bites into my skin, digging and slicing. The first touch of wet sliding down my arm makes me grimace; my wrists are going to be a mess after this. I’ll be lucky if they don’t shove me in suicide watch by mistake.

But blood makes the ropes slick, easier to squirm out of. My thumb bends to the point of pain, letting me know that dislocation would be helpful but probably unappreciated considering that I’m already drowning in endorphins.

Then the cloth shifts past the widest part of my hand and slides easily away.

I have to bite my lip to keep from hissing in triumph. Twisting maybe a little too fast, I fumble with the other bond until it gives and falls harmlessly away.

Hours of kneeling has left almost no feeling in my legs. Humiliating as it may be, I’m going to have to crawl out of here.

Biting my lip against the searing pins and needles feeling of blood coming back from the thighs down, I drag myself across the floor and try to ignore the rusty stains in the carpet. Elise snuffles suddenly, making me jerk away without thinking. My balance is far from at its best. I hit the floor, jarring my ribs. For a couple of seconds, the world goes white with pain, and all I can hear is my own sharp gasp.

Fuck. Distraction. Have to distract her.

“I am he,” the words come out as more of a wheeze, and I honestly have to fight to put a little ass behind them, “as you are me, as you are we, and we are all together…”

John Lennon would kick me in the head. Sorry, man, you’re dead and I’d prefer not to be.

Elise twitches, then goes still with a sigh.

So, trying my best not to let my voice crack in pain, I inch my way across the harsh carpet. By the time I get to the door, I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to walk out of here. Because, seriously, my ribs fucking hurt. Not to mention the fact that my head feels like it’s going to fall off or crumple inwards.

Yeah. Okay. Suck it up and deal, Elfman.

Struggling to balance on one arm, I reach up with a shaky hand and grab the doorknob. With a burst of energy, I try to twist it open. My hand slides uselessly over the slick metal without budging anything, leaving a smear of blood behind.

Locked.

Fuck. Of course it’s locked. And odds are the cunt has the key on her. She’s a deep sleeper, but not deep enough that if I searched her, she’d hold still. Add in the little problem that I have no idea where that gun is now, and…

No. Damned if I’ll just curl up like a nice broken little prison bitch. There has to be a weapon here, something that I can fuck her up with before she has a chance to pull the gun. Except every surface seems soft, every item lightweight and non-damaging; the only things that could hurt her are the candleabra and that fucking cross. Maybe I can set her on-

There’s a cel phone in the corner of the room.

For a second, all I can do is stare at the weak pale glow, waiting for it to disappear like some sort of fucked up mirage. She wouldn’t have locked the door only to leave a phone within reach. It has to be some kind of mind game, some kind of trap.

But…

I look at the phone, then at her. She’s in a tight fetal ball now, a shirt in her arms like a teddy bear. My shirt, actually. Her lashes are fluttering, straight out of a romance novel. The snoring noises aren’t. Neither is the occasional flash of snake black at her waistband. Looks like I found the gun. But even while I sit here and watch her, she clutches the shirt and cuddles tighter, murmuring to herself, looking too damned young.

Well. Fuck this.

Humming now, trying to remember the lyrics to that fucking Weird Science song, I glance back and forth from her to the phone until I finally get to my prize. Snatching it up, I squint in the dark to focus on the buttons. They’re blurrier than they should be.

Three simple numbers, thankfully, and I can hear a tinny dial tone. Swallowing, I press the phone tighter against my ear and pray to no one in particular until I hear the click of someone picking up.

“Hello. 911.” Simple words in a firm, soothing meditation tape voice. Do they give these guys classes before they let them on the phone, or do they learn by trial and error?

“Hey. I’m-“ Fuck, how do I describe this? “I’m being held hostage, at the moment, and I don’t know where the fuck I am. Trace this call. Please.”

I have to hand it to the nice woman; she doesn’t miss a beat or ask a question. “All right, sir. Stay calm. Stay on the line. It’s going to take a couple of minutes to get a trace. Where is the man who’s holding you hostage at the moment? Is the situation under control?”

That just lost her points. “I wouldn’t call if it was fucking under control. And she’s across the room, sleeping. She’s armed. She killed one, maybe two people-“ I will not think about Richard now…- “and I’m fairly sure she’s going to kill me.”

“All right, sir. We’ll take care of it. Another minute or so on that trace, now. What’s your name?”

“Danny Elfman.” And not very grateful for it, at the moment.

“Are you injured in any way, Mr. Elfman?”

I start to answer, and stop with a wince and a bitten back curse.

The gun barrel pressed against the base of my skull has a lot to do with that.

“Not as injured as you’re going to be if you don’t put that phone down.” The bitch’s voice is venomously sweet, a gust of air across the back of my neck. “Hang it up, Danny.”

I can hear the operator’s voice, courteous but with a growing edge, as I lower the phone but don’t press the button. I look up at the bitch, seeing nothing but cold on her face. They only need a little more time, maybe thirty seconds, but thirty seconds is a damned long time when you’re staring into a gun.

“You won’t pull the trigger, Elise.” Deep breaths, Elfman. You can do this. “You won’t kill me. I’m supposed to be your first, remember?”

The gun wavers, then lowers. Lowers until its pointed at the hand holding the phone. I can see her finger twitch. How many seconds has it been? Ten, twenty?

“You don’t need a hand to sing. But you do need it to compose.” Her lips twitch up. “These are safety rounds. They’d take your hand off to the forearm, maybe the elbow. I wouldn’t let you bleed to death, of course, but you’d be worth exactly nothing to anyone but me. You can’t write music with a stump.”

I can’t really help flinching, just slightly, but it’s enough to make her smirk. Maybe because she knows she's right. Even Tim wouldn’t…

Right. There will be no more thinking about Tim.

If I lose my hand, I lose everything. The music, the peace of mind, the only thing keeping me sane… and the thing I’ll need most if I’m going to get out of here alive.

Slowly, holding her eyes, I set the phone down. I can still hear the operator’s voice, tinny and echoing, begging me to just stay on the line for a little while longer-

The second my hand moves away from the phone, the bitch opens fire.

I’ll give her credit. She can aim. In a few shots, the phone is just a broken smear of smoke and gears where a shred of hope used to be. When I look up, she backhands me, and the pain in my head wakes up with a vengeance. She slides a hand into my hair, then grabs, dragging me a few feet when I try to hold on to the carpet. Another backhand and a hard kick in the ribs, and most of my fight is gone. I really hope the taste of blood in my mouth is only from the split lip.

“That,” she hisses in my ear, “was not very nice.”

“Neither was shooting my brother, you fucking cunt!”

The next kick is, if anything, harder than the first. I double over, gasping, and barely feel the smaller pain of her jerking my hands back. Something slides around my wrists and fastens tight, much like whatever just linked around my ankles. My fingers twitch reflexively as the pain fades, and brush against something clammy.

No. She wouldn’t-

The graying face of the corpse gives me a grin that’s mostly horrified grimace, teeth bared behind lips drawn back in a scream.

Yeah. She would.

My breath is coming in too fast, close to hyperventilation. I close my eyes and try to slow it down, try to think around the horrified voice in my mind chanting that I’m chained to a body. It’s easier than it sounds.

The light touch on my face, like a spider crawling over skin, makes my eyes jerk open. Elise holds up her fingers, wet with something dark and slick, and smiles.

“Oh, look. It does match your hair.”

There’s only one way to reply to that.

Gathering up the spit and blood left in my mouth, I aim for her pretty little face and do it.
***
(Tim)

“Tim?”

I didn’t even realize I was dozing until the soft little girl voice beside my voice wakes me. Blinking my eyes open, I look up at Lisa where she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. She rubs a hand against one make-up smeared eye and smiles at me, weakly.

“Hi.” Sitting up, I put my fingers on hers. Divorced or no, unlike my other ex-girlfriends, Lisa is still among my closest friends. So I feel perfectly justified in informing her, “You look awful.”

She sniffs and looks down at the floor. “Well, I’ve been kind of busy. Have I noted that between you, Danny and the other guy I have concrete proof that boys are, in fact, dumb?”

“Not dumb. Just… bitch-prone. Psycho bitch prone.” That must not have sounded as steady as I’d hoped, because she squeezes my fingers tightly. I have to take a deep breath and close my eyes tight before I can manage words. “Listen, you should go sleep somewhere. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“What, like you did?” Her smile doesn’t quite take all the sting out, and I know her too well to think that was unintentional. She’s too good of an actress not to control every tone, every smile. Lisa scares me, sometimes. But she tightens her grip on my hand, and lets them swing back and forth between us when I sit up. “No, somebody has to keep track of you two.”

Something in the slightly disgusted way she says that makes me smile. “Richard lets you keep track of him?”

“No, but I make him anyway.” The mental image of relatively tiny, frail looking Lisa wrangling a snarling Richard makes me snort. She grins, the first flare of energy I’ve seen from her in days. “He’s easier to deal with than he looks. Says he’s either going to strangle me or propose by the time this whole thing is over. He let me have his jello, though.”

“Must be love.” I lean my head on her shoulder; it’s not very comfortable, but it’s something. She rests her cheek on top of my head. “Any word from the police?”

“Not yet.” She heaves a sigh. “I can’t find that officer, either. He might have left the building. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not.”

“I hate this.” My voice sounds childishly sulky. “I fucking hate the waiting. Twenty four hours is too long. Rick was shot, shouldn’t that count for something?”

“I think they think it was just a mugging, Danny took off and that he’s embellishing to cover. Or it’s the morphine talking. Or… something. And it doesn’t help that Rick’s hardly the model citizen. From what I’ve heard, he’s vandalized, shot without permits, sabotaged a magazine, trespassed, resisted arrest… and that’s only what he’ll admit to. He’s chewing himself up for it right now, I’ll tell you that much.”

It would be petty to say ‘good’. So I won’t.

Letting go of her hand, I slide carefully off the bed and to my feet, wincing as my back pops. Ow. I’m getting old. I pat her thigh and offer my best reassuring smile. “I need to walk around some. You can use my bed, if you want.”

She shakes her head so quickly that I blink at her. Her eyes are haunted and she won’t look at me as she says shortly, “Can’t sleep.”

Aren’t you supposed to stop worrying after a while? Don’t I have a concern saturation point or something?

Apparently not.

Taking her hand, I try to catch her eyes. “Why?”

“Keep hearing a flatline. Can’t imagine why.” Her smile looks flat. “I’ll be okay, once everything calms down. Might spend a while hovering over Danny, but I guess I should leave that to you.”

There’s not a hint of doubt in her voice. I miss having that kind of faith in the universe. Damn, she’s young.

“Right.” I let my fingers slip out of hers and reach on to the endtable. There’s a bouquet of flowers there, brightly colored and almost painful against the soothing grays of the room. A balloon on a stick jabs out from among the already dying flowers, ordering me to get well soon. Kind of an inane thing to send someone in a coma. I don’t have to check the little card to figure out who it’s from.

Feel the familial love. Wonder if they got the cheapest one they had, or went all out so they wouldn’t feel guilty about the fact that they can’t be bothered to so much as call.

Right. Not important. And ungrateful to boot. I’ve got better things to worry about. Ignoring the thing, I grab the remote hidden behind it and pass it to Lisa with a plastered on smile. “You can use the tv if you want. You’ve got the option of Matlock, Murder She Wrote, or Matlock.”

That finally coaxes a laugh out of her. “Gee, so many choices. But was it really Mr. Cooper, the old man who ran the amusement park, all along?”

“Shh. You’ll spoil the surprise ending.” I pat her knee again, just because it feels comfortable, then head towards the door. “I’m gonna see if I can con some food out of the nurse.”

“And check on that 24 hour time limit for a missing persons report.” You’d think she’d have the shame to look up when she cut apart my nice little excuse.

“Well… yeah. That too.” I spare her a sheepish grin and, grateful for the fact that someone allowed me a pair of loose pants under this stupid gown thing, stagger my less than graceful way to the door. Not that I’m usually graceful. Not in the job description, that. “Be right-“

And I nearly trip over Richard.

Steadying myself on the doorway, I stare down at him and stammer out, “Sorry, wasn’t looking, I-“

He cuts me off with a hand gesture. Something in the set of his mouth, the look in his eyes, makes my stomach tighten in dread. This can’t be good.

“Come with me, Burton. Need you to see something.”

“Mr. Elfman,” snarls someone down the hallway. When I look up, I see a young man in police officer blues standing with his arms crossed. Another officer stands behind him. Maybe this is good; maybe it means they’re finally listening. Or maybe it’s not. Something tells me it’s that second one. “This is highly irregular. This tape is only intended for the family-“

“You people and your fucking obsession with consanguineal relations!” Rick grabs my wrist in a grip way too iron for a man with a perforated stomach and tugs. “He’s family, all right? Now let’s go!”

Following him as he lets go of my arm to wheel himself down the hall, I demand a little too anxiously, “What’s going on?”

“Turns out they’ve got a nice little 911 tape to show us.” Rick’s voice has an edge, probably slicing inward.

The room dims for a second, and I have to lean on the handle of the wheelchair until it stops. I feel vaguely sick, some combination of hope and sinking dread. “Danny?”

“Yeah.” Rick makes a soft scornful noise, loaded thick with disgust. “Turns out they won’t be needing that twenty-four hour delay after all.”
*****
(Danny)

The apartment had been empty when he got back. Which was strange. Of late, Roger almost never left the place. For the last week, that nagging sickness of his had peaked, leaving him slumped and listless on the couch, snapping at Danny when he tried to hover. The fevers had been horrible, a constant cycle of breaking and rising that had left Danny almost as exhausted as Roger. He’d slept on the floor beside the couch during the worst of it, listening to each shuddering breath and whispering on occasion, “For fuck’s sake, Roger, go to the hospital. Please.”

All he had gotten in return was a raspy laugh. “People only go to our hospitals to die.”

Thankfully, the illness had eased a little on Sunday. By Monday, Roger was up and around. By Tuesday, he was shoving Danny towards the door, insisting that he would make his weekly trip up to the little post office where he’d been having his mail sent. So Danny had gone, with a distracted kiss to the older man’s cheek and a promise that he’d bring him back something.

Roger had smiled.

The note on the counter had been hastily written with a shaky hand, leaving each word trembly and smudged with sweat. It was also curt as hell. Four simple words: Went to the hospital. Danny knew them well enough; he had checked the words with every block he walked, praying he had read them wrong. The note lay crumpled up in his fist, the words smudged to incomprehension as he paced the too small waiting room.

The hospital was, in fact, an apparent replacement for hell on Earth. It was filthy, the harsh scent of medicines not quite covering the stench of death. Somewhere he could hear a woman screaming, her message clearly one of pain even if the language was one he didn’t know.

The receptionist, a sallow looking white woman, looked at him a little disdainfully, then asked in French, “Can I help you?”

Damn. His French was beyond horrible, but he forced out a tortured phrase that made some semblance of sense, asking for Roger.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but turned and disappeared behind the dirty window. He could hear rustling as she went through the files. Finally, she reappeared at the window. Her face was, if anything, even more drawn than it had been before, as if she tasted something bad.

“Burned,” she said shortly, and turned away.

“Burned? What?” Danny hit the window with his palm, forcing her attention back. “Is he on the burn ward? How bad is it?”

The nurse made a noise, then leaned forward until her nose was almost touching the window. He flinched back, but not enough to miss it when she snarled in broken English, “Sin sick. Died. Burned. Ashes now. Understand, American?”

“People only go to our hospitals to die.”, the little voice in his head whispered, and chuckled with a throat thickened by blood.

His hand slid down the window with a shriek of flesh on dry glass.

Roger was gone.

My mouth feels dry.

Not the normal kind of dry. Dust and ashes kind of dry. The kind when you can’t remember what water tasted like, and there’s no spit coming anymore. Figures. I won’t die from breathing in the sickly sweet fumes of rotting guy behind me, or from a punctured lung, or anything simple like that. Nope. I get to die because I’m too stupid to ask for water.

Not that there’s anybody left to ask for water. Elise went off somewhere shortly after I spit on her; I don’t really care to know where. I’m not going to question a good opportunity.

Might be a slightly better opportunity, mind you, if cuffs came off as easily as ropes. Which they do not, especially when they’re cinched so tight they cut into skin. I might lose my hands anyway. Such a gratifying thought. And though dead guy is not the most solid material to cuff someone to, he’s fresh enough that the skin is still firm. Even if I manage to saw through that without choking to death on my own gag reflex, his spine is going to be a little more difficult to pull through. And I’m not going to go into the fact that my ankles are cuffed to hiss, making it much more difficult to just crawl to the door. This kid, no matter how rotted he gets, is still about fifty pounds heavier than I am.

But, hell. I’ve got to do something to keep the realization that I’m trapped by a psycho-bitch and strapped to a corpse from sinking in, because if that happens I might very well go around the bend. Can’t think about that too much. Or about Rick. Or Tim-

Yeah. That’s definitely on the not to consider right now list.

So I sit here, digging through a layer of skin using only a short rusty chain and my steadily numbing arm muscles, humming through various scores to keep from screaming. Nina Rota would be either pissed or vaguely impressed. And for my next trick, I’ll compose the entire score of Spiderman from the shark tank at Sea World, without the benefit of a cage or any breathing equipment. Might get a little soggy, but hey, we all know I just hum the fucking things for Steve to write out anyway.

Chain hits spine with a little rasp that makes me grit my teeth. My hands feel slick, I don’t want to know from what, like my fingers were dragged through raw meat. Which, in all honesty, they kind of have.

Jesus. Looks like I’ll be a vegetarian once I get out of here.

Comforting myself with the thought of an hour long shower, I double up the chain around my fingers until there’s only a few links between them, then pull as hard as I can. I can feel the vertebrae bending, pressing the body against my back in some sick parody of an arch. I can feel something wet and cold and thick soaking my lower back. My gagging noise sounds a little too much like a sob. Pressing harder, I hear something pop, then start to crack with a little fracturing noise. Yes… so close…

The door swings open.

I jerk my hands away from dead boy, probably not fast enough, and do my best impression of asleep. Squinting gives me a blurry view of Elise in the half light, and Jesus, she looks bad. Or more to the point, she looks wild, her hair standing up in places like she grabbed handfuls and pulled until pieces came away in her fingers. Her face is streaked with make-up and tears. And her facial expression…

I have never seen anything like the look on her face since the pictures the missionaries in Africa used to show off as pictures of sinners in hell, eternally tormented. The phrase ‘wailing and gnashing of teeth’ comes to mind.

The kick in the sternum comes as a surprise, knocking my air out for a moment. Something slaps to the ground right beside my face, and it takes a moment for me to realize that it’s a piece of paper. A print-out, from the look of it, from some online newspaper.

“Look,” Elise hisses, low and nasty. “Look at what happened.”

It takes a moment for my eyes to focus, through the dark and the concussion. But finally, painfully, they do, letting me read the header. The ink is smeared, probably from the way Elise carried it here fresh from her printer, reminding me of something I still hate to think about, but the words are still recognizable. USA Today online. Beneath the words are a blurred, bad quality picture of a young woman in black slumped over a gurney, her face hidden. Then my eyes fix, finally, on the words that go with the picture.

“Director Tim Burton, Dead at 43.”

And I stop breathing for a few seconds.

No. No, that doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t mean to leave him, it wasn’t my fault or my idea. He can’t be dead. I saw him a few days ago, I kissed him a week ago, this sort of thing just doesn’t happen. He was supposed to wait. He wasn’t supposed to… to just… Of the two of us, Tim wasn’t the tainted one. Wasn’t the one who deserved…

I still need him.

Something’s breaking in me, someplace deep, like a small and fragile thing being crushed to death slowly. I can’t breathe. I’m on the floor, there’s nowhere else to fall, but I can feel myself going down anyway.

I still love him.

Noises keep seeping up my throat and spilling out, pathetic wounded animal keening. Nothing is supposed to hurt this much without dying, but it keeps going on, spiraling out, consuming until I’m dead in every way that counts for something. Scorched earth, dead and dry, inside and out. I can’t seem to breathe. I can’t seem to care.

A hand touches my hair and curls in like claws. “There now,” she croons. “Isn’t that so much better?”

I close my eyes, curl up in the dark, and wait for my breathing to stop.
***
(Tim)

The silence is almost as bad as the gunshots. Almost as bad as the look on Richard’s face, one that must be close to the one on my own. Almost as bad as the strained calm in Danny’s voice, made tinny by recording. Almost as bad as the not-knowing. Almost.

“Did you trace the call?” My voice sounds hollow.

“No, sir. The call was cut off shortly before we could make a confirmation.”

“I see.” All of that for nothing. God, let Danny not have played martyr. Not with his hands. Not with any part of him, come to think of it, but losing a hand would kill him about as surely as a bullet in the head. And I can’t think of that anymore. I can feel my hands shaking. Folding them together and squeezing until bones creak, I look up at one of the officers. My voice is very distant and very cold, so much so that I barely recognize it as mine. “So you actually believe there is a problem now.”

The younger one has enough shame to look at the floor. “Yes, sir. We’re doing everything we can now to find the woman responsible for this. Which is why we need to talk to Mr. Elfman.“

Richard’s knuckles are very white where he’s gripping the handles of his wheelchair, but nothing shows on his face. He has to clear his throat once or twice before he can force sound out. “Yeah. I didn’t get a good view, but I saw her face-“

“Her name is Elise Hayden. Brown hair, dark eyes, about five and a half feet tall. Skinny. Cheap makeup.” Three heads turn towards me at once. It says something about the situation that I don’t flinch. “She was my personal assistant. I have her case file somewhere, probably with an address. Maybe.”

“He called her Elise.” Rick’s eyes widen suddenly, and he makes an abortive motion like he wants to hit himself. “Fuck, that’s right. He called her something like that in the alley. I forgot about it afterwards, with the shooting, and- She’s the one you said you knew?”

I nod at him about the same moment that the second cop gives me a brisk nod. Maybe the authority in it is supposed to be encouraging, but somehow it just makes me want to hit him. Two hours ago you were trying to convince me he’d run off, you bastards. Look at what those two hours may have cost him. “Best lead we’ve had so far. See if you can track that down. We’ll talk to Mr. Elfman, get his account of the attack in the alley.”

I nod at him instead, then force myself up to my feet. My throat suddenly decides to remind me that it hurts like a fucker, so I don’t bother wasting any more coherency on them.  I barely have enough of it as is.

Somehow, it seems right to grab Rick’s shoulder and squeeze, maybe a little tentatively, on my way past. It’d seem a lot more impressive if the comfort was only supposed to go one way.

The nurse glances up and gives me a curious look, a maternal smile, as I stride past her with a burst of energy from I don’t know where. In about an hour I’m going to be curled in on myself, coughing up a lung and miserable as hell. Already the edges of my vision are getting blurry. Fuck, not more fever. I can’t afford this shit, not now.

Lisa looks up from the tv, that same concerned look sharp in her eyes. I wave the look off and give her a weak smile. Then, before she can yell at me, I grab the cel phone off the little pile of clothes stacked on the chair, presumably the ones I passed out in, and duck into the bathroom. The lights are off, but I don’t care. Privacy is privacy. Is self explanatory.

Three rings again. Then a nasal monotone female voice recites, “Warner Brothers Studios, how can I help you?”

Yep, this is the right number. Knew I could dial it blind. “Hi, this is Tim Burton, I need you to look up something for me.”

I get the satisfaction of a moment of horrified silence. Then she fairly shrieks, “Mr. Burton, surely this is not the appropriate time to work on a film!”

For a second I wonder how the hell she knew. Then it sinks in that, oh, yeah, I’m a celebrity. Sort of. And celebrity collapses, comas and general soap opera makes for good TV. Which makes for film publicity. Which makes for pity nominations. Which makes for many executive asses on the line if they push me to finish on my deathbed.

Turnabout. I think I liked it better when I was overworked.

“No, I was looking for a personnel file. I need it faxed down here.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice is all relief. “Right away.”

And then she hangs up, presumably before I can inform her of my plans to start shooting in fifteen minutes, while being wheeled around on a gurney. Not like the IV will get tangled up with anything.

My legs feel suddenly rubbery as I close the phone, no more distractions to keep from my impending psychotic episode. My back hits the door and braces as I slide down to the floor until I can wrap my arms around my knees and pretend that I’m not shaking.

A tentative staccato knock. “Tim? You okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.” My voice sounds strained. I lay one hand on top of the other, feeling the line of bones, the occasional scratch of a callus. I can’t remember what Danny’s hands felt like. I can’t remember the shape of them in my own. Only strength, and art, and years of use.

I try to imagine a stump. The smoothness of scar tissue stretched over ruined skin. The look of a missing piece. I try to imagine the look it would put in Danny’s eyes. I try not to think about the silence after Elise told him that no one else would want him, like he believed her.

I torture myself with the images. Twist the knife a few times. Because if they bring Danny back with a few missing pieces, I won’t rip him up further by flinching. I can’t.

The short hitching breaths are doing nothing for my throat. I’m glad for the dark. Because if it’s dark I can’t see the wetness on my fingers when I press them against my eyes, holding in the too vivid pictures in my head when they would try to spill out.

And I won’t think about what will happen if they don’t bring him back at all.
****
(Danny)

I dream of things I shouldn’t when my eyes are open, truer than the reality in front of my face. Broken dolls with flat glass eyes and Tim’s pale face. Bloody hands and skies red and black with fire and ash. The taste of communion wine going sour on my tongue, sharp with blasphemy.

I think my mind has broken.

Whispers, somewhere, soft as spiderwebs, slipping between sharp even white teeth I can feel at my throat. Darkness, sometimes, velvet black as the inside of a tomb blocked by a boulder, keeping me in, keeping them out. I stopped screaming a while ago. It didn’t drown the murmurs out from an audience of the dead. Rotting hands brush my cheek, sickly sweet with the perfume of rot, leaving behind trails of their skin to color my bone-white flesh. I let them, because I can’t speak anymore.

My mouth feels stiff. An experimental motion lets me feel the black cord someone has been kind enough to use to sew my lips together, making sure none of the pain slips free. I think I smile just to taste the blood.

Daniel. Pretty whispering in my head. No one calls me Daniel.

Go away. You’re a hallucination.

All of this is a hallucination. You can’t stay here.

It isn’t my choice.

Yes it is. It’s your sanctuary, your prison. You can leave anytime you want. But you do have to want.

Masochism. Penance. I can’t leave.

Penance for what?

My eyelids squeeze shut over blind, empty eyes. I reach up to touch my face, but my hands are gone, cut cleanly away.

I let him die.

He laughs. Do you think you’re God?

I don’t believe in God.  If I'm wrong, let him let me burn. Useless flesh and sweet pain and unattainable purity. Anything to make the cold stop.

Don't be overdramatic.  You can make the cold stop, Daniel.

Don’t talk to me. I know you, you bastard. You left me. You lied to me. You ruined me. I should have known better, after you.

Get out of this place. A cold hand slides over my lips, taking away the cold. I press my lips together and bite the lower one until blood flows hot in my mouth. You shouldn’t be here, boy.

I don’t have anything else to want out there. All I want is quiet in my head. The dark. Nirvana is nothingness. No wants, no love, no pain. No sin.

You want her to suffer.

No. I don’t want anyone else to hurt.

She shot your brother.

I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to remember the blood. That was a lifetime ago, it doesn’t matter anymore-

Make her pay, Daniel. Don’t lie here like a coward in the dark.

You’re the coward.

She killed that boy. She tried to kill Richard. And she’ll kill others, if you just stay here. She’ll use you like a pretty broken doll to help her. Avila, Lisa, Bartek. One by one by one.

No. No, she can’t. It was supposed to stop with me. She was supposed to be satisfied.

Don’t be a martyr, boy. Because in the end it won’t mean a damned thing. You have to make her stop. You can restore the balance here.

No. I don’t need the weight of any more sins here. No more thoughts of death.

But John… and the others… I can’t just…

No. Fuck, no. Soulless bastard, remember? Sociopathic? I can wallow in the misery and the pain. I can hide here. I don’t give a fuck about anyone else. I don’t care what Elise will do to Lisa when she does this shit to people she loves. I don’t care about John lying crumpled up and lifeless in the corner beside the nameless musician boy, missing skin, missing breath. I don’t care about what Tim would think of this. I… I don’t…

Damn you, Roger.

Another airless laugh. You’re a little late on that.

If I stop her, if I keep her from going on… will you let me go? Will you leave me alone here?

A hesitation. Then, quiet as a dying breath, Yes.

Honesty and pain lay interchangeable in that one word. A promise made is a promise kept, even among the lying dead. I believe him. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.

I only go there to die. My laugh sounds bitter in my head. The familiar words cut the inside of my throat.

And I open my eyes on the room, the cross pressing into my back again. Elise stands there, half naked and pale, her eyes following my every move. The teartracks have dried on her face, and she smiles like a child given a new toy to replace the broken one they never wanted anyway. The hate feels hot and bright in my throat.

“Are you ready to play now?” she asks cheerfully.

I can feel the echo of the needle piercing through my lips as I hide my smile and tell her simply, “Yes. I think I am.”
****
(Tim)

It takes me about twenty minutes to find him, staggering down every hallway, politely ignoring the rebukes from about every nurse that I pass. Maybe one’ll try to grab and drag me eventually. Considering my current mood, that would be bad. Maybe that’s why no one has tried. Not even Lisa, who finally gave in, laid her head down and promptly passed out. I threw Rick’s coat over her; she seemed to appreciate that. I tried to get the bloodstains out as best I could.

I finally catch him on the ground floor, standing beside the huge, glassed in gallery of plants and trees. Maybe it’s supposed to be comforting. He’s a long, lean shadow against the dim light coming from the other side of the glass. The wheelchair lays on its side at his feet, bent in a few places like he kicked it.

“Rick?”

A sniff that sounds somehow macho, then a sigh. “Yeah, kid.”

My cue to go into the room. The lights are off in the room, leaving only the watery light. The glass feels cool against skin when I lean against it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Thinking too much, maybe.” Something glows in the dark for a moment, bright as embers, then he exhales smoke and lets his head hit the glass. His eyes are fixed on the motionless trees, no breeze to stir their false life.

“Should you be out of the wheelchair?”

“No.” One long-fingered hand lays against his side, unexpectedly elegant. The heartless artist part of me wonders if he’d let me cast him in something after this; the way he moves is fascinating. The other part wants to hug him and lie that it’ll be okay. And then hit him. It’s a strange duality. Now I know why most of Danny’s conversations with him involve the phrase ‘I love you too, you fucking idiot’… “Surprised the stitches didn’t rip, actually.”

I look at him for a couple seconds, then sigh and reach down to put the wheelchair back upright. “Sit. If your stitches rip I’ll have to yell at you or something. Save us both the embarrassment.”

He looks at me for a long moment through the smoke, then makes a rusty laughing noise and, rolling his eyes, eases back into the wheelchair. The stitches pull on the way down, making him grimace, but he swats at me when I try to help him. He doesn’t put the cigarette out.

Sitting on the floor so he doesn’t have to look up, I fold my hands in my lap and stare into the caged trees. They look weak, somehow, withered. The bright flowers looked dulled.

We sit there in silence for long minutes, studying the trees. I wish I had a sketchbook, but at the same time I’m half afraid of what I’d draw right now. Sometimes my own darkness scares me. I’m not sure what that says about me. I know I don’t want to know.

The sound of smoke being dragged through a filter, then exhaled, and Richard says without warning, “Danny used to have nightmares a lot, you know. In high school.”

I make an ‘I’m listening’ noise, but don’t interrupt and try very hard not to look eager. I’ve never heard a Danny story that was set before he was of legal drinking age; he’s made kinda sure of that.

Rick goes out without glancing at me, like he’s talking to himself. Or somebody who’s not here at the moment. “Nightly. Sometimes once every couple of hours. Used to get sleep-deprived as fuck, but every time he closed his eyes he’d wake up screaming.” With a flick of his wrist, Richard drops ash to the floor. His eyes stay fixed on the green leaves that hang limp from their branches. “Wasn’t too fun for anybody involved. My room was one down from his, so when he wigged out it was my job to go shake him out of it. Most of the time you had to basically knock the shit out of him to wake him up. I left bruises more than once.”

I wrap my arms around my ribs and let my shoulder rest against the window. “He never told me that.”

“Yeah, well. He doesn’t tell anybody much of anything. Mom still doesn’t know. I didn’t even know until the first time the screaming woke me up.” Richard sighs, letting the cigarette drop to the floor, then grinds it out with a twist of his ankle. “Kid thought maybe he was going crazy. And hell, maybe he was, I’m no psychologist. After the first couple of months, he wouldn’t even bother snarling at me, just slump against my side and shake for a while. First time he did that, I made the biggest mistake of my life. Told him that I’d protect him. And he made the mistake of actually believing me.”

Fuck. Sitting up, I put my hand on his knee and feel the muscles jerk, like he wasn’t expecting the touch. “This wasn’t your fault anymore than it was mine-“

And Lisa comes tearing into the room, wild-eyed and still sleep-rumpled, before I can make my awkward attempt at counseling someone probably less screwed up than I am. Chest rising and falling in little pants like she ran here, she makes a hand gesture that manages to convey both excitement and frustration at once. And I thought I didn’t rub off on her. “Where have you two been?!”

“Male-bonding,” Richard drawls, any trace of sincerity gone. He does take a moment to look Lisa over a little appreciatively. “What’s going on?”

She looks back and forth between us, like she isn’t quite sure who to talk to. “The fax from the studio came in, the cops took it and did a background check. Turns out that Elise gave you,” she points at me, “a false address, but when they checked up on it they found  that she’s got family in Maui whose house has been vacated for the last six months. In a neighborhood that’s been consistently complaining of strange noises for the last week.” Her grin manages to look both feral and childishly pleased. “It’s the best hope we’ve gotten so far. They’re going to check on it now.”

Sitting up straighter, I grab her hand. She wraps her fingers around mine and squeezes. “When did they leave?”

“Ten minutes ago. An officer Wise called to let you know.”

Richard growls something under his breath, then sighs and gives Lisa a tentative grin back. “Okay. So we get to go hover over the phone now.”

“Yup.” Without a word, she grabs the handles of the back of his wheelchair and pushes.

He tilts his head back at her and shows her his teeth in a more of a snarl than a smile, but his voice is easy with relief as he informs her, “I can push myself, you know.”

“I know.” Hair slides into her face as she offers him a grin back. “I just want to push you into a wall for deciding to smoke not even a few days after you were bleeding to death.”

“Nag, nag,” he mutters, but lets her push him. Which says something about both the situation and her.

I watch them go for a moment, then shake myself and force enough strength back into my legs that I can stand. Funny how the vise seems to have tightened and eased at once.  I follow them out, and even manage a smile, but I can’t seem to pull my mind away from a thought that bites and gnaws and scrapes at me until it’s verging on panic.

If they find Danny… how much is going to be left for them to find?
*****
(Danny)

Elise smiles at me, beams really, and reaches down to unfasten the button of her jeans. Her skin is milk pale, corpse gray in the candle-light, soft in too many places. The sort of soft where you wonder, if you press your fingers in, will you sink beneath the skin into the red and squirming places beneath?

I will not be sick.

“Why are you doing this?” I manage to keep the weakness out of my voice, leave it bored and cold with detached curiosity. “Unhappy childhood? Can’t get off unless the guy’s chained to a religious object? Or is it just Christian objects?”

She laughs, high and delighted sound, and kicks her jeans off. No underwear, no pubic hair. She looks eleven. I have to find an excuse to look away, study the grains of the carpet for a while. “Now you’re playing right.”

I look up, careful to keep my eyes on her face and away from anywhere else. “Playing right?”

“Yes.” Kneeling on the floor, she braces her hands on her thighs and smiles proudly at me. “I fixed you. I knew you’d be like this if I fixed you. Now we can play.”

“And how, exactly, was I broken before?”

She rolls her eyes, all teenaged scorn. I can’t do this if I think of her as young. “You didn’t act right. The man who wrote ‘Insanity’ should not whimper and fawn at the feet of anyone, especially not a man who is quite obviously weaker. You shouldn’t show concern. You’re supposed to be above that.”

“Above feeling anything.” Damn. Taking a deep breath, I try to explain, “Elise, I’ve changed since then-“

“And I changed you back. It’s better this way.” Elise reaches behind her, and the blade of a knife flashes weakly in the flickers of candlelight. “You helped me so much, Danny. You made me who I am today. You taught me that I didn’t have to play by society’s stupid little rules. It’s survival of the fittest.”

“That wasn’t what I was saying-“

“Shh.” The flat of the blade slides along my cheek, following when I try to jerk my head away. “Of course it was. You don’t have to tell me all those pretty lies. I know you.”

“You know nothing.”

The point of the knife slides down the tendons of my throat, pressing into the skin. “I know you, because we’re alike. We’re soulmates.” Elise smiles again, showing crooked teeth. “You knew I was there, and you were trying to reach me. You made me feel, sometimes. And you taught me that it was okay not to feel.”

The knife point slides down, down. “You’re not supposed to be numb to everything.”

“Oh, I know that now!” If anything, her smile gets brighter. The knife stops at my hip. “And I’m going to return that favor. I’m going to teach you what feeling really is. What beauty really is.”

The knife nicks skin, then presses in, carving into my hip. It’s a minor pain and a shallow cut, even though I can feel the blood start to flow. My voice doesn’t even waver as I look at her, her face screwed up in deep concentration, and ask, “And what is that?”

“Have you ever killed, Danny?” Her eyes go dreamy and vague, even as the deliberate motions of the knife go on without faltering. She’s writing something in my fucking skin. “Felt blood spill over your hands. Listened to the… the thing under your knife beg for you to make the hurting stop. Knew that for that moment, to that person, you are Death. You are God. And you are in control.”

“No. No, I haven’t.”

“Well! We’ll change that soon enough.” Her eyes flick up, fixing on me. They look like glass, doll eyes. Too shiny. “But you’ve dreamed of it, haven’t you? You’ve been tempted.”

 “Everyone’s been tempted,” I lie, and try not to remember the nightmares.

The knife point comes away from my skin. She brings bloody fingers up to her mouth and licks them clean, like a cat, then smiles at me. “No. Not everyone. I can see it in your eyes, Danny. The dark. The anger. You want nothing more than for that thing keeping you from being the hunter and not the prey to be taken away for you.”

Yeah. That piddling thing known as a conscience. “And you’re going to take it away.”

“Yes.” Her hands slide up my sides, leaving behind bloody trails and searing pain as she presses against bruises and broken ribs. “And then, nothing can make us stop. We’ll be like gods, you and I. Hunters. ‘When we hunt, we all function with one mind…’”

“That was just a song, Elise.” Her fingers slide around my throat, not pressing, just there. “Album filler. It didn’t mean anything.”

“No.” Her smile curves up, catlike, mysterious. “Not yet.”

And then she kisses me. Her mouth is metallic and salty with the taste of my blood, slimy and lukewarm. It takes more than I thought it would to be still and let her do this.

Revulsion. Oh, fuck, she’s going to-

Sudden motion from Elise, and there’s slickness wrapped around my cock. I can almost hear something in her tear. She throws her head back and screams.

Turning my face away from her, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe. The soft heavy weight of her, the sound of her whining little whimpers, is crushing the air out of me. My stomach rolls, and I have to fight down a retch. Nothing to throw up, and I can’t afford the weakness.

Think, Elfman. Concentrate. She’s weak and unarmed. Use it.

Her whining changes suddenly, turning into little choking noises. I lift my head to stare at her just as the noises shift, getting louder, getting clearer.

The crazy bitch is laughing.

Knotting her fingers in tangled hair, she looks at me through half-lidded eyes. Her mouth is wet and slack. ”Yeah,” she purrs. “Just like I thought it would be.”

I can feel her blood sliding down my thighs. And that isn’t all of it. She’s getting off on this. I can feel her twitching, uneasy little spasms. Funny how pain feels so much like pleasure. Funny how all I’m feeling is cold.

She buries her nose against my throat as she starts to rock back and forth a little awkwardly. I’m not moving, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t seem to bother her than I’m not hard, either.

“Yeah, yeah.” A litany of repetitive little noises. “I love you.”

I can feel my fingernails digging bloody gauges into my palms. I don’t say anything.

“So much easier this way.” Her sigh sounds childishly happy. “Knew it would be, after he was gone.”

Every muscle in my body goes suddenly wire tense, bracing. She mistakes it for a shudder and chuckles huskily in my ear.

“He?”

I don’t know how she misses the edge in my voice, but she manages. With a giggle, she licks my throat. “Mm-hmm. I figured he could only get in the way. Which was a pity. I really did like Tim.”

I didn’t think it was possible for everything to go colder. Maybe it’s just me. Every shred of pity for her, everything human, slides back until there’s nothing there but an icy, animal rage.

I could tear out her throat. The artery flexes under her skin, oblivious temptation.

“What did you do?” Matter of fact tone, like she isn’t giggling over the murder of my lover.

“Poison. In his coffee. No blood, unfortunately, but it would be harder to cover for his death than most. Besides. I liked him.”

My fingernails are digging gauges I don’t feel. Everything feels airless, still, like that moment before lightning.

“Elise.” My voice sounds dead. Go figure.

“Mm-hmm, lover?”

I lean a little forward, letting my mouth brush her ear. She shudders, and does it again when I let my voice drop into that low, velvet growl. It hides the anger, hides everything. It always has. “How about you untie my wrists so I can take care of you?”

She pulls back a little to look at me, her eyes full of suspicion.

My smile is all blood and teeth. It doesn’t feel particularly sane. “And when we’re done… did you meet Tim’s ex-wife, I wonder?”

Her mouth tightens like she smelled something bad. “Yeah. The bitch.”

“Yeah.” Meeting her eyes, I let the smile deepen until it hurts. “Wonder how she’d scream with her tongue cut out.”

Elise’s face lights up slowly, moment by moment, until she lets out an excited squeal and hugs me around the neck. “Oh, Danny, I knew I could reach you. I knew you’d figure it out.”

“Unchain my hands, Elise.” The bored steel in my voice makes her shiver a little, delighted, then reach up and unfasten the chains with trembling little hands. So easy. Too easy. You stupid bitch.

She sits back on her haunches, watching with wide eyes like a puppy as I flex my fingers until the feeling returns. I look at them, then at her. Then I slide my fingers through her lank hair and jerk her head to the side, stopping short of snapping spine and killing. It’s tempting. I study her face impassively, upturned pretty childish thing, with her snub nose and her dead eyes. Then I lean forward and kiss her, ruthless with all the skill collected in nearly 50 years of practice, bruisingly hard. My fingers tighten in her hair, clenching. She makes a breathless noise of pain, then shudders and moans as I reach between us, find her clit and twist. Her air comes out on a surprised noise, then breaks on a wail as she comes.

I shove her off me and, as she looks at me with eyes made drugged by orgasm, punch her in the face.

She goes down hard and with a screech, a broken bundle of hair and pale skin. I scramble over her, cursing the numbness in my legs, and make it about three steps before she gets it together and slams the knife into my thigh and twists. It’s not a deep wound, but it’s deep enough to keep me from running. I hit the floor on my side and get kicked, hard, in the ribs. Another one gives with a pop. That’s three now, maybe four, but it doesn’t matter because Elise is on her feet and standing over me.

“Bitch!” she snarls, her eyes wide and wild. “I’ll kill you! You lied to me!”

I don’t bother with a witty reply, just snarl at her and grope blindly behind me in search of something to throw.

My fingers close on metal. Barrel, chamber, trigger… yes.

“You’re just like the others!” The knife comes up, and I know where she’s aiming. For the heart. She sobs suddenly, sharply, and recites in a high breaking voice, “’I just had to kill him, like my poor dear old-“

The first bullet takes her in the shoulder. The second hits too low, in the stomach.

Her eyes go comically wide as she drops, one hand clamped over the new hole in her stomach. I can see the flex of muscles, the red of deeper flesh, the bright red of arterial blood spilling over her hand. It’ll take hours to die that way. But she’ll die.

She slumps against the cross like a broken doll, her eyes staring into nothing. Whatever she’s looking at, it isn’t me. And she’s terrified. She makes a low mourning noise, then presses her nails to her eyes and digs. Clawing and drawing blood and still making that damned noise I know is going to haunt me. “Make it stop,” she begs no one in particular. “Oh, God, it hurts, make it stop… please…”

I don’t know if she’s talking to God or to me or to both. I just stare at her, shaking too hard to think. One killer to another.

“Mommy?” she whispers, high and broken as a little girl. “Mom?”

Feeling cold, feeling sick, I bring the gun up one last time and shoot her between the eyes.

The whimpering blessedly stops, and the room is still and bloody. I can see blood dribbling down the wall, sinking into the carpet, pretty streaks of red drying to brown.

I let the gun drop and fall back against the wall, trying to stop shaking. It doesn’t work very well.

To her I was Death.

To her I was God.

I curl in on myself and retch for so long that I’m dizzy and my ribs are screaming. My thigh is slick with blood where my hand rests on it, but it doesn’t hurt. Which is funny, because everything else does. And it’s cold. It’s so fucking cold.

When the door bursts open with an explosion of splinters and gunfire, I don’t even flinch. It takes too much energy to even look up through my hair at the blurs of blue and skin. Someone curses, someone else barks an order that sounds far away, fabric creaks as someone else leans down. Their hand rests on my back for a moment, and I jerk away. My words are slurring together, probably shock. “Don’ touch me.”

The hand moves away again. “Mr. Elfman?”

“Yeah.” It seems important enough that I squint at the nice officer, trying to focus on their face. All I see is pink, like melted plastic. “Yeah.”

“We’ve been looking for you.”

I would laugh at the irony, but something might break. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t just apply physically. “Could’ve looked a little harder, maybe.”

Someone laughs, a little uneasily. The one kneeling by me offers something, then sighs when I don’t move and drapes it over my shoulders. A coat, heavy as fuck, still not warming somehow. “C’mon. We need you to come with us.”

“Where?”

“The hospital, sir. You’re hurt.”

“’M fine.” Someone else touches my arm, and I shove it away. Jesus, don’t these people listen? My voice drops into a growl, about as dangerously close to snapping as I feel. Wire stretched to the breaking point beneath an impossible weight. The creak of a stretched out noose. “Do. Not. Touch. Me.”

They back off. “Yes, sir. But you really do need medical attention. You’re in shock.”

Yes, that would explain the shivering. “He said he’d let me go. Promised. I’m supposed to be done. Fuck off.”

In the background, someone murmurs about hysteria and delirium. Then someone else sighs and slides an arm under my knees. I snarl at them, but apparently get ignored because in the next second someone pulls me up.

Oh… fuck. Skin on skin, too much. The sickness and the cold comes back full force, leaving me frozen and shaking too hard to lash out. I feel dirty, I can smell her on me, I let her fuck me. And I killed her. Have to wash it off, can’t wipe off the blood…

The blurry people apparently accept my being still as a good sign, because they get me down the stairs and to the gurney without any inane attempts at soothing me. Words are nothing, would be nothing. I just need to make it stop.

The knife. I left it with Elise. I could have used that, and they’ll be fucking watching me in the hospital. No. Damn it, no, I was supposed to be finished!

It’s easier to deal with what the fuck I just did if I know I can make it all stop before it catches up to me. I can make it all stop.

Damn it, Roger. Another lie.

I can’t live like this. I can’t deal with all the truths  in my head, I can’t deal with seeing Elise’s face every fucking time I close my eyes, I can’t deal with remembering her touch, I can’t deal with the pity I see in their eyes. I know I’m weak. I know I’m fucking fractured. Don’t look at me like that, don’t touch me, leave me the fuck in peace-

I lose a few minutes, between the closing of the ambulance door and the reopening to bright lights and harsh noises. Low voices mumble to each other over my head, in time with the dull pain centered somewhere around my head and my thigh. I lift my head just enough to see black cord and a needle, and let my head drop again.

“Mr. Elfman?” Soft hands at my hair, pushing it back like you’d comfort a sick child. I’d hit her if I could figure out how to get the energy. “You said something?”

If I did, I can’t remember it. But hell, if she’s asking… “Are you almost done?”

“Have somewhere else to be, Mr. Elfman?” There’s something between a smirk and a sigh in her voice. “Just let me finish the stitching, and we’ll put you in observation for that concussion, all right? Then you can go wherever you need to be.”

Like hell. “Okay.”

She pats my shoulder, a little too friendly, then a blur of drug-laced time later informs me, “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to check if we have a room cleared for you. Don’t move too much.”

I nod, trying to look martyred and helplessly pained. The second the door shuts, I’m up on my feet. I didn’t fight my way out of handcuffs and a gun against my head just to hold still because somebody asked nicely.

The hallways are nearly empty, so brightly lit it hurts. It’s not exactly easy to walk with one hand gripping the coat closed and the other on the wall to keep myself from keeling over, my leg bucking nearly every other step, but it’s working relatively well. It might help that I don’t know where I’m going.

A bathroom, maybe. Break a mirror, slice my wrists with the glass. Not exactly subtle, not exactly reliable, but it might be better than jumping off the roof, with its risk of surviving in a shell, no way out unless somebody does it for me. You’ve got to take your chances when they come, I suppose-

“Danny?” The question comes from behind me. I don’t really bother turning around. “Danny!”

A hand grips my arm, bruisingly hard, surprising me into half turning to look at them and possibly punch them if the situation warrants. I’ve got my fist partly raised when the red hair and hazel eyes register. I let my hand drop, a little too numb for the surge of relief that hits me somewhere deep. My voice sounds slightly hollow. “Oh. Hey. You’re alive.”

“Yeah. And so are you.” Richard tilts his head to look at me. I must look bad; the worry under the tired happy relief actually show on his face. Would he be happy to see me if he knew, I wonder? Can he tell? Does he smell her? “Kid, you look like hell. Maybe you shouldn’t be up.”

“Have to be up. I’m going somewhere. This necessitates standing up.”

“Uh huh. And you’re going where?”

I narrow my eyes at him a little. Might work better if I could focus, but I’m not in the mood to be picky. “Somewhere. I love you, but fuck off.”

And I start walking again. Not the most graceful of possible parting words, but anything nicer could tip him off and I really don’t need that kind of drama. I just need everything to stop. Not that difficult of a request.

Metal clicks softly as he keeps pace, maybe waiting for me to just crumple. I’m not very sure that I won’t. “Yeah, I love you too. Which is exactly why I’m not going anywhere.”

“Prick.”

“Yeah. Seriously, you’re wobbling. You’re going to pass out. Sit the fuck down.”

“Fuck you. It doesn’t matter if I pass out.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Grabbing a handful of coat, he uses it to force me to turn. I snarl at him, and he growls right back before asking, all too reasonably, “Why doesn’t it matter, Daniel?”

“Let go of me.” I’m shaking a little too hard for that to be a threat. If I have to hit him and bolt, I won’t get far.

“Why doesn’t it matter?”

Stubborn bastard… and he’s not letting go, white knuckled grip on the coat and by extension on me. It occurs to me on some level that I might be scaring the hell out of him, but it doesn’t really change anything. “You know why.”

“No. Enlighten me.” There’s iron in his voice. By comparison, I’m having to lean against the fucking wall so I don’t fall. “Why?”

“Because!” I’m a little too tired to keep the edge of stress and near-breaking out of my voice. I can’t keep this up. He’d better let go, because if he doesn’t something’s going to give and I think it could be my sanity. “Because he’s dead.”

Rick’s hand twitches, letting the cloth slip out of his fingers. I can’t take the look on his face, that slow rising pity. So I turn away from him, closing my eyes against everything he’s not gonna say, and get one step before I collide with someone. Thin fingers grip my shoulders, pressing, holding. I flinch a little, waiting for the ever-so-reasonable reprimand, cursing Rick in my head. And then the soft, familiar voice breaks through, and everything goes very still.

The ghost of my lover asks, very kindly, “Who’s dead, Danny?”
*****
(Tim)

I honestly didn’t think it was possible for Danny to get any paler, but apparently he manages. His skin is the same general color as paper, where it isn’t smudged with drying blood. His eyes snap open, very dark and very wide where they’re fixed on me, and I want to kiss the look in them away. He looks terrible. He looks wonderful.

“I… you…” His voice sounds about the way he looks. “I thought you were… are you real?”

“What kind of question is that?” Watching him lift a shaky hand to hover just over my cheek, like he’s afraid to touch, I can’t help my own sigh of relief. He’s whole. Hands and legs and, okay, maybe not soul, but that can be fixed. For now I just rub at his arms. He’s so cold... “It’s okay. You can touch. It’s all right now.”

“She told me you were…” Danny seems to be having trouble finishing sentences. And he’s shaking. We’re both kinda shaking. “I don’t know if this is really happening.”

I sincerely hope Elise is dead. I’d hate to have to kill her.

Reaching up, I curl my fingers carefully over his, feeling him flinch a little, then guide it to my throat. His fingertips are like ice where they press against my throat, against that place my pulse beats. He squeezes his eyes shut, making a noise low in his chest that scares the hell out of me. I don’t have the patience to hold still and watch him break, so I close the distance and pull him close. He smells like blood and sweat, and he’s shaking a little too hard for my personal comfort. I love him.

“She was lying.” Combing my fingers through his hair, matted into tangles, I kiss his throat carefully and murmur stupid things into his skin like it’ll matter more that way. “I’m okay. And you’re okay. And it’s gonna be fine.”

I’m not really sure which ‘it’ I’m referring to, but he shudders and leans into me a little. Even if he’s flinching for every time I pet his hair or touch his skin, it’s a little reassuring. There’s something wrong with his breathing, too fast, too ragged. It’s not quite as reassuring when he suddenly slumps against me, boneless as a broken doll.

With something between a yelp and a curse, I slide my arms around him, holding him up when he would have fallen. Rick snarls an order at someone I can’t see, and there’s a lot of shouting. I try to ignore it and concentrate on not letting him fall. I can barely feel him breathe.

Someone grabs at my wrist, trying to pry my hand away, and I growl at them some. I’d add on ‘mine’ for good measure, but that might not go over so well right now.

“Sir, we need to get him to a room-“

“I’ve got him.” Maybe. I’d like to indulge that illusion, anyway. “Where do you need me to go?”

The nurse gives me a doubtful look, then points me in the general direction of nearby. I bend enough to scoop Danny up, expecting to stumble. And I do, but he’s still surprisingly light. Lighter than those few times he’s gotten so caught up in work he skipped food for a few days. I’d like to gut Elise. Possibly more than once.

Danny twitches a little, moans low in his throat when I put him down. Impressively, I manage not to drop him. The nurse takes his arm, ignoring it when he tries to jerk away from the touch without even waking, sliding in the needle and slapping on the tape. I don’t wait for her to finish before I climb on the bed, curling carefully up against his side. Careful because I’m half afraid to touch him. Careful because I’m afraid that if I don’t, he’s going to break into pieces.

The nurse raises an eyebrow, opens her mouth to say something, and I snarl at her. Not just an annoyed sigh or a quiet request that she go away, a snarl.

She goes away faster. No wonder Danny does that so much.

He stirs a little, that place between his eyebrows drawing together. I put my hand on his forehead and rub awkwardly; I’m not used to this.

His eyes slant half open, dark and blurry, and he makes a small noise when he sees me.

“Don’t pass out again,” I warn him, wondering if maybe I should stop smiling. “Or maybe do. Wait until you’re lying down to do that, huh?”

“You’re alive.” His voice sounds scratchy. Three hour concert scratchy. But somehow, the wonder in it makes it sound kinda okay. He closes his eyes, makes a sound a little like a laugh. “You’re…”

“Shh. What did you do to your throat?”

“She told me to sing. So I did. For twenty hours or so.” Another little laughing noise. It’s not a real laugh; it sounds sick. I don’t like it. “God, Tim. Tim.”

“What?” When he doesn’t say anything, I lean in close, until my cheek brushes his, and murmur, “Yeah, Danny.”

He opens his eyes, and I almost flinch back. There’s some naked emotion there, laid raw and painful and open just because it’s too much to shove back into whatever little corner he uses to hide his demons.

“I’m sorry,” he tells me softly, roughly, then closes his eyes and turns his face away from my touches and towards the door. When I lay my fingers on his arm, he twitches and rolls on to his side so that all I can see is his back. Stroking the back of his neck with my fingertips makes him flinch, then, slowly, relax.

“What’re you sorry for, Danny?” I ask when I’m halfway sure he won’t bolt for the question. “What do you think you did?”

He lies very still, barely breathing. Asleep, I guess.

Reaching down, I grab the blanket gathered at the end of the bed and pull it over him, smoothing it over his shoulders. I pet him a little longer than I ought to, taking in the curve of his shoulder and the arch of his spine, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. I wish I had something to draw with, but I wouldn’t want to tear my eyes away from him. He might disappear.

Finally, reluctantly, I pull my hand back and inform him quietly, “Love you.”

Then, laying my hand on one kinda sharp shoulderblade, I close my eyes and breathe him in and get the first decent sleep I’ve had in months.

Everything’s okay now. I can fix this. We can fix this.

And I’m happy.
******
(Danny)

You’d think the voices in my head would wait to start with the accusations until I’m all the way awake. They always used to, before. Back in the post-Roger days, when I lay awake nights cursing myself for leaving. Arrogant thing to think, that my presence had kept him alive, but it’s the same thing I was kicking myself for on the flight to Maui, so I can’t say much.

But, no. Things have changed, and I wake to a needle in my arm and someone that sounds suspiciously like Elise whispering ‘murderer, slut’ over and over behind my eyes. I’d feel so much better if I could argue with that.

A soft snuffling noise behind me makes me roll a little to the side. Tim’s all curled up behind me, not touching, just there. Breathing. Living. I let my fingertips hover over his jaw, stirring the air, never making contact. I’m half afraid I’d leave long streaks of blood along that damned pale skin.

Stupid paranoid delusions. But I’m not touching him anyway.

It hurts to sit up, pain surging through a dozen places at once. I steady myself on the handrails, swaying, then look over my shoulder at Tim to be sure he’s still out. The man fucking collapsed. He should sleep. Probably needs it more than I do, in fact, considering the impressive amounts of time I clocked either out of my mind or drugged into unconsciousness. Just a little vacation to stock up on material, kids, nothing new there. Now I can write a really dark score and slice my wrists and let you all make patronizing comments like “I knew he was under a lot of stress, and I wish I could have guided him”. Won’t that be fun.

Pity. Oh, Christ, I’m still gonna have to deal with that. Hand-holding and interventions and cuddling like I’m gonna fucking break. Like I’m worth coddling. Like I have anything of worth to piece back together after this. Tatters and scraps, children.

And Tim called Lisa’s name. Nice little thing to forget there, brain. You love him, you’d die for him, you’d howl for him, but you haven’t got tits and a sweet, sweet smile. All you’ve got to offer him is a broken old man

murdering whore

And he deserves better. And I don’t want love by obligation.

I want a cigarette and a dark room to curl up in. I want quiet so I can pretend that peace comes with it. I want to be so alone it breaks me, because I can’t fix this kind of broken.

Poetic, Elfman. So why are you lying here stroking his hair and about two seconds from crying like a little bitch? He doesn’t need the tears and you don’t deserve the pity. So get your hand off him and let him go before he wakes up and stammers you into staying. Let him go.

I tuck his hair behind his ear and pull my hand away.

Clothes. Okay. Clothes, I can do. He’s got a pile stacked up by the chair. I tell myself it’s convenience instead of self-indulgence that makes me slide them on, but I’m not sure even I’m buying it. Especially since I grab his jacket, and it’s 90 fucking degrees outside.

Not like I’m going to wrap myself around it while I sleep or anything. Cold comfort is all I can take.

Tim whimpers, very softly, in his sleep.  Does Lisa know he has nightmares? She should, but what if he doesn’t wake her up? What if she isn’t a light sleeper and doesn’t hear when he wakes up gasping-

Fuck.  They were together for over a decade before I came along.  She'll take care of him. Letting go. It’s not my problem, let it go.

It hurts to breathe.

There’s a pad of paper on the nightstand, all blank formality until you see the little figures in the bottom corner. He was sketching. I’m tempted beyond words to tear this sheet off and take it with me, but he might need it for something. You never know with him.

A quick note. A fucking curt note, even. Clean cuts, Daniel, they heal faster and hurt less in the long run. For him, anyway, and he’s the one that matters here.

‘Going on a trip. Have to work some things out.’ An afterthought, then, ‘Feed Gus for me. He likes you better than Richard.’

It takes a lot, too much, not to add that I love him. I almost lost him because I loved him. I almost lost my mind because I loved him. Love him; still love him.

I settle for scrawling, shortly, ‘I’m sorry’.

If you truly love something… run like hell.

Capping the pen, I set it down and fold the note into a tight little square. His fingers twitch as I finally settle on putting it in his palm. I want to nuzzle his hand. I have to stare fixedly at the floor as I walk away, out the door, closing it tightly behind me.

I will not go back and tuck the covers around him. I will not. Because then I’d be too tempted not to crawl in behind him and beg him not to leave, and I can’t do that. I’m not afraid that he’d leave; I ‘m afraid that he wouldn’t.

Leaving is the purest form of love. Somebody said that once. Nice little greeting card sentiment for the bitter, isn’t it? A coward’s sort of Hallmark. If someone’s out of your sight, you can’t watch them go cold. You can’t see them start to hate you for the weak bastard that you are. And if Tim knew what I did last night, if he knew about Elise…

Better to do the leaving than to be left.

Coward.

A hand grabs my arm suddenly, hard as iron and just as jarring. I think I flinch, because it relaxes just enough to let me know this isn’t an attack.

Richard looks down at me, pale and rumpled and infinitely unamused. “Where are you going?”

“I thought you were in a wheelchair.”

“Yeah. Well. Do-It-Yourself Physical Therapy.” His eyes narrow. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“To check myself out.”

“They won’t let you leave.”

“It’s been an 8 hour period. I’ve slept. I’m not dead. Consider me observed.”

His mouth twitches, but he still looks like he wants to punch me. I wonder if he’d be honored or disturbed if I informed him that when I hit Elise, it was with a punch he taught me. Probably both. “Fine. Then I won’t let you leave.”

“Think you can stop me?”

“Daniel.” There’s a note of something dangerously close to a plea in there somewhere. Not fair. Not at all fair. “Don’t make me do something you’re going to hate me for just so I can be sure you stay breathing.”

“I’m not gonna kill myself.”

“Not directly, no. Not your style. But indirectly?” Pushing a hand through his hair, he leans against the wall. He looks tired. “Danny, c’mon. This is stupid.”

“I can’t stay here. I’ll end up bouncing off padded walls or killing someone. Killing someone else.” Before he can open his mouth, I already see the reply to that forming and shake my head fiercely. “Don’t say it until you have an informed opinion. You weren’t there.”

“So tell me.” The frustration in his voice turns it into a growl. “Or tell somebody. So they can then give you the informed opinion that you thinking that killing her to stay alive was murder is complete and absolute bullshit.”

“Yeah. Great. And I will. When I get back.” His mouth opens again, and I snarl at him. “Shut the fuck up, Richard. I know you’re concerned, but I am, in fact, an adult now.”

“I told you I’d take care of you-“

“And you can do that now by letting me fucking go.” When he narrows his eyes, I sigh at him. “Look. I need time. I just need… I need to be away from people for a while. So I can have the nightmares and scream myself hoarse and adjust to the fact that I’m a little less sane than I was three or four days ago. No one else should have to deal with that.”

“Yeah, well, maybe some of us want to.”

Stubborn bastard. He doesn’t seem to realize that broken things can cut you so very easily. Slice you to pieces and bleed you dry.

Run, Richard. I don’t want to drag you down with me.

Shutting my eyes for a moment, I look fixedly at the floor and wait. Either he’ll break or I will, and I’m already about as broken as it gets.

He sighs. Hard, and heavily. “You have two weeks. Two weeks to have your breakdown or whatever, and then I’m sending somebody after you to pick up the pieces whether you’re ready or not. I’d suggest that you not be starved, exhausted, dehydrated or infected with malaria at that time, because then I’ll have to kick your skinny ass.”

I look up at him, but the expression on his face tells me that it’s non-negotiable. I nod, grudgingly. Maybe I can convince him that Tim’s not the one to send. Maybe not.

Richard looks me up and down, then at my face. It’s a close variation on the look he gave me the day I staggered off the plane back from Africa, somewhere between pissed off and worried. If he’s showing it, I have to look like hell. And if he hugs me, which he does, I have to look like one of the lower circles at that.

I don’t know why he’s shaking, but he kind of is. And maybe I am too, a little.

“Don’t be dead, either,” he mutters into my ear. “I don’t think I could deal with that. My other composer sucks dead rabbits through a straw. And he’s also not my brother. So don’t do anything stupid.”

“Won’t.” I can’t manage anything more poetic than that without my voice cracking, so I don’t try.

“Fucking well better not.” A rough rumple of my hair, not entirely gentle but close. “Love you, kid.”

Shit. I can feel the knife twisting. “Don’t tell me that. I don’t-“

No. Wouldn’t do to say the word ‘deserve’ in that context. Not until I’m gone and too far away to be grabbed and dragged back.

“Sorry. Kinda told myself I would when I thought you were dead and all.”

Nobody can lay guilt on like a Jew, ex or not. I squeeze him hard enough to crack ribs anyway. Fucker that he is.

He drags in a suspiciously shaky breath, then lets go and pulls away. A wallet gets pressed into my hand, and a quick glance confirms that it’s mine. Tilting his head back until he’s looking at the ceiling, he informs me, “I’m not watching. I don’t approve of you checking yourself out of the hospital at all. That conversation did not just happen. You slid past me, sneaky little bastard that you are.” A moment’s pause, then, rather perversely, “La la la.”

The relief is like a tangible thing. “Thanks, Rick.”

“Not hearing you. Not involved at all. Therefore your strangely frightening boyfriend can’t strangle me. Go away now. Don’t die. You’re a stupid fuck and I’d miss you.” With that, he puts his fingers in his ears, closes his eyes and starts humming. I don’t stay long enough to figure out what.

The receptionist bitches me out for about ten minutes until I bare my teeth at her and bitch back so much that she apparently decides that the world would be a better place if I choked on my own vomit in my sleep. That seems to be a talent of mine. I sign the papers with a shaking hand, not thinking, not really reading, glancing over my shoulder at the elevator every two or three seconds. But finally they’re done and I’m good and I can walk out into the balmy heat. The sun makes my head throb sickeningly, and my world tilt rather sharply. I stagger, steady myself on the wall, close my eyes. Something tells me that I’m never coming back to Maui again.

There’s a pay-phone at the corner, and thankfully a phone card tucked in the pocket of these jeans. I don’t know how much cash is in my wallet; probably none. I lean against the wall, turning my back on the sun, and dial the familiar number. Three rings, then four, and then someone picks up.

John’s voice sounds faint, a little groggy, a little clogged with crying. I wonder if somebody’s been keeping him updated. “Hello?”

“John?”

A pause, and then a flurry of curses in Spanish that finishes up with “Jesus, Danny, I thought you were dead!”

Apparently he’s been kept updated. “Nope. Alive.” Debatably. “I have a question.”

He laughs, long and happy. “Anything. Name it.”

Thank you. That was what I was hoping for.

Running a hand through my hair, I tuck the phone a little closer against my ear as I ask, “Give me somewhere to hide?”
****
End.