He came to me, in case anyone's forgotten. It was a gutsy move, an already
hunted loner coming to the rescue of the 'monster', and in the beginning I made
him pay for it. I took that goodwill out of his hide. Yet he kept coming.

I can't even claim that it was because he had no sense, because anybody who
knows the kid learns very quickly exactly how much sense he has and will
happily use to tear you apart. Obscene gestures isn't the only thing he uses
that tongue for, and the second he turned on me- or I turned on him, I was
never sure which way that went- he taught me that very well. Words are just
one more weapon he's learned to use very well in his life. I'd be envious if
I didn't know why.

But anyway. I'm not going to think about that. Thinking about that makes me
think about why I'm here, outside his house, standing in the cold and the
rain like the idiot Bearer always let me know I was. 'The Big Red Retard'.
My lip tilts up, awkwardly because of the scars. Of all the things the kid
could have called me, that one cut deepest. And he knew it.

Fair enough. I hurt him, too.

Brushing that thought away, I look over my shoulder at the darkened windows
of his neighbors' houses. I'm not sure why; none of them are watching. It's
four in the morning; all the good people are tucked away in bed, doors
locked up tight to keep them in and us out.

Us vs. Them. That could explain why Sean and I get along so well.

A lifetime of silence taught me how to move quietly, and it comes in handy
now. Okay, so if anybody looks up they'll see a huge guy trying to creep
along in the darkness, but they won't hear me coming. Besides, if what I
heard is right, Sean's not going to be paying enough attention to worry
about it.

My feet touch the front steps, finally, and I duck under the overhang, out
of the rain. Thunder growls at me; I growl back. No one quite managed to
tame the feral out of me, no matter how they tried. I'd be sniffing at the
air if the fire hadn't scorched out most of my ability to smell. It's been
decades, but air still smells like smoke, and food still tastes like ashes.

I'd still like to imagine that I could smell Sean through the storm.

Shaking my head, I reach into the pocket of the coat Mark loaned me, and
find the key Tori let me borrow. Wretched woman. Talking to her was somehow
worse than coming her; she holds a grudge, and she spit her words like venom
when she pushed the key at me. "Here," she said, "have it. I don't need it
anymore. Break his goddamn head open."

Sean's taste in women obviously leaves something to be desired. As does his
healthy sense of paranoia; he didn't bother to have his locks changed.  I
turn the key, the door opens, and I step inside with the uneasy feeling that
it can't really be this easy.

His house feels recently abandoned. All the lights are off in his living
room, but I can see the remains of a take-out Chinese dinner on the end
table and there's a blanket crumpled in the corner of his couch. Someone was
here, watching over him, but they took off. I wish I believed in karma.

Not really. All I wish is that this didn't feel so suddenly, achingly sad. I
don't want to sympathize with him. He doesn't want more sympathy, pity, or
protection. Didn't he teach me that well enough before?

Apparently not. I'm still here.

Something in the corner of my vision catches my eye, making me turn. Down
the hallway, a muted light flickers on and off from an open doorway.
Somehow, I just know. I can't help walking down that hallway any more than I
could help gravity. I hate him for that, more than anything. I hate him for
the quick, painful wrench in my stomach when I come to that doorway, and
stop dead in my tracks. I wish I could keep hating him for more than a few
seconds at a time.

Sean looks broken. The bed was meant for two, but he sleeps there alone
tonight, curled into a tight ball on his side. He's naked under black sheets
that aren't nearly warm enough, just a bundle of lithe body and pale bruised
skin and the damnably white neck brace. His lips move in his sleep as his
brow furrows, putting lines there. I can see he hasn't been sleeping, and I
can see why. He hurts, and I hurt for him, and I hate him.

Yet I move anyway.

When I get closer, I can hear him. His breathing is the same slow rhythm I
remember guiltily stroking myself to from across the room those nights we
shared a hotel room, a little more labored now with pain but still
controlled. Always controlled.

I asked him once why he kept his own leash that tight, why he couldn't just
let his guard down a little. He'd looked at me, this odd expression on his
face, then reached down and unzipped his jeans. There was a scar, long and
jagged and old, along his stomach, dipping down below his waistband. He'd
said, simply, "Things like this happen." I told him I was sorry. He just
smiled, tightly, and later woke from his nightmares screaming so loud that a
neighbor came to see if he should call security.

Nightmares like that don't go away.

Sean makes a noise in his sleep, pulling me back. His motions are turning
slightly frantic, his hands tightening on the sheets. If the brace let his
head toss, he'd be jerking around like a seizure victim. He's making these
little gasping, whimpering sounds, like he's going to either scream or come
or both.

I hate the way that makes me get hard.

My hand reaches out, apparently by itself because I don't remember moving,
and wavers above his cheek. I want to touch him, slide my fingertips over
that soft looking skin, but the scars might flow out of me and onto him. I
might infect him. I might ruin him. Midas in reverse. No less than he
deserves.

With shaking fingers, I let my touch glide over that silk-soft death-black
hair, and his eyes snap open like I threw a switch.

We stare at each other for a moment, startled, gauging. But once the initial
shock wears off, Sean doesn't even look surprised to see one of his enemies
standing over him in the middle of the light. His eyes look off, dulled, not
quite there. Someone drugged him. It's the only thing keeping him on this
bed.

With a sudden smirk, he lays his head back down and looks at me through
half-lidded eyes. His voice is rough from the pain, slurred from the pain
medication. "Hun'er wen' home, huh?"

"He's not here." Talking has started getting easier, but that doesn't mean I
feel like a philosophical discussion.

"'Course not. Tol' him to go back t' his whore." Sean smiles, a little
blearily. "He didn' like that. But it's okay, 'cause he drugged me up. An'
he'll forgive me, 'cause he's Hun'er."

I waver for a second, then lean against the wall. Sean isn't going anywhere
for a while; I've got time to sit here and look at him.

Reaching up to wipe at his eyes, looking ridiculously younger than he had
any right to look, Sean asked bluntly, "Y'come t'gloat, man?"

"No."

"I'd gloat. But fuck, y'were always nicer'n me anyway."

"I thought about it. Then I thought about kicking your ass."

Sean snorts, closing his eyes on a too-bitter look. "Deserve it. G'ahead."

"I'm not going to."

"Why?"

"Because." And, against all my better instincts, I sit on the edge of the
bed. Sean stiffens with sudden tension; I ignore it. "You're hurt."

"Doesn' matter. I wan' y' to." Cracking his eyes open, he looks up at me.
"I'll feel better."

Damn him. Damn both of us.

He flinches when I reach out and lay my gloved hand on his forehead. "Sean,"
I grate out, ignoring it when he tries to squirm and nearly wrenches his
neck, "I crushed Jericho's ribs for you."

Sean goes still. In a low, soft voice- wary, always so wary-, he demands,
"Why?"

Which, in our terms, means 'what do you want in return?'. At least that much
hasn't changed. Sitting carefully on the edge of his bed, I lay my hand over
his eyes. "You're tired."

With a low growl, he shoves my hand away and glares. "Don' fucking start.
Answer me."

Stubborn little shit. "I told him. All of them. 'You hurt Sean…'"

"'I hurt you'." Tilting his head painfully, he stares at me. "But I hurt
you."

"Don't flatter yourself. I've been hurt before."

He lays with head back on the pillows with a sigh and a bitter smile. "Yeah.
Y'told me that."

No apologies. I didn't expect one. Reaching out, I lay my fingers on where
his pulse beats in his throat. I want to tear this mask away and taste that
spot, his sweat, his fear that he's trying to hide. Instead I just feel it
against my fingertips, too fast for him to look this calm. My breathing
changes to match it without my thinking about it. He doesn't notice. "You
hurt me. I hurt you. We're even."

His eyes flicker closed, his lips parting for a moment's sigh of relief.
It's all he'll give himself.

My fingers slide down, hooking under the brace around his throat. His skin
feels hot. "Jericho," and I can't help snarling the word, "hurt you.
Everyone hurt you."

Watching me through drugged and wary eyes, he finally answers roughly,
"Yeah."

I let go of the brace and sit back to look down at him. "Sleep. Heal."

To his credit, he doesn't look away. Nervy little bastard. "An' then?"

"And then we hurt them back."

He studies me for a long moment through his eyelashes, considering. Then his
lips quirk up, and I can almost see Tori's lipstick and my own blood on
them. I want to lick them clean. "Cool."

And with that, he closes his eyes.

He feigns sleep for twenty minutes before he realizes that I'm not leaving.
Then, his breathing finally evens out.

I can see it in his eyes that, when he jerks awake an hour later screaming,
he hates it. He hates his weakness. He hates himself. And he hates me for
pulling him into my arms, against my chest, rocking him until the screams
die down to silence. I don't blame him. I can't, when I hate just as
strongly. This is going to kill us both.

I don't let him go until morning.
**********
Isn't this a fine hello
I wish I hadn't seen you go
It's always a bitter pill
The broken mirror's broken still
The letters never made the post,
A thousand more I never wrote
And here on dark unfriendly streets,
I find the comfort that I seek
And I'm happy...
**********
End. All characters owned by someone else (ie, Vince). All lyrics owned by someone
else (ie, Oingo Boingo). No offense was intended, and no money made. Sad, isn't it?