Someone’s doing dishes. Water runs, and then glass clinks hard against something ceramic. All of it is underplayed by soft humming, the occasional disjointed word like they can’t remember the lyrics.

Should open my eyes, but fuck, I’m so tired, and whatever’s wrapped around me is warm and smells like something that should be familiar. Cigarettes and spilled coffee and aftershave that isn’t mine. Soap. Sex.

Sex. Last night. Johnny. Shit!

I sit up too fast, the room spinning once around me like a warning. The blanket tangles up around my shoulders, leaving me blinking at the ceiling and about two inches from being pulled off the couch by gravity.

Right. Fucking bright, Elfman.

A gray, furry head pokes over the back of the couch, huge blue eyes blinking at me. It meeps, then decides to use my stomach as a springboard and goes bounding off on oversized paws after a shadow.

Great. If this is any indication of how today is going to go, I should just give up now.

Another head pokes over the couch. Johnny stares down at me, his expression almost identical to the fuzzball’s. His hair spills like black silk over his face, just touching the edge of his mouth, and I have to fight not to reach up and wind it around my fingers. The stare relaxes into a crooked smile. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Okay. This is awkward, and I don’t remember morning-after etiquette. I settle for trying to sit up again. This time the blanket lets me, sliding down my shoulder. My bare shoulder. The fuck?

“It’s okay. I pulled the rest of your clothes off. Figured you’d be more comfortable.” Reaching down, he sweeps his fingertips down my cheek, then my throat to settle in the hollow of a collarbone. His eyes slant closed, and he rests his cheek on his folded arm. “Did you know you get the exact same look on your face when you sleep as when you’re writing music?”

“No, I didn’t.” I catch his hand, still damp from doing the dishes. He left one of his rings on, a wrought-metal skull monstrosity. It’d be tacky if he wasn’t wearing it, but somehow it fits. I let go of his fingers.

“Yeah. Peaceful.” Straightening, Johnny nods at the open doorway. “Shower’s open, if you want it. I can’t guarantee water pressure, but it’s hot.”

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.” I start to stand a few seconds before it occurs to me that yes, still naked. Shit. I look up at him. “Maybe a towel?”

“They’re under the sink.” When I give him a half-lidded look, he shrugs. “Everything I haven’t seen or had my hands on, I have a matching set. If it makes you feel better, I’ll turn around.”

Point taken. “Right.” I offer him a smile. “I’m not used to…”

He lets me trail off to save my dignity, just nods. “Yeah.”

Thank you for that incredibly eloquent poetry, Johnny. “I’ll go.”

He just watches through dark eyelashes as I get up, pushing the blanket into a bundle bunched up into the space between couch cushions. I make it halfway to the bathroom before I realize that he’s following.

Looking over my shoulder, I lift an eyebrow. “Help you?”

The look he gives me is pure choirboy guilelessness. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

Smartass. “Yes, God help me if I lose my way in the mysterious land known as your bedroom.”

Johnny smirks, but keeps following. The room’s dim enough that I probably kill myself in here, just enough light to see that the bed has four posters and a dark bedspread piled up in a lump on one side, and that there’s an intriguingly mysterious object dangling by an electric cord out of the nightstand drawer. Damned if I’ll ask, though.

The bathroom is a burst of sudden light from the clouded glass window tucked above the mirror. There’s barely enough room for one person to move, let alone two. I tug the shower curtain back and step in. I’m not entirely surprised when Johnny plunks himself down on the toilet seat and reaches for a pack of cigarettes tucked in the pocket of his thoroughly ugly bathrobe. It gaps open, showing a line of tan skin from throat to thigh.

He seems to be having a deep thought moment, so I ignore him, tugging the plastic curtain closed. The pipes groan alarmingly for a moment, but the water that bubbles out is the perfect warmth. I close my eyes and lean into it, letting it wash over my face and down my throat, sluicing away the dirt and the fatigue. It’s just this side of heaven. Add in some soap and a stolen bottle of hotel shampoo, and I’m almost feeling human by the time I turn the water off.

Silence, laced with breathing. I’ll give Johnny credit for patience if nothing else. There’s a towel slung over the curtain bar. I wipe at my face with one hand, tug the curtain open with the other.

And almost fucking kill myself trying to yank the curtain over myself when the dark head bent over the sink lifts.

It’s been almost twenty years. I know that face when I see it.

Tim looks even more like he was just pulled out of bed than usual. I didn’t think his hair could get any more rumpled, but apparently so; what isn’t defying gravity is lodged stubbornly in front of one eye. His clothes, plaid shirt over sweatpants, somehow managed to get twisted in opposite directions. And yet those eyes are sharp as always, not missing a thing. It’d be hard to miss your coworker in your shower.

Johnny’s shower, not his. But he was sleeping here. Maybe he and Johnny are a thing. Which would mean… fuck.

My career is so over.

His eyes drag from my face to the foot of the shower. I can’t help tightening my grip on the shower curtain, trying not to back up. Anyone who tells you that Tim Burton is fragile is full of shit, because he sure as hell has my life in his hands right now. The only director really worth working for anymore, and I fucked it up.

Finally, he nods at me and turns away. The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, not even denting the silence heavy between us, and he’s gone.

My knees may very well give out. Bad timing, nerves. I’m busy.

I manage to get dried off in record time. The towel’s not much, but it’s a very appreciated step above nudity.

Johnny’s sitting on the kitchen counter when I get out of the bedroom. The bathrobe’s just a token sentiment, hiding nothing, but it’s not distracting me from the urge to shake him. Judging from the bemused twist of his lips, he knows exactly what happened, but he doesn’t look up from his intense study of the toaster.

I stop just out of reach. It’d be tempting fate to get any closer. “Johnny, we have to talk.”

“You’re talking already,” he points out, then gestures with a tilt of his head at something above both our heads. “Tim’s up in one of the alcoves sketching. He wouldn’t hear it if a bomb hit. You can say what you want.”

“Don’t fucking tempt me. How long has he been here?”

“Since sometime this morning. Business meeting with some writer in England to discuss the script the guy sent him. As much as Tim discusses, anyway. You want some coffee?” Lifting his head, he takes one look at my face and shakes his head. “Never mind. Stupid question. Let me get you a cup.”

It’s hard to argue with someone who’s this aggressively nonchalant, never mind the getting me coffee. Surreal. I lean against the counter and try to resist the urge to smack my head into it. “You could’ve told me.”

He snorts. “That was what he said.”

Shit. Like I need another reason for my mind to conjure up panicked images of another Howard Shore score to Tim’s next movie.

Oh, wait. Last time he hadn’t needed any excuse. Still… “He’s pissed.”

“No. Trust me, he hasn’t been the shy little director since ’92.” Shaking his head firmly, Johnny hands me the coffee. “If he was upset, I’d have heard about it, loudly and repeatedly and probably quite profanely, while you were still asleep on the couch.”

It’s my turn to snort and roll my eyes. “Oh, yeah. The same guy who’s still trying to figure out how he feels about shit that happened decades ago has had a whole two hours to react. I’m sure he’s vented.”

Johnny’s head comes up, eyes wide and dark in his face. Lowering his own cup of coffee, he says slowly, “Danny, you’ve been out for most of the day.”

“What? No.” The bastard just raises his eyebrows and nods at me. “It’s fucking dawn, isn’t it?”

“Try fucking dusk. If I’d known you were going to do that, I’d have given you the bed.”

All right. So apparently I’ve gone from 3 in the morning to 4 or 5 in the evening. Jet lag and exhaustion aside, that’s the easiest I’ve slept in a long time. Months, actually. Which implies a problem in and of itself, ignoring the fact that it’s fucked over three people at once. Impressive, even for me.

I scrub at my face with one hand, then let it drop. I’m not entirely sure whether to be pissed off or guilty. On the one hand, Johnny didn’t tell me that he and Tim had a… a thing. Hell, I didn’t even know Tim swung that way. On the other, that’s no excuse for further damaging two already damaged people for the sake of getting off. Besides that, Johnny was just trying to help me, and if I hadn’t come here in the first place none of this would have happened.

Two out of three. Guilt wins. It usually does.

I slump against the counter and stare into my coffee. “Sorry.”

“Oh, yeah. You bitch, how dare you be actually human and need little things like sleep.” Johnny’s not great at this accepting apologies thing, I see. When I lift my head to glare at him, he’s rolling his eyes. “I would have told him anyway. Christ, you’re both fucked up; no wonder he likes you so much.”

I’m not entirely sure how to take that, so I ignore it. Usually safe, that. “Where are my clothes?”

He shrugs. “Like I know?”

“Johnny.”

“Danny,” he mimics, then sighs. “What are you going to do, go waste your money on a hotel room? Bullshit, the tourist industry around here doesn’t need any more reason to swallow up the city.”

“Nice political guilt trip there.”

“Thanks, I thought so. Did it work?”

“Seeing as I gave up on saving the world when you were still playing a narc opposite Richard fucking Grieco? No.” Ignoring the glare Johnny gives me, I try again. “I have to leave.”

“Why?”

Stubborn little cunt. “Because it’s already going to be bad enough on the set as it is, I don’t need to rub it in and make things worse.”

He leans across his knees to peer at me seriously, then asks, “How long have you thought of Tim as your director instead of a friend?”

Ooh. Nice. I almost felt the knife twist. “How long have you been so fucking naïve? We’ve never been friends; I’m just a tool that he needs to use occasionally, but he can put away and ignore when he’s done. It was probably like finding out that your boyfriend’s been sleeping with your plumber.”

One eyebrow goes up. “Boyfriend. Damn, and all this time he’s never given me his letter jacket, even after we were voted prom queen and king. ”

Great. Let the mocking begin. “I’m sure the dress was lovely on you.” I put the coffee down and straighten. “You know, never mind. I’ll find my clothes.”

Johnny doesn’t argue, just sits on the counter and watches. I can feel the weight of his eyes on my back like a physical touch as I pace around the room. I’d rather not go in the bedroom unless I have to.

“He fucks up with people a lot.” It’s almost conversational. “It’s never personal. It just happens.”

I give him a dark look over my shoulder. “You’re kidding. My God, I never noticed.”

Johnny sighs. “Look, it’s not his fault. He just… he’s not good at it. He can handle it on a professional level, but if it gets personal, people can get hurt.”

“You sound like you’ve said that a lot. Been making excuses for him long?”

“Yeah, lately. You’ve been doing it for twenty years. What’s your point?” When I don’t say anything, searching through a pile of clothes without actually looking at anything, he says, “You never answered my question. How long has it been?”

He’s digging too deep now, too far under the skin.  I’m tempted to snap the truth out at him, just to shut him up.  Ed Wood; that’s about when it stopped being worth it. No warmth, no unguarded laughter, just professional cold. I kept hoping, but it never came back, not with both of our guards up.

Shit. Why am I bothering to look through the piles anymore? That’s the third time I’ve looked at that shirt, and we both know it.

I put the rest of the clothes down and turn around, crossing my arms over my chest. Defensive, me? “I think you can guess how long it’s been.”

His lips quirk. “Professional rift?”

“Yeah, well, I found it pretty fucking personal, thank you.”

“What, can’t handle having your ego bruised?”

Way to miss the point, Wonderboy. I give him a tight smile that feels like it should bleed. “Please. Go to hell.”

He draws in a breath to say something back, then lets it out and closes his eyes. “Shit. That didn’t go like it was supposed to.”

“Yeah? What, did you miss another opportunity to be insulting about a situation you don’t understand? Feel free to back up and try again.”

Johnny shakes his head, sitting on the arm of the couch. He looks suddenly very tired. “I was trying to explain. It didn’t go well. Sorry.”

I start to snap, but the old wound laying open in his eyes makes me stop. Damn it. Shaking my head, I turn my back on him and start rifling through the clothes again. Maybe something’s materialized in the depths within the last three seconds-

Well. Fuck me. My jeans lay in a tangle at the bottom of the pile. I pull them out and sling them across my shoulder.

“Danny-“

“I have to leave.” There’s an edge in my voice that I didn’t mean to put there, a strain. I’d like to pretend that it sounds like a warning, but ‘plea’ might be more accurate. Fuck. “Look. It’d be better off if we pretended this didn’t happen.”

“Why? You’re the only one who’s freaking out.”

Right. And when he has Steve do his next score, we’ll all know why. I lean against the arm of the chair and start pulling on the jeans, ignoring him and the smudge of something white smeared above the left pocket, evidence of guilt.

Johnny sighs, and out of the corner of my vision I see him rubbing one eye. “Exactly alike,” he mutters under his breath, then lets his hand drop. “You’re not going to walk Paris half-naked and barefoot, for Christ’s sake. Let me get your shirt.”

He’s out of the room before I can say anything back.

Hell. This is why I gave up on relationships; they’re too fucked up by themselves, even if the people involved are Joe and Jane Normal. When they’re Tim and Danny and Johnny Unresolved Emotional Issues, you’re as much as doomed before you even start. Probably good it self-destructed this way, this soon. Better a wet firecracker than a suitcase nuke.

Yeah.  If I keep telling myself that, I won’t feel the hollow place in my chest widening.

I’m going to go home, give in to fate and buy a fucking cat. Maybe twelve of them. A guy has to have companionship. I hate cats, but hey, why buck the clichés now when I’ve been playing the scorned, bitter old queen for years?

I need a drink. Badly. At this point I’d be willing to revert to the days of the colorful pills. Pill to sleep, pill to play a concert, and fuck what it does to my body. I’m going to die anyway, and much of the world’s best music was written under the influence. I don’t remember writing most of the music on our last album. One more cliché to throw on to the list. Maybe I should go down to San Francisco and cruise and-

Feel sorry for myself. Wonderful.

I button the last snap on my jeans and turn around to find eyes on me again. Getting pretty fucking sick of that by now, thank you. The fact that it’s not Johnny doesn’t help anything.

Tim’s sitting on one of the barstools behind the counter, absently petting the cat and coming away with clumps of gray fluff in his fingers as it purrs. He looks younger, and more broken, than he has in years. Hard to realize on the set how small he really is, how skinny.  When he’s working he’s a flurry of motion, the unstoppable force physics majors are always circle-jerking over.  At the moment, he looks a bit like a kid who’s had to listen to his parents argue.

I haven’t seen him like that since… fuck, Batman at least. That night he slumped into my studio with his too-bright eyes and his uneven smile, one step away from breaking, and ended up hunched over the keyboard with his head in his hands. He was trying so hard to be professional, strong under the pressure, but it almost snapped him in two. Almost ruined him.

I know for damned sure that Jon Peters is aware of what he nearly did. I told him myself, and left a few bruises as a reminder. I was lucky I didn’t get hauled up on assault charges for that one, but the memory of his shoulders hitting the wall with a meaty thud kept me going for the next few months.

Tim never found out. I also made sure of that.

He lifts his head, and the illusion of skinny fragility is blown away. His eyes and a few streaks of gray are the only indication that he’s aged at all, for better or worse, since we started. The strength in them can grab you and hold you still.

People wonder why a ‘shy, sweet director’ like Tim has never had control issues with the actors on set except for once or twice. Those people have obviously never  been stared at like this.

All at once, the pressure is gone, and he drops his eyes with a crooked, self-deprecating smile. The cat raises its head to sniff at his fingers, then sniffs and climbs to its feet. With one bound, it lands on the kitchen floor and disappears again.

One might think it doesn’t like me.

Tim shifts, leaning on his elbows, sniffs, clears his throat. Is he fidgeting? He hasn’t fidgeted for years. And yet here he is, one hand wandering up to fist in his hair in a way that makes me wince on his behalf. Then, suddenly, he lets his hand drop and says haltingly, “Sketchbook. Do you want- I mean, the next movie. Yeah?”

Sketchbook.  I seem to have missed something here. What did I do to him? I’d offer him my wrist if it meant he’d stop stuttering. Conjuring up a smile, waiting for the rabbit hole to open under my feet, I manage, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay. Cool.” Visibly relieved, he seems to relax for a moment. Then he lifts his eyes and says carefully, “You can’t see from over there.”

Wow. A full sentence. Mind you, a bizarre and not entirely appropriate sentence, but a sentence.

I come around the counter, more than a little warily. Usually the proper reaction to finding an underling on your couch, smelling like sex with marks on his throat from your significant other’s teeth, is to find the nearest knife and take your pound of flesh, not to plan your next project.

He scoots over, pulling away from being touched as I sit awkwardly, then pulls open the book and starts paging through. It’s a huge sketchbook, almost filled. Drawings flip past, too fast to focus on. He slows down as he gets near the end, studying each, mumbling under his breath. Some of the stuff he dismisses with a soft disgusted noise is incredibly detailed, strange shots of the street outside and crooked reinterpretations of the Paris skyline. All of it’s beautiful.

Well. Naturally. It’s Tim.

He shakes himself suddenly, realizing that I’m sitting here, and glances up with an almost shy smile. “Sorry.” Picking up speed, he moves briskly to the last few pages. As always when it comes to his movies, the stuttering eases. “I’ve just started, but this is what I’ve got. Probably shouldn’t get too far, we’re still in negotiations and shit, but… you’ve heard of Gaiman, right?”

It’s a relief to be back on somewhat familiar ground with a question I can actually answer. “Yeah. Mali’s a fan, made me read some of his stuff in my copious spare time.”

Tim looks up at the sound of her name with a genuine smile, bright and utterly goofy. Something small and vital gets twisted around inside, and I have to swallow the pain down. Shit. The first time I’ve seen him really smile in years, and it has to be now.

He’s going on, oblivious. “Well. Yeah. He sent me and Henry a couple of his children’s books, and Johnny saw it and made me read them. They were good, wonderful. But… y’know, after Apes, I don’t want…” His finger rubs at the edge of the paper as he falters, searching for the word he needs. “I wanted something different. Something to bury my fingers in, something to curl up and live in. You know?”

Too well. “I know.”

He drags in a deep breath, then rubs at his eyes. The pain is rich in his words as he says, “I can’t do it for the money again. I need something that’ll make me want to keep doing this, because otherwise…”

The desperation in his voice grabs at me and pulls. It’s possibly the most disjointed confession I’ve ever been subjected to, but it works.

I was supposed to be finished with this. Professional distance, just a tool, not a friend. And yet the words come out anyway, the old need to reassure. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

He chuckles roughly, looks at me through one eye. “Yeah, I kinda do. I, um. I’m not pissed off about. About Johnny and you and the couch and stuff.”

Okay, I’m confused. “Tim-“

“Shh. Just…” Waving a hand at me, he shakes his head wildly. “Just shut up for a minute. I’m not pissed, and I’m… I need to… Danny, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?”

The force, the need thrown behind that word, is staggering. I don’t think I can breathe. “What’re you-“

He keeps going, staring fixedly at my knee. “I’m sorry for going over your head and using Shore. And I’m sorry for not telling you about Apes until the plane, but I didn’t feel good about it, it made me sick inside by the third of those meetings, and I’m sorry about your dad and I’m really sorry I couldn’t get you more time for the funeral or a little fucking time to breathe, and now you really look… you look horrible. And it’s my fault. And I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” I pull my hands back just short grabbing his shoulders and steadying him, and his eyes jerk up to my face. “Relax. It’s okay.”

“It is not.” There’s an edge of a snarl in his voice. “I heard you talking to Johnny. You sounded like-“  Whatever he was going to say catches in his throat.  He drags in a breath, closes his eyes and looks away. “I. I’m trying to fix it. So. Sketchbook. Yeah?”

At this point, all the experts tell you to push. All the experts haven’t got the memory of how badly it hurts to see him breaking. So I just say, “Yeah.”

He gives me a small, grateful smile. I don’t think he notices that he shifts closer until we’re almost touching; he never seems to notice what he does with his body. He lays his fingertips on the sketch of what looks like a subway station. “I’m working on getting the rights to Neverwhere. Probably won’t happen, but… yeah. The London Underground.”

I’m guessing he’s never been on the London Underground. This is one of those ‘only seen pictures’ Burton reinterpretations, bound to drive critics up the wall. It’s good, though. Gothic and dark, the kind of stuff I haven’t seen out of him for years. The kind of thing that demands male choirs and heavy sounds. Crooked elegance.

The critics are going to hate us. A lot.

I’ve never read the book, but regardless, the sketches pour in enough feeling to make up for it. Tim adores it, whatever it is. His fingers touch the edges of each line reverently, and he rambles off names like old friends.

It doesn’t occur to me until several pages in that this is absolutely insane. I’m as much as signing the contract for this movie in blood, even after the walls were closing in last night, and with the last person I should be working alongside. Not only did I fuck him over, but I was just reminded how wrong things have gone between us in the last few years. Everything winds down to ruin. I should be running like hell.

And yet I don’t feel the noose. All I feel is focus.

I want to do this. Not the dull resignation of ‘should want’, but actual need. If I don’t do this, it’s going to drive me crazy. Crazier.

“Tim.”

He looks up from a rambling, disjointed explanation about a picture of a pale woman with sharp teeth and Lisa’s face. “Yeah?”

Somehow my fingers got wrapped around his wrist. I should probably let go. “You are going to let me do this, aren’t you?”

He blinks, surprised. “Well. Yeah. Nobody else would do it right.”

It’s too good. There has to be a catch. I press around the edges, waiting for the trap to spring. “Not even Shore?”

With a snort, he looks back to the sketchbook and mutters, “Don’t ask stupid questions, Danny.”

I’d like to pinpoint the moment when he grew a set… or possibly buy Lisa roses. Or something insane. Possibly this whole surreal scene has finally made me snap.

My mind grabs for any hint of a downside. There has to be one here somewhere.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye, and I look up to find Johnny watching us both with a smirk. I’d throw a pencil at him if I wasn’t afraid of disturbing whatever dementia Tim has slipped into.

Oh, God. That’s it. Tim’s letting me hang myself. I’ll be so busy walking on eggshells that I’ll finally have a nervous breakdown, and the threat is therefore removed. They’ve been calling him a dark genius for a reason.

Or maybe I just need more coffee. One of the two.

Something pokes at my arm, jerking me back. I stare down at the pencil eraser jabbing at my arm, follow it to skinny hand and up to Tim’s face. He looks torn between annoyance and amusement.

Fuck it. I’m tired and I’ve slipped into the Twilight Zone already. Things can’t get any more screwed up. I almost manage not to sound frustrated when I ask, “What’s the catch?”

It seems to take Tim a moment to follow, but Johnny sighs and puts his forehead down on the counter. “Ca- oh. Ohhh. You mean, like… yeah. The couch sex thing. I see.” Tim’s forehead furrows. “I told you I didn’t have a problem with that.”

“But you and Johnny- you have to have to a problem with that.”

Tim makes a face at me, like I’m the one being confusing here. “Would it make you feel better if I pretended to have a problem with that? ‘Cause I can.” Reaching across the counter, he lays a hand on Johnny’s head and says without much actual energy, “Gr. Mine.”

Looking up at Tim’s hand and crossing his eyes in the process, Johnny asks, “So when do I get my cat collar with the little bell on it?”

Tim draws his hand back as sharply as if he’d been burnt, blinking at Johnny. After a moment, he seemed to decide, “You’re weird,” and turned his attention back to me. “See? Token display of possession. Are we done now?”

Somehow he turned into a bitch while I wasn’t looking. My head hurts. “I don’t actually know.”

With a heavy, exasperated sigh, Johnny reaches across the counter and taps Tim’s arm. When Tim looks at him with a faint frown, Johnny glances at me and tilts his head. Tim’s frown deepens, eyes narrowing for a moment. Nodding encouragingly at him, Johnny says randomly, “He’ll listen to you.”

Making a soft noise that says he highly doubts that, Tim chews on his lower lip for a second, then looks back at me. He has that director look to him, a set to his shoulders, but he looks… nervous. It’s a jarring combination. “I. Um. You don’t have to listen to me, all right?”

He looks so earnest that even disoriented, I can’t not remind him, “That usually is an option.”

“No. I mean, this isn’t a director thing. This is a personal… thing. So. You can say no. I don’t want you to think…” Tim lets out a breath and looks down at his hands. “Damn it. I’ve never been good at this. Danny, I…” Another deep breath, then he lets all the words out in a rush, “I’d like you to stay.”

Silence. Further and further down the motherfucking rabbit hole. All I can do is look at him. I was expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting. Not that. Money, humiliation, begging. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Welcome to the most bizarre twenty-four hours of my life. It isn’t even three in the morning yet, and I feel like my world’s been flipped over.

Tim’s looking at me like he wants to flinch but won’t let himself, a set to his jaw like he’s expecting disgust or worse. The last person in the world I’d ever want to fuck up, the last person in the world I should want, and now this.

Him, and Johnny. Beautiful, breakable things. Utter insanity that could be over in the span of a month, or the silent predictable nothing waiting in my basement. Something I want and can lose, or something I can keep under control.

Freefall or the noose.

Some clock in the kitchen ticks off the seconds, audible time. I can see Tim getting ready to pull back. This is not the sort of decision you should make on the fly, but life doesn’t work quite right. It never does.

Shit. I just wanted a fucking night of sleep.

I pick up my coffee cup, wrap my fingers around the now cold ceramic to hide the shaking. It comes through my voice anyway.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Tim’s eyes flinch closed like he’d heard something else, then widen sharply. His chin lifts as he stares at me, searching my face. “Um. You’re. You. You said?”

“Something like that.” Okay, I’d like the shaking to stop. Warmth is unknotting in my chest, spreading out. Very Dr. Seuss. I’ll probably need to write something dark and horrible after this to get it out of my system.

Except Johnny’s suddenly grinning at me, bright and happy. It’s a rare expression on his face, no shadows. He looks back and forth between me and Tim, and one gets the feeling he’s been seeing this in his head. God knows why; if they wanted a third, they should have stuck with Lisa. At least then they’d get the benefit of public arm jewelry.

I’m not complaining. It’s just… it’s just.

I can’t look at Tim, or I’m going to do something not at all pragmatic, bright or Elfman. I’m just going to study his bare foot. Who the fuck has sharp anklebones? Not that I can see them that well, seeing as his foot is bouncing steadily, which is almost painfully cute-

Aigh. The babbling is contagious. Possibly sexually transmitted… and. Yeah. There’s going to be sex involved here. I did not consider this factor. I would like to consider it in depth.

Sex. Dark and oddly gorgeous genius, beautiful dark kid, and me. Something’s skewed there. Again, not complaining. If what happened on the couch is any indication, I have no right to bitch. Because, damn it, sex, and… and whatever else this is.

I am aggressively not looking at either of them at the moment, because otherwise I’m going to shake apart. Not nearly enough sleep, coffee or alcohol in my system for this kind of jolt, damn it. It’s a bit like a crash landing without cushioning. I’m too numb to actually appreciate the whole picture at the moment.

They wanted… and I’m staying… and sex…

I don’t realize that my head is in my hands until the gentle touch on my shoulder and Tim’s voice in my ear. “Danny?”

“I’m okay.” Yeah, that was convincing. The shaking voice definitely helped. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Strong, skinny fingers curl around my shoulders and squeeze, then let go. Johnny’s voice is smoky in my ear. “Stiff drink?”

“Much appreciated,” I manage to force out of a dry mouth, then scrub at my face and look up. Tim is staring at me, so I give him a smile. “It’s all right.”

“Uh-huh. You say that too much. I’m gonna stop believing you.” Turning his head, Tim looks down at where Johnny is kneeling on the floor to rummage through a cabinet. His foot rubs up Johnny’s spine. “Maybe the scotch?”

“Only if you want me to steal some,” is the muffled reply, but Johnny’s got a bottle of it in his hand when he lifts his head. His eyes catch Tim’s, and something silent and rich passes between them. Johnny sighs, smiles and presses his cheek to Tim’s thigh like a cat. Tim’s only response is to smile back, warmer than anything I’ve ever seen on his face, and thread his fingers through Johnny’s hair.

Easy to see what they had between them, before. Easy to be terrified of fucking it up.

Yeah. Massive issues. Thirty plus years of failed relationships will do that to you. With a track record like that, it’s hard to rationalize it being someone else’s fault.

Suitcase nuke vs. wet firecracker. This is doomed from the start. Look around at the nice self-destructive histories being passed around between us, and you can’t miss it. It’s going to go, and it’s going to go with a big fucking explosion.

Johnny makes a dark purring noise in his throat, nuzzles dangerously high on Tim’s thigh. He moves… hard to describe how he moves, but it demands some sort of description even while it defies it. The closest thing I can think of is honey, slow and sweet and liquid. Wicked sensuality, even in the way he gets to his feet with a smirk and a flick of his head. Tim lets him, dark eyes heavy where they’re fixed on Johnny’s face.

He does that, sometimes. Half the time he doesn’t think about where he puts his body or what he does to it, doesn’t think about the reality going on outside of his head. But when he’s there, he’s there, and not a lot gets past him.

If I think about that, apply it to the current situation on top of watching Johnny move, I’m going to drown. So I don’t think about it. I just look back and forth between them, committing it to memory like a snapshot.

Except it’s warmer. Reality in the brush of Johnny’s fingers on the inside of my arm and the warm weight of Tim’s attention suddenly shifting to me. It’s not safe, but it’s there, burning steadily. Burning.

Well. It’s about time my self-destructive tendencies were good for something, anyway.
****
End.