I never really planned to have it happen like this, though.

Spitting out the last of the nasty morning-after taste, I wipe my mouth on the dirty towel slung over the back of the toilet and grimace. My stomach rolls and grumbles for a second, considering another rebellion, then quiets. I can’t really blame it for rebelling on the combination of cum, No-Doze and a fifth of vodka. At least I didn’t have to go get a stomach pump. That’d just be humiliating.

As opposed to getting tucked in by the man who’s technically my employer, which is just a massive builder of self-confidence.

With a sigh, I reach over and flush the contents of my stomach, wincing as the sound reminds my head that it’s still in the process of imploding. It’s better, but not much; looks like I really pissed something off this time. Right now I could be a posterboy for all the reasons why middle-aged people just shouldn’t get drunk.

A tentative knock on the door comes, so quietly that I almost miss it over the pounding in my own head.

Reason One: Directors with big haunted eyes follow you home.

Pushing myself to my feet, my body shaking a little too much for comfort, I open the door. I’d like to think that I’m not leaning on it because otherwise I’d fall over, but I’d also like to think that I’m 6’2 and marginally intimidating, and that hasn’t done much for me either.

Tim almost smirks at me, bastard, but doesn’t say anything as he holds out the bubbling glass of Alka-Setzler. His knowing eyes stay on my face, and they say it all for him.

I take the glass gratefully and knock it back. For a second, my body almost rejects the medicinal taste of it, but I didn’t survive twenty years as the frontman of a rock band without learning how to make my body take in liquids it wouldn’t naturally. Making a face, I rub at my throat and really look at him for the first time. My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling acid. “Thanks.”

He shrugs one shoulder and lays his head against the doorframe, flattening his rumpled hair. “Better?”

There’s that non-verbal Tim we all know and love. Or at least know. Or pretend to know. “Better. How long was I out?”

The place between his eyes draws together a little as he thinks about that. Not that I’m watching him closely or anything. “About… sixteen hours. Give or take.”

“Fuck. I was supposed to call Gus.” When he just looks at me, something displeased in the set of his mouth, I palm at my eye and sigh. “Okay. So much for that.”

“Sorry.” He’s not, really, but it was nice of him to pretend. Tilting his head, he eyes me hard. “Are you okay?”

“I said I was better.”

“No. I mean…” Frustrated, he makes a helpless gesture with those unexpectedly elegant hands, and stops just short of touching me. I haven’t seen him fidget like this for years. What the fuck did I do? “Are you okay?” he repeats finally, putting an odd emphasis on the last word. His expression is so solemn that I can’t help laughing.

“I think I ran out of directors to molest.” That memory stabs deeper than expected, taking me off guard and shutting me up for a moment. Damn, but I’m not in the mood to deal with this right now. I already had my tantrum to take the edge off. It ought to last me a few more years of need before it starts hurting too badly to deal with. Swallowing it down, I manage a smile for him like a cookie for a scared child. “Don’t worry about it. I’m done now. Honestly.”

He frowns. “You sure?”

It’s a tempting offer, though I’m not sure what he thinks will fix me. A good nap and a hug damned sure won’t do it, but he doesn’t need to know that, poor innocent thing. If he wants to think that he healed me with the power of his platonic love, good for him. I’ll just pretend that I’m not thinking of all the things I could do with that mouth.

I won’t be the one to ruin him.

“I’m sure.” My smile tastes false. Hitching a thumb over my shoulder, I add, “I’m gonna take a shower now.”

“Oh. Okay. Uh…” Running a hand through his hair, he purses his lips, and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from lunging at him. “You want me to make you some food or something? I can make toast without burning it. Usually.” His lips quirk up in a rare, shy smile. “About fifty percent of the time.”

I really ought to warn him not to do that. My palm isn’t going to survive this much gouging.

With a smile that feels painfully gentle, I indulge myself in patting his shoulder when I force out the words, “Go home, Tim. Lisa’s probably missing you. I’ve got it from here.”

Tilting his head, he gives me this odd look through his eyelashes. It doesn’t quite match his tone when he replies, “If you say so.”

“I say so.” Flicking my fingernails at him in a shooing motion, I give him the nearest imitation of a glare I can manage while all my instincts are busy screaming at me to grab the sweet, stupid fuck and do things to him that would ruin the sheets. “Go away before I send one of the evil puppets home with you.”

He rolls his eyes, a confidence that took me years to earn and keeps me from pouncing on him now, and turns away. “You’ll call me,” he tries to command over his shoulder, and is out of earshot before I can argue. The stairs creak out a strange song as he descends them. Then the door slams shut, the final measure, and he’s gone.

Well. That was depressing.

With a sigh, I let the fake smile slip and start pulling off clothes. That’s one advantage to living alone, free access to nudity and showering with the door open. Paranoia beats modesty any day.

He wasn’t supposed to believe me.

Fuck. I have not been reduced to playing childish mind games with an even more childish man just because I happen to be hot for his body. I haven’t.

Muttering to myself, I push the clothes into a tight bundle in the corner and wrench the temperature dials the way I want them. The water’s almost painfully hot when I duck under the spray and pull the glass door shut behind me. Rolling my shoulders into the spray, I rub at the bridge of my nose to ease the lingering headache. I can still feel the last traces of whatever insanity took me over last night lurking and pacing behind my eyes, ready to do even more damage.

I blew Tim, and the stupid fucker tracked me down. He could have destroyed me with assault charges, but he petted my hair and crooned things at me and… and I let him.

God, now I remember why I don’t ever let myself get sleep deprived.

My girlfriend’s shampoo smells thick, too heady in the tiny shower. At least it cleans me off, though, washing the sweat and the mud and my own idiot weakness down the drain, taking with it my illusions.

He’s straight, and fucking oblivious, and married to an obedient little supermodel, cursing me three times over. Apparently infatuation’s not just blind, it’s been lobotomized. That or I’m a masochist to the nth degree. Or both.

Tossing the bottle of shampoo on to its shelf, I rub the last of it away and take a deep breath. Between the steam and the Alka-Seltzer, I feel almost human again, or at least as close as I ever do. Time to build my life up around me again, so I can hold it together for another few months. It might not be a healthy way to keep going, but I’m not getting many choices.

I turn to twist the water off, and something grabs me by the arms. The closest sound I have ever made or will ever make to a squeak jerks out of me as the fully dressed man standing in my shower forces me back against the wall. It takes a second to concentrate enough through the need to fight before I recognize the face tilted down at me.

“Tim,” I try to growl at him, but it comes out disgustingly breathless.

He looks at me, the water plastering his hair to his head and making his clothes cling to his skinny frame. The hands gripping my elbows have a hell of a lot more strength than I would ever give him credit for.

“I didn’t make it to my car,” he says, not entirely coherently, then moves forward that last few inches. His body presses mine to the wall, and I can feel my breath hitch loudly in my throat. I’d like to think it was just surprise. Then he shifts, one long leg sliding between mine and one arm on either side of my chest to hold me up, and his lips slide over mine, and I stop thinking for a while. Because, damn, the man can kiss. Tongue and teeth and the occasional wet noise that goes straight through me, until I’m holding on to his arms and trying very hard not to whimper. He ‘hmms’ into my mouth, entirely too amused, and leans into me just hard enough to keep me from sliding down the wall. Something presses into my stomach, and I’m not thinking that it’s his keys.

My hand slides off his arm and under his completely drenched and heavy shirt, easing up his back. His growl this time is serious, not even close to that half-assed noise he made last night; it goes straight up my spine, making me falter. He takes full advantage, pulling away just long enough to move his mouth to my throat. For a second, he nuzzles at me, letting me feel only the steady warmth of his breathing. Then his mouth fastens on that spot it took my girlfriend months to find, licking and sucking with an intensity that’s almost disturbing. The whimper comes out that time, and the bastard has the nerve to chuckle.

I don’t mean to dig my nails in. Months, years of taking it and giving it rough are ingrained under my skin, beyond thinking about such things as fears of scaring the ghost pale and wild creature in my arms. I think I stiffen more than he does, hearing him hiss out a breath through his teeth. I wait for him to pull away, his big eyes wounded.

He nuzzles me again. He’s almost purring. One long-fingered artist’s hand begins its slow slide over my side, across my ribs, down a stomach that’s thankfully still flat because of my own vanity, and stops at my hipbone. I can feel him make some sort of expression, tracing the curve of the bone with his fingertips, maybe feeling the scar from an accident years ago, maybe not. I’m not going to ask. Being naked, I’m at a severe disadvantage.

I should tell him that he doesn’t have to do this. In fact, being the mature adult here, I really ought to tell him not to do something he’ll regret when he’s living out his last years with Lisa in some expensive retirement home somewhere. But I’ll be safely dead by then, and the words stick in my chest. The best I can manage is a strangled, “Tim.”

Apparently he knows that I don’t have anything else to say, because he simply bites my collarbone and curls his fingers around my cock. When I hiss out a breath and arch into his hand, he doesn’t move, making me curve into the hard warmth of him. He’s stronger than he looks, the pretty broken boy all the critics like to coo over and call a lost little lamb. He isn’t seeming too innocent now. Fuck, the things he does with his fingers…

Nobody’s innocent all the way through. There’s darkness in him, in the bright flash of those big sleepy eyes, in the way I can feel his teeth brush against my throat like a warning. I can feel it in the way he’s touching me- God, he’s finally touching me- hard fast strokes that aren’t coaxing anymore. He’s demanding something from me, everything from me, I can’t afford to lose that much again-

He bites down, sweet even teeth sinking into my throat, and something in me gives. I jerk into him hard enough I almost take both of us down, and come so hard I’m blind.

It’s probably only a minute or so before I start coming down, but it feels like an eternity. Tim’s hands are on my back, keeping me from sliding to the floor. My face is pressed against his shoulder; I can feel the bone against my forehead. I can’t breathe like this, but something tells me I shouldn’t lift my head yet. I feel dizzy. I feel high.

“Danny?” Soft and anxious voice. He’s put the mask back on, maybe without even knowing it. I can’t much explain the sudden ache of loss in my chest, but it mostly goes away when bone-thin fingers start stroking the back of my neck. It would almost be enough to bring my head up if I wasn’t suddenly fascinated by the way his voice sounds in his throat. “Are you all right?”

I mumble something, trying to get another few words out of him.

“Danny,” and he seems to like saying my name, I’ve discovered, “if you don’t want me to call the doctor, nod your head, okay?”

Damn, he’s a pushy bastard. As much as I’d like to hear how he could possibly explain this without killing both of our careers in the process, I make the sacrifice and lift my head.

And then I remember why it was such a bad idea.

Tim’s got these incredible eyes. Not because you could fall into them, not because of some unusual coloring, not because they’re as much of an enigma as he can be, but because it shows you every goddamn thing he’s feeling. If he’s happy, you know it. If he’s sulking, you know it. And if he’s regretting an illicit affair with his hung-over colleague in the shower…

I barely miss looking him right in the eyes, catching myself at the last second. So I look elsewhere.

He’s a wreck, really. His shirt is ruined. He tracked mud in. He’s skinnier than hell under those clothes. He looks like a drenched sheepdog with that hair. He’s shivering; I think the water heater just gave out. All in all, a pitiful creature.

And I’m fucking terrified of what he could do to me.

“Your clothes are ruined.” My voice sounds strange, strained and echoing off the tiles.

Tim looks down, then back up at me. I settle for staring at his throat. He uses the ‘I don’t understand the game but I want to play anyway’ voice when he replies, “Yeah, I guess they are.”

His hands are still on my back. They suddenly feel too heavy for comfort. I pull away, reaching for the glass door. I might have gotten away if I didn’t start babbling. “Look, if you want you can use my washer. It’s in the basement, I’ll go set it up-“

Strong fingers curl around my wrist, making me stop. Shit.

Swallowing hard, I half turn, careful to keep my eyes on  the tiles on the wall. “I ought to clean those,” I mutter insanely, then try to tug my hand away. “Tim, c’mon, let go.” I almost manage to make that sound steady. “I’m fine-“

“Look at me, then.”

“I don’t want to,” I snap back, petulant, then wince at my own stupidity. “Damn it, I have to get out of here-“

“Why?” he demands, so painfully reasonable that I want to slap him.

“I don’t know!” Wrenching my hand away from him so hard I know I’ve got bruises on my wrist, I back away from the door until my back hits the wall. Crossing my arms over my chest makes me feel better. I take a deep breath, force myself not to shiver like that anymore, and repeat, “I don’t know.”

“I just want you to stand here with me for a few minutes, Danny.” Somehow the bewildered hurt in his voice just makes it worse.

“I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?”

Tim sighs hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn and twist off the water with a shriek of metal on metal. It leaves too much silence in its wake. Finally, he asks, his voice muted, “Are you ashamed of this?”

Of all the things I thought I’d hear, that wasn’t even on the list. My head jerks up sharply, and I catch a flash of dark and troubled eyes. He looks like he’s waiting for someone to kick him while he’s down. I hate that fucking look. “No.”

Exasperated, he makes a gesture like he wants to grab my shoulders and shake me. “Then why are you acting like this?”

“Because I thought you didn’t-“ I make a helpless gesture of my own, then look away. The glass is fogged up. Fancy that.

I feel rather than see it when Tim takes a step closer. Instinct makes me want to glance at him, gauge his mood, but I can’t risk it. Yes, I’m fucking scared of someone who’s terrified of his own shadow. I hate im for being tall enough to loom over me. Bastard.

“You thought I didn’t what?” With that plaintive note gone from his voice, his soft voice sounds almost dangerous. “Contrary to popular belief, I can make my own decisions.”

“Since when?” I shoot back more than a little venomously. I never claimed maturity.

The hand curling under my chin, urging my head around is a surprise. I bare my teeth in a snarl that’s mostly startled reflex. Tim doesn’t budge until my head is tilted up towards him, and even then it’s just to tighten his grip to the verge of pain. His voice is low with pent-up frustration. “Look at me.”

“I should bite your fucking fingers off.” The sad thing is, right now I think I could do it. My shoulders feel tense as wire about to snap, needing to shove him back and run.

The scary thing is, I think he knows that I mean it. He just doesn’t care.

“Just for a minute, Danny. I want you to see that…” His voice trails off into silence. Then, finally, comes the kiss of death. “Please.”

Damn him. He just had to ask politely… In something close to an animal snarl, I snap at him. “Fine, if it’ll make you stop talking already!” I look at him, ready to sneer something to cut him to the bone so the stupid naïve shit knows what I can do, and stop.

His eyes are huge. Big, and dark, undercut by circles left by too many sleepless nights. The pupils are dilated until there’s just a faint rim of brown around black. And he looks at, lost and pleading and bare and scared, and so goddamned brave that it slices through me. He knows what I can do. And he wants me anyway. Maybe it makes him want me more.

He’s fucked up. We’re both so very fucked up.

“Danny,” he starts, but I can’t see his mouth moving because I can’t look away from his eyes. It doesn’t matter. He stops mid-breath when I shake my head. I can feel him tensing when I lean into him, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe.

“Shut up, Tim.” A shaky laugh spills out of me. “Just shut the hell up.”

And I kiss him. Deep, searching kisses, filthy and pure and dear God, I want him simply because he shouldn’t be had. It takes him a second, but when he starts kissing back I want to howl my triumph. The only reason I don’t is because  I’d have to let go of him first.

The only good reason to let go, as far as I can see, is to start pulling those damned clothes off. Even then, I can only manage to pull back long enough to gasp in air and tell him in a rush, “I’m not good at the relationship thing.”

He shrugs and helps me tug the shirt over his head. “Neither am I.”

“I was divorced.”

He laughs, and I realize with a jolt that I haven’t heard that nearly enough. “So was I.”

I want to demand where he’s been all my life, but I’ve only got myself to blame for the last twenty years of it. Something makes me stop when my hands go for the buttons of his jeans. I raise my eyes to his face, his parted lips and his five o’clock shadow and the wisdom hidden behind his innocent eyes, and give him one last warning, and pray he won’t run. “I’m not good for you, Tim. I eat people alive. I destroy people, I wear at them until they hate me and-”

He doesn’t even blink. Instead, those full lips curve into a slow, crooked smile. His hand slides into the small of my back and pulls me against him, broken puzzle pieces carved by age until they fit. With a shake of his head, he strokes my skin and arches into my touch and informs me, “That’s exactly what I came for.”