A/N: I just want there to be reconciliation with my babies, that is all I ask of in life. I suffer from Milroe feels, I can't help it.
We all need to see crying! Bass and caring! Miles more in our lives, so we do.

Warnings? Um, language and a slight mention of a canon attempt at suicide. Also, here be slash.
Disclaimer - the usual, I do not own the rights of the programme, the characters, the amazing actors, etc. Most unfortunate, I have to say.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd scene.

She had smiled at him in encouragement as she handed over the thick, brown notebook. Her hands were warm and soft, but maybe it was because he just felt so cold all the time. He forces himself to sit upright; to look interested.

"I know you're going through nine kinds of hell-"

(Not nine. Four. Four kinds. One for each of them.)

He has to swallow away the lump beginning to form in his throat.

"and you're hurting but you won't talk about it," she says with a gentle smile, although she just narrows her eyes slightly because she's right – he can't talk about it. Won't talk about it. The words just clog his throat and seem to wither and die on his lips. It's easier just to refrain from voicing his thoughts. He looks down at his hands, feeling the sun on the back of his neck.

Bass even feels a tad sorry for the lady. She obviously means well; clearly has the talent and experience for the job. He's barely spoken to her about anything over the past three sessions yet she has just sat there and talked about little mundane things in an effort to get him to engage with her.

It tires him, though. He hates being here and hates being seen like this.

"So I decided to try this with you," she gestures towards the notebook, "some of my other patients do this. If you won't talk about your feelings, write them down instead. Write down everything. You can keep it to yourself or you can show it to someone close to you, whatever you want." Again with the encouragement.

He snorts. How the hell did he end up here?

She must see something on his face that prompts her to say, "hey, look at me."

He glances up. He hates the sympathy in her dark eyes. Her frown relaxes. Another gentle smile that masks an iron will.

"I want you to do this for me," her voice is calm yet firm. "I can't help you unless you help yourself first."

He sighs at the words. The book hangs limply in one hand.

The shrink sessions had been at the polite yet firm request from a mixture of relatives, the doctor at the hospital and even their CO. Bass had been furious, Mile remembers. He had ranted and cursed about how he didn't need anyone asking him dumb questions and trying to get into his head. He was fine, damn it, how many times did he have to tell people that? It had fallen to Miles to talk him into going – bullying and cajoling in equal measure, actually – and Bass had then directed his ire at him. He felt hurt and betrayed, wasn't Miles on his side?

Miles had snapped then, because he had watched helplessly for days as Bass retreated into himself. He had drank himself into a stupor, only picked at his food and hadn't slept. Bass became a man of conflicting emotions – either notoriously short tempted, or full of dazed and disorientated apathy. He had had enough, Miles had shouted sharply. He wasn't going to stand by and watch Bass kill himself. What would his parents say? What about his sisters?

Bass had punched him so hard for that one. He had stumbled before he grabbed his best friend by the collar of his hoodie and pushed him into the wall. Damn it, Bass, he had all but growled as the other man attempted to wriggle out of his grip, protesting violently against the treatment. Can't you see what you're doing to yourself?

I'm fine, damn it, Bass had said harshly, staring at him with dark shadows under his eyes. I'm sick of being treated like a piece of glass-

Oh, you're fine? Really? Sarcasm dripped from his mouth because damn the man to hell, he was going to kill not only himself but Miles. Who was not going to stand idly by and watch this man fade away. He wants to choke when he thinks about what had so nearly occurred. What might have happened had he not intervened.

I had to take your gun from you, Bass! Remember? He shook the man as if trying to shake sense –and his own love – into him. I had to take your gun. Yeah, you're fine. He breathed heavily, watching as Bass ceased his struggles.

I… I'm fine…

No, he had said calmly, feeling Bass go limp in his hands, no, you're not. He placed a hand under Bass's face and forced him to look up. His eyes were red and raw. He wiped away a tear with a thumb. Bass closed his eyes.

I… I can't -

It's okay, brother. It's okay, he whispered as Bass leant against him. There is something comforting about his weight in his arms. It sure as hell wasn't okay, he thought, but this was a start.

He goes into the kitchen and is greeted by the sounds of glass on glass and the hollow thud of an empty bottle carelessly placed on the table. He sighs quietly. Sharp brown eyes survey the scene and sweep up and down the seated figure before him with a critical edge.

"How did it go today?" he attempts to sound relaxed, but in reality he hates having to say those words because they remind him all too clearly about what has happened. His own ears pick up on the barely veiled note of sarcasm because if Bass is sitting in a huddled mess downing liquor like there is no tomorrow then obviously the latest session went swimmingly.

His best friend chuckles, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. His heart sinks at the sight.

"Oh, it was a friggin' party, man," he drawls, shaking his head as Miles wonders wearily how much he has had to drink. He hates this routine. He hates seeing Bass reduced to a broken shell floating in a damn sea of alcohol. His best friend was meant to be the wide-eyed, sarcastic prankster with the gift of the gab of the two. The icy rage to his burning temper. The affectionate drunk to his prickly one. The mediator between Miles and anyone he was arguing with. The one who would hastily take baby Danny from Miles' arms when he started to cry, knowing that the older man panicked. The one who would fall asleep on his chest and blearily complain if Miles tried to move.

This isn't him.

He doesn't speak, just walks over to the table and sits in the chair beside his brother. Bass will talk in his own time, Miles knows. The problem is, the shrink doesn't.

"She went on at me again for not talking to her; hell I think she's the one with the problem. Narcissistic tendencies, you know?" Bass chuckles; it sounds more like a sob. The broken man reaches for his glass and takes a drink. His hand is shaking as he goes to set the glass down and Miles reaches out and firmly takes the object from him.

"I think you've had enough for tonight, man," he says gently as Bass throws him a glare. The effect is somewhat negated by the fact that his eyes are full of tears. They stare at each other as the clock ticks in the background.

"I can't talk to her, Miles. I can't," Bass mutters hopelessly. "I mean, I tried. But I just can't." He places his head in his hands. Miles waits quietly for him to continue. Fights the urge to wrap his brother up into his arms.

"She doesn't know me. She doesn't," here Bass chokes on his words as he rubs at his eyes, "didn't know them. I just… I just can't-" his body shudders. A sob tears its way from his throat. "I can't talk to her about them, man."

Miles abandons his previous restraint and wraps an arm around Bass' shoulder. The man initially tries to pull away – embarrassed at the action, and embarrassed because he needs this and Miles knows it, too – but the older man refuses to budge.

"I know, Bass. I know," he murmurs, feeling a shudder wrack through his best friend's frame. He tightens his grip around the man. He can feel ragged breathing. "Shhh, it's alright."

"She gave me a fucking notebook to write in," bitter, hysterical laughter pours from Bass, "Can you believe that? Like I'm a teenager. Even Angie never went for that shit." He blinks furiously as he mentions the nickname of his youngest sister.

"She wants you to write in it?"

"What's that meant to do, huh? What am I supposed to write?" Bass swallows, eyes burning. Adopts a sarcastic tone. "Dear diary, went to the gym, had lunch. Went back to my place, watched a movie, and oh my folks and sisters were killed today," he shudders and chokes and Miles pulls him in closer.

"Bass-" he begins but is broken off by a moan.

"I still can't… I can't believe it. God, Miles. They're dead," Bass says in a mixture of confusion and shock and grief. Miles' heart breaks at the sight of how lost his brother looks. He says nothing, just gathers Bass into his chest and feels the sobs wrack his body.

"They're dead and I couldn't do anything and why was it not me-"

"Shhh, Bass," he whispers softly, and Bass rests his head against Miles neck. His hair is soft on his skin. He lightly kisses the side of Bass' face.

"It's my fault-"

"Hey, hey, enough of that shit. You weren't the driver. You couldn't do anything," Miles says firmly; he can almost taste the guilt and despair flowing from the broken bundle in his arms. "Bass, look at me," swollen blue eyes eventually comply with the barked order, "this isn't your fault."

A quiet whimper at the words and Bass closes his eyes. "I should've pulled the God-damn trigger when I had the chance-" he breaks off as Miles firmly places a finger against his lips. Tries not to let the other man see how much pain those muttered words put him through.

(Don't you dare say that to me, Bass. Don't you dare even think it.)

"Cut the crap," Miles say sharply, and his tone prompts a wearily chuckle. "I mean it. Hell, Bass, why would you say that?"

(I love you, you asshole.)

A moment of silence. Then -

"I can't feel anything, Miles," Bass whispers against the older man's chest. He sounds dazed and confused, "I can't feel anything." Miles swallows, running a hand through Bass' hair. It's soothing for them both, because soon Bass relaxes into his touch.

The clock ticks in the background. The only sound Miles can hear is his best friend's fragmented breathing. He isn't sure how to answer. He sighs.

"I've got you. I've got you, brother," he holds Bass securely in his arms and glances for a second at the notebook left abandoned on the table. Miles can see how the shrink's idea could work, but Bass is hurting and dying inside and needs something more real and vivid than paper and ink. He needs to be held when he cries, needs someone to wrap their arms around him when he wakes in the night from a nightmare. Needs someone to let him feel alive with touches and kisses and breaths.

Because when Bass' family died that day, a part of him died too. Miles isn't sure he'll ever have his best friend intact again. All he can do is try to hold on to the pieces left behind and never let go.