Hey there, how's it going? I thought I'd ease you into this because, well, the whole thing is pretty fucked up. And I mean fucked.

So I work with Perry now, I live in his home, and I generally mooch off of his entire person. But then, you already knew that, didn't you? Don't ask me why (because I really don't want to tell you), but I find myself craving his attention, even if he's yelling at me, and even if I'm tagging along on some stakeout and he's berating the hell out of me.

But anyway, that doesn't really pertain to this story, well, in a way, I guess it might...anyway. Jesus, I'll get right to it then.

I used to be a crook, you know? I'd gotten my friend killed, and within the next week I'd seen more corpses than I ever imagined I would. Hell, I even killed a guy, loading him with bullets with a bit of beginner's overkill, as morbid as that sounds, and then I'd killed another, sort of by accident, and then I was firing shots left right and center. Yeah, yeah, I was scared, I was freaked out; who the hell wouldn't be? But it passed and I was okay.

Even working with Perry, despite his insistence that his line of work was 'boring' in real life, I'd seen a whole whack load of dead bodies, and somehow, it just didn't bother me. Don't cringe away from the screen, I know, okay? It's weird, but I think I was desensitized or something. (Well, I have to begrudgingly admit that Perry's constant presence may have helped reassure me, but only a little!)

So, if you're sitting there wondering if this is going anywhere, I'll spare you the extra brain work: it is. See, I thought I was okay with it, I thought I'd seen it all, or just seen enough of it that it wouldn't ruffle my feathers anymore.

But my feathers got fucking ruffled.

It had been a case which started out quite unspectacularly, but I guess that's how these things usually start out, isn't it?

Perry had been hired by some wife to track down her husband, and man, that was nothing new. Husbands, especially husbands of rich wives, were usually adulterous; being the slimy little cheating bastards they were.

Only this guy had no trail, and I wondered if he'd ever existed in the first place. Sure, there were pictures and tax receipts, but we couldn't find him anywhere, and Perry had already exhausted all his connections and leads.

Finally, we decided (well, Perry did) to go and consult the wife once more.

So one bright, sunny afternoon we climbed the lavish steps of her mansion (oh yeah, sorry, forgot to mention, this gal was extremely loaded, not just moderately rich) and knocked on the door. Here's the weird part - it just kind of opened.

We'd called and called, but there was no answer, so Perry figured something was up, and took charge in that awesome way he does - and anyway, we ended up searching the place.

Perry told me to be careful and to check the basement (it was actually a wine cellar), and just in case you're worried Perry had a momentary stroke or something, he didn't actually say 'be careful,' it was more like 'don't fuck up, idiot' but I like to entertain the idea that it translates to concern in Perry-language.

So this is where it gets messed up. I had flicked on the lights, and half way down the stairs the smell hit me. I wrinkled my nose, but I figured it was nothing, so I just ambled on, half tempted to whistle.

Perry sometimes tells me I need to stop being so dim-witted, and sometimes I'm inclined to agree with him.

The first thing I saw was the wife, decked out in her most stunning jewels, wearing the most poofy, extravagant dress I'd ever seen a woman wear. It was sparkly and white, almost like a wedding dress it was so over the top, only it had subtle color to it. There were too many frills and it seemed like too much fabric for a woman so tiny, but it was still pretty, in a sense.

After noticing her dress, I finally registered the dead guy on the floor.

She was curled in a neat sitting position, her hands folded over her lap and the corpse was so close that it dirtied her dress.

So, if you're thinking to yourself 'that's what ruffled your feathers so badly?' don't be too quick to judge, okay? It gets worse.

By this time the smell was making me sick, and I realized that this guy had been dead for a really long time. I could only gape and try not to breathe, and finally the wife seemed conscious of my presence.

" I can't find my husband," she said dismally, staring down at what was, now that I looked, unmistakably her dead husband. I thought for a moment that some sick bastard had killed him and then dumped him here, and that she'd been unable to cope or something, leading to this little picturesque scene.

Again, I couldn't have been more wrong.

"He's not here!" she exclaimed, sounding almost fondly exasperated, only a vague note of something frantic there. "I just can't find him anywhere in this house," she laughed nervously, and her eyes were so eerily glazed that I began to get apprehensive.

She shifted slightly, and I noticed the glint of something reflective. As it turns out, she was clutching a large knife, the blood visibly dried and gunked on its surface. My apprehension turned into a sharp panic, roughly translated to a repetition of: holy fuck, holy fuck.

For some reason a whole number of other details started bombarding me; like the way the congealed blood was pooled around the dead guy, and the way she was practically bathing in it, the smell of greasy hair and human filth mixed in with the putrefaction of the corpse. She hasn't moved from that spot in a long time, I thought. Her dress, upon closer inspection, was speckled with blood all over, something I'd initially mistaken as a design. Oh, and the dead guy was barely in one piece anymore, and don't even ask why the fuck I hadn't bothered to digest that fact.

Then, the woman looked up at me, straight in the eyes, and grinned, her lips cracking. It was the type of expression that was disconcerting and utterly out of place, but still somehow suitable, too.

"He's not here anymore," she sing-songed, and then, in an almost delicate way, she started hacking off what was left of his face, her eyes fever bright. Jabbing, slicing, and all around making a horror-movie scene out of real life.

Okay, I have to admit, I was more scared than I'd ever been. She didn't seem interested in me, so it wasn't even like she posed an immediate threat, but I was so God damned scared.

I opened my mouth and called for Perry. It was, I guess, more of a scream, and maybe my voice was a little hysterical, but my feet wouldn't move and my fear was cresting.

The woman was laughing softly now, as she carved up her husband's face, dirtying her dress even further and making a gooey, bloody mess. I could see that she'd already ripped open his stomach; and it seemed now she was simply determined to make the guy as unrecognizable as possible.

I don't know why, but I think I started to cry, more heaving breaths than anything, and yet I still yelled for Perry.

She looked up one last time, her face a picture of frenzied, pristine disfigurement, but calm and smart at the same time. "You won't be able to find him, if I can't."

Her smile was like honey on barbed wire and her hand was distractedly gouging out his eye. She continued to stare at me, unfocused eyes somehow keen, and her gaze both curious and prying, lips twisting sweetly. Not here, not here, she chanted under her breath, her probing hand causing more damage in its struggle to rip the eye out, optic nerves and all.

Perry came running down the stairs, anger in his voice, but concern on his face (proving just how terrified my screams must have sounded) as he demanded "What the hell do you-" and then he saw the husband and wife and didn't say anything more.

He whipped out his cell phone in one hand, and used the other to pull me into his body protectively. Whether he meant for it or not, I followed his pull and then some. I later felt embarrassed by how I shuddered and clutched at him like he was a fucking lifeline, pressing tightly to him.

I was vaguely aware that he was steering me towards the stairs, and I heard him muttering on the phone urgently, but I didn't want to listen because then I'd have to hear the woman laughing.

"Harry," he said. I didn't want to look up or let go of him. "Harry, Harry, Harry."

He jostled me a little, and I looked around, startled. We were outside, and I realized that I was still babbling hysterically, shaking even in the heat of the sun. I felt like all my dignity, scarce though it was, had vanished. In a desperate attempt at composure, I untangled myself from Perry.

Unfortunately, that wasn't such a good idea. Woefully, as soon as I pushed away from him, my knees buckled and I'd forgotten how to breathe - yeah, I know, it's bullshit. He caught me, and there again, my fingers sunk into his flesh with almost painful intensity. He didn't seem to mind.

"You're okay, Harry," he said gruffly, his arms holding me up. It distantly registered that we were hugging, and I wanted to point out how unlikely it was for him to ever hug me, even being gay and all, but I couldn't get the words out.

I forced myself not to think about it, so instead, I whispered, "Home." The sirens were really close, so I knew that there wasn't any reason for us to linger. It wasn't out job to clean up messes like that.

"Sure thing, chief," Perry placated. He moved as if to disengage from me, but I stubbornly held on, afraid suddenly, deathly afraid of losing the contact. He grunted in a frustrated way, and used his stern voice, "Harry."

I shook my head against him. "Perry," I said hoarsely, "That was really fucked up." My arms tightened around him, and shit, I couldn't help it.

He sighed resignedly, and then picked me up in one fluid, swift motion. Somewhere, I felt resentful at how easily he was able to do that, and the fact that he was carrying me like a stupid bride was damn humiliating, but he was warm and I held onto him fiercely.

Perry set me down in the passenger seat of his car, and I actually whined, feeling cold. He told me to be quiet and quickly discussed something with a nearby police officer before returning. It felt like it had been forever, and I told him so, insulting him and telling him not to leave like a fuckhead. He mostly ignored me and drove.

When we got home Perry made me sit on the couch with a whole bunch of blankets while he made me hot chocolate. I was trying to be nonchalant, admittedly difficult after the way I'd clung to him, but the whole not-teasing-me thing, accompanied by the gesture of giving me warm things meant I must've appeared like a cowed dog anyway.

He sat with me on the couch for the rest of the day, and all we did was watch reruns of old cartoons, and I knew that he didn't even like cartoons all that much. I was a little cold (or so I like to think), so I scooted close to him, trying my hardest not to think about the way the woman had laughed.

At three in the morning, after a late supper of left-overs (which I'd barely touched) Perry told me to go to bed. I didn't want to, I really didn't, but the look on Perry's face said there was no room for argument.

I stumbled to my bedroom, glaring at the dark shadows on the walls, knowing that nothing was going to jump out and strangle me, but hating the shadows all the same.

"You won't be able to find him, if I can't." The words echoed in my head, and I told them to go the fuck away. I was fine, I reassured myself. It was over.

Even so, when I automatically crumpled in on myself in my bed, I shuddered and groaned in discomfort, swearing because I was being such a pussy. I kept seeing her in her ethereal dress, covered in her husband's blood, prattling on like a lunatic while happily slicing up his body.

I can't remember when I calmed down enough to fall asleep, but I woke up later in quite the theatrical fashion.

Teeth gritted, making some inarticulate sound, I was writhing in my sheets as my eyelids flew open. I noticed a dampness around my eyes, and swore at myself, trying to calm down. I was rigid and tense, body tingling numbly with the rush of pounding blood in my veins as the breath rattled in my chest shallowly.

For your information, I can tell you that I don't care for nightmares. And by 'don't care' I mean I would rather sit through an episode of Perry having rough animal sex with a gorilla than have nightmares. Now, it didn't help anything that the creepy psycho had taken up residence in my head with her laughter, and it certainly didn't make things better when, instead of her husband, she was cutting up Perry. I've no idea how my brain rewired to make that fuck-up, but it was profoundly jarring.

I struggled to sit up, upper body strength apparently depleted, and the effort left me panting, and I could feel the immediate headache take root deep in the center of my forehead.

This was insane; I'd seen decapitated heads, mangled corpses, and somehow I was still supremely freaked out now, because of one body, because of one woman, because of one nightmare. Truth is, it was probably because the mere thought of ever having to see Perry like that...to ever have to go through losing Perry...

"Harry?" Perry's groggy voice cut through my panic, and I tried to clear my throat, because it felt like a ball of fluff was blocking my airway.

"Wha?" I managed.

"Why were you screaming?" the question was dry and direct.

"'wasn't, fuckhead."

"Harry," Perry's voice was annoyed and exasperated, but somehow soft.

I refused to say anything, and I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. It was dumb, fucking dumb.

After a while of silence, Perry didn't seem to be budging, so I offered, "I can't sleep."

"Yeah." Without further ado, Perry lithely crawled onto my bed, settling down beside me, and nudging me aside almost roughly.

"Uh, what're you doing?" I asked, my heart stumbling for an odd instant of uncertainty.

"Sleeping."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"And making sure you don't strangle yourself in your sleep."

"Oh." I paused, because I was able to feel the heat radiating off of him. It was nice. "Okay."

I guess - and I know this is going to sound corny as hell, but I can't do anything about that - having Perry so close was really…actually… comforting. I started counting his breaths, tracking them as they slowed and evened out in indication that he was asleep.

In a disgruntled, almost meek way, I started whispering excuses. "Listen Perry, this doesn't mean I'm gay," I wiggled over to him, pressing my body close to his so that even our hips were aligned (resisting the urge to sigh in gooey contentment) "-so don't get any ideas. I was just a little scared. A little." His heat was seeping through my skin, and I couldn't help but want more.

"I'm just cold, that's all. It must be a gay thing...you're so warm."

I settled, breathing deeply, the spicy smell of Perry infiltrating my nostrils. I expected my sudden case of snuggle-attack to freak me out more than anything, but it didn't. He was so solid and safe, and I felt increasingly at ease, my bones practically melting.

"Don't make me go into a wine cellar without you ever again, okay Perry?"

See, I know it's corny, fuck it. Anyway, I didn't expect him to answer, I was just speaking for my own peace of mind, but he shifted so that his arm hung loosely around my form. I think I squeaked, though it was mostly just for show, because I didn't resist, I really didn't want to.

"Idiot," he said sleepily.

Okay, and I know you might want to whack your head against the nearest surface because of me, but damn, I told you it's not my fault.

My cheeks suddenly felt hot, and because I was so eager to be close to him, hell, because I didn't mind it, I began to feel uncomfortable. I'd never had a problem with being close to him before, but I'd never thought anything of it. Now I was thinking too much, and I was allowing him so close now. Well, actually he was allowing himself to be close, and somewhere I knew this was a great privilege.

"You have to promise, jerk off," my voice was muted with embarrassment, or the tone that comes with pretending you're not feeling what you are; I wasn't exactly sure.

He hummed something, and really, it was a leap from his usual growls, so I accepted it as an affirmative and experimentally secured my hands against him. When he did noting to discourage my obvious plight for contact, I tucked my head near the crook of his shoulder, curling in his heat and feeling my muscles relax with every breath.

The next morning I had to pretend that I was freaked out about the tangled mess of limbs our bodies had become. I scrambled away, rolling off the bed and thudding to the ground in a big display.

Perry rolled his eyes and went to make coffee.

Nothing about Perry really changed, he still called me a moron, and I still acted like one. Nothing really changed, I guess, until night fell again. For some fucked up reason, I expected Perry to come to my room again, just to make sure I was sleeping okay.

Well, he didn't.

And you know what? That pissed me off. I wanted him in my bed (but uh, just for sleeping) First of all, I couldn't sleep, I was scared of my own blankets, and all I could think about was how I wished Perry was there grumbling abusive remarks…only…he'd have his arms around me and it'd be okay.

So, half way through the night, I shuffled to his room, trying to be quiet. I got as far as his bed when he sort of propped himself up and said, " Harry? What do you want?" in a disgruntled way.

I averted my eyes, feeling like a two year old. "I can't sleep."

"How is that my problem?" he groused.

"Yesterday…you…"

"Yeah, well that was a one-time deal. Fuck off."

I didn't really know what to say, or what to do without sounding like a desperate pansy, or you know, sounding gay. 'Please let me sleep with you! I can't sleep without you, I'm scared, oh Perry!' Yeah, so not happening.

"Fine," I spat, turning on my heels peevishly. As soon as I was clear of his room, my pace slowed.

I got to my door, but swiftly decided against it. I went to the kitchen, rooted through the cabinets and pulled out a Jack Daniels. Good old Jack, he always had my back, unlike a certain someone.

I was slightly jumpy, so I didn't venture into the living room, and instead made myself comfortable on the floor, nursing my bottle and resolving it would be best to drink myself to oblivion and pass out. Easy fix to insomnia, I reckon.

Two hours later and I was thoroughly drunk, but no closer to falling asleep, or passing out. Feeling frustrated, I gathered my courage and went into the living room, turning on the TV to the cartoon channel.

The cartoons freaked me out, so I tried the porn channel (which I'd gotten behind Perry's back) but there was some freaky dominatrix marathon on and that did not help matters at all. After flipping through the programs for another hour, and never actually settling on anything, I switched the TV off in annoyance.

"Fuck Perry," I groaned into the darkness, taking another swig of Jack. " Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Why had he been so…so nice if he was never going to do it again? Why would he comfort me only just once? Why did I want him to do it again? Damn it all, why, why did I want…

Even though it was clearly impossible, what if that fucking psycho woman had turned me gay? Hypothetically speaking, because, of course it wasn't plausible, but if it was, it would be, it would be…my face scrunched up…so not good.

"Harry," Perry's voice shot through my despair, sounding amused.

"The hell do you want, you heartless bitch?" I asked, trying to make my voice mean.

"What are you doing? You realize you're talking to yourself at five in the morning, right?"

"Oh, great observation, slick, you think I didn't know that? I told you, I can't fucking sleep." My words were a little (a lot) slurred and I think I was gesturing wildly as I spoke, though most of my attention was focused on squinting at Perry in the dark, so I couldn't be sure.

"You're drunk, idiot, go to bed."

Was he not hearing me? Or was I going crazy? Though the latter was entirely probable, and though I felt extremely loose-brained, it didn't stop me from getting angry. " I can't!" I almost shrieked.

To my surprise, he came and sat next to me on the couch, and he was very close.

"First off, stop drinking." He pulled away Jack, and my harsh voice gave way to a pathetic whimper of protest.

"Second of all, stop acting like a girl."

Okay, that was it. He wouldn't sleep with me, he'd taken away Jack, and now he was accusing me of being a girl? In a flurry of movement, I got half way up on my feet, and with remarkable balance, barreled into Perry, effectively knocking him over. We crashed to the floor.

"I am not a fucking girl!" I hissed in stuttering stops, keeping my arms straight while pinching his shoulders down, straddling his waist.

"I didn't say you were," Perry replied lowly, the dangerous look in his eyes telling me I shouldn't have just done what I just did.

Losing some of my nerve, but still on a buzz from Jack, I started babbling. " W-well I'm glad we established that, now I need you to help me establish something else, asshole. How am I supposed to sleep witho-without you?"

It was too painfully true, I realized, because I didn't want to dream about the psychopath woman, and I didn't want to dream about losing Perry. And it all boiled down to the fact that I needed the bastard, and I needed him now and he wouldn't help.

"Harry," Perry's voice was a warning, probably for me to just stop, but now I was pissed, and unfortunately, underneath my anger, I was desperate.

"You're supposed to be my friend!" I wailed drunkenly, ducking my head against his chest and squeezing my eyes shut. It was only because I was dizzy, you see.

I thought maybe I'd won, but next thing I knew I was sprawled on the floor by myself, and Perry was standing up.

"Friends don't sleep with each other," he said lightly, and I felt my face flood with heat.

"That's not what I meant!" I yelped. "I just want you to…to…" I felt pathetic, and I knew I wasn't making much sense anymore.

"Harry," he was massaging the bridge of his nose. "Just go to bed already, okay?"

I felt betrayed, I felt like I was going to cry (of all things) and I felt belligerent. The best I could manage was an attempted glare as he walked away.

When he was gone, I grabbed my discarded bottle of Jack, and then crawled onto the couch.

Fuck you Perry, I'm not going to bed I thought harshly, sneering at nothing. As if that would really bother him, when I knew that it wouldn't.

It was almost seven when next I bothered to check. My eyes stung, gritty and dry, and my head was unbelievably fuzzy, my body feeling curiously light. By now most of Jack was gone, diligently drained in a long enough period of time that I didn't feel too nauseous.

I felt my lids drooping, and the last thing I did was slur, "Not going to bed," before I fell asleep.

"You won't be able to find him, if I can't," she hummed melodically, her starved, dirty face smiling.

I felt sick.

"He's not here anymore." She looked disapprovingly down at the mangled corpse, her words holding the tone of a reprimand.

I choked on the rancid air.

She carded her fingernails through his hair almost gently, ignoring me, completely ignoring me now.

Then, "He'll never be here for you again, darling."

I felt my eyes water and my nose tingle, but I couldn't look away, couldn't even blink.

"Would you like to help me find him? Maybe he's still here," she murmured, sticking her hand into his mouth, violently probing and digging deep.

"Stop it!" my voice was nothing more than a choked sob, my throat tight from trying not to breathe or cry or vomit.

"Stop it?" she asked slowly, deliberate and doleful, her eyes wide and innocent. I saw the giggle bubbling in her throat as her face spread impossibly wide with a smile, and when the sound came, the tinkling, chopped, satisfied laugh, I wanted to run.

She pulled her hand out of his mouth and then stroked his face, laughing politely all the while.

"He's simply not here anymore!"

She kept giggling like a child who'd received a new puppy, and all I could think was, that's Perry, Perry, Perry…

I realized I was hyperventilating, or sobbing, or both. I wanted to scream but my throat was so tight, and Perry wasn't here to make everything better and I-

I awoke softly with a gasp, breathing deeply.

The nightmare was slowly slithering away with every blink I took. Lethargically, I became aware that I was spread on the couch, one arm hanging down (still loosely holding Jack) and the other over my stomach. My face felt wet and I knew why.

I cursed, hoping that Perry wasn't awake yet and hadn't seen me, and I unconsciously pulled the blanket over my head - wait, blanket?

Damn it! There'd been no blanket here before, and only one person could have brought one. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

As it turns out, I didn't have much time to curse and swear and groan because soon I was running for the bathroom to puke my guts out.

I stayed in my room for most of the day, nursing my hangover with resentment, the confusion curdling in my gut making me more uncomfortable than anything.

When I was starting to see things other than white blotches, and my hunger finally drew me out of my room, it was midnight. My feet mindlessly brought me to the kitchen with staggering steps.

To my surprise, Perry was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in front of him and a book in his hands. He glanced up at my arrival.

"You look you shit," he greeted.

"Thanks," I mumbled self-consciously, because I knew that he'd probably seen me crying in my sleep like a big fucking baby.

I walked to the cupboard, intending to get a pop tart, but Perry casually said, "There's a bowl of mac and cheese in the microwave."

My mind stuttered to a stop, and all awkward tidings were abruptly forgotten. "Your homemade stuff?"

Perry looked mildly insulted that I would suggest otherwise, or God forbid, that he would serve me Kraft Dinner or something. "Of course, moron."

When I first started living with him, it didn't take long to find out he could cook. On the day he'd first made his mac and cheese, well, you can probably guess that it was love at first bite.

"Thanks," I said again, only this time with more sincerity.

I was grateful, maybe feeling a little childish, but grateful all the same.

So with my mac and cheese reheated, I sat at the table, eating like a starved person. After some big mouthfuls, I tired to make conversation. Small talk, yes, as much as I loathed that, but I was done acting like a complete push over. I was determined to pretend like nothing had happened, because that's what people did.

"Shut it, I'm trying to read."

Well, that hadn't worked as well as I'd hoped.

So we sat there in complete silence, except for my chewing and his page turning. As uncomfortable as I felt, I was still glad he was around. Damn it, like a push-over.

Soon I was finished and just sitting there blankly. Perry looked content to be reading, and after a while, I opted for some of the coffee he'd made, even though it was nearly 1AM in the morning. There was no way I wanted to sleep anyway.

Though even as I sipped my coffee, I was feeling the after effects of Jack from the night before, and the result of not sleeping properly. I glanced up at Perry, who as of yet hadn't even yawned.

"Aren't you tired?" I muttered, propping myself up with my hand on my cheek. I was blissfully full, too, and maybe my eyelids were drooping a bit.

Perry raised his eyebrows at me from over his book. "I got enough sleep last night."

My cheeks felt hot and I looked away. "Good for you."

Another hour passed by, followed by another, followed by two and half cups of coffee and two trips to the bathroom. I was starting to get annoyed and sleepy, and Perry just sat there reading his stupid book.

Now I was cushioning my head in folded arms, willing my eyes not to close.

Damn coffee wasn't working, I mean, what the hell was it? Decaf?

I tried to settle for looking at Perry (who was very much not dead right now) and draw comfort from the way his chest was rising and falling. Anything to distract me from how much I really wanted to sleep.

At first I thought it was great that Perry was still up, looking alert and awake, because then I wouldn't have to worry about sleeping and he'd still keep the nightmares away. But now I was fucking nodding off and my brilliant concept was shot to hell. It wasn't going to work if I feel asleep before him!

I hated Perry, damn it, all I wanted was to sleep in a bed. All I wanted was to have him close and snug. Stupid Perry, stupid, stupid…

"Aren't you tired, moron?" Perry's voice cut through the silence, directing my own question back at me.

I tried to glare at him, but couldn't quite manage it. I closed my eyes (in annoyance!) and said, " No." My voice was, pathetically enough, hoarse and lethargic.

"Really."

"Mmm."

I was asleep in a heartbeat.

Lucky for me, Perry attempting to carry me and then lower me slowly into my bed was jostling enough to rouse me. As soon as I realized what was going on, I forced my body into action and clutched at him as tightly as I could, my upper body suspended awkwardly off the mattress, and my fingers hurting because of how tight they curled.

"You're staying here," I hissed groggily, my words bumping into one another, lips numb and searching for the right pronunciations. I was briefly alarmed by the candor of my words, but couldn't be bothered to analyze that.

"Harry," he sighed. "I'm not staying here, you have to get over this."

This was maybe the most he'd addressed the subject of my little meltdown, and he was being kind about it (well, he wasn't being a complete dick, in other words). My hands tightened their hold on his shirt.

"I will," I assured, not letting go, pleading with my eyes because there was no way in hell I would voice this, I mean I'd said enough incriminating, fuck-dumb things already. It was bad enough that I really wanted to touch him, that I needed to touch him, but it would be worse if he wouldn't let me.

I bit my lip; because damn, I was so far gone I might as well be hanging out at gay bars, this was horrible. There was no nice way of putting it anymore, in my addled brain; I wanted him wrapped around me and holding me together.

Perry looked at me for a long moment, and then frowned.

"No." It was the firm answer to my pathetic entreaty, the one he could obviously divine even though I didn't say it.

I felt like squirming. He pried my hands off of him, and his touch was too brief. I felt my cheeks get hot, and my brows furrowed in agitation.

He didn't leave right away, and somewhere I hoped he might change his mind and stay, but all he did was awkwardly pat my head. "You'll be okay."

And then he was gone.

I thought about him a long time, about how I could barely remember how warm he'd been next to me, about how heavily reassuring his arms had been, about how strangely nice it had felt…

I couldn't remember, and as I tried to conjure up memories, somewhere along the way I started to make them up. To my horror, suddenly I was squirming, quite embarrassingly, as my body decided to raise the temperature.

There was nothing innocent about the touches I dreamt up, or about the weird, fierce craving that manifested in my restless limbs. There was no dreaming up how the imagined contact made me feel, as much as I bit my pillow telling myself otherwise.

What was worse was that I still didn't get a good sleep, despite my lack of nightmares.

When I was finally cooled down and tired, I spent a disproportionate amount of time staring at the ceiling, contemplating the best ways to prevent myself from thinking.

Five days (see: one bottle of Jack, five Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Chunks, six boxes of pop tarts) later, and I was beginning to get depressed.

Five days had been enough for me to man up and stop freaking out over my nightmares. In fact, I wasn't even having nightmares anymore. I'd successfully stored the psycho woman somewhere I didn't have to look in my head, and if she ever came up unbidden, I fucking beat her with a metaphorical stick.

So that was good. But see, you're probably thinking, there's got to be a reason why I just said I was depressed, right? Smart reader, you are.

Well five days (see: two wet dreams involving Perry) later and I was beginning to figure something out.

I wasn't nearly as scared anymore; I was sleeping fine (except for…well) but there was one thing that hadn't changed.

I still wanted Perry in my bed.

I tired to rationalize, oh, I tried. But I wanted, really wantedall those things I'd had for one night, and then lost. His heat, his sturdiness, his…oh fuck.

This could only mean one thing, right? Logically (and damn it, this is why I hate logic!) my problem stemmed from a clusterfuck of a ball somewhere deep down in me. I was justifying the clusterfuck of whatever (I wasn't going to entertain the notion of infatuation or a crush, God damn it, no I was not!), and that's all I'd ever been doing, justifying the hell out of everything. The reason I'd been so hell bent on Perry sleeping with me again was because that's what I wanted (plain and simple), because I liked it, because I liked him - accordingto logic.

…

Well logic can go and fuck itself.

I'd just been scared! A pansy in need of comfort and…oh fuck.

I still wanted Perry in my bed.

I allowed myself one loud, forlorn groan, and then opened another Ben and Jerry's.

I scooped out a giant spoonful, and then another, and then another.

"Fuck," I muttered around the spoon.

A.N Harry is slow, it takes him a while to realize things, even though he's already mostly realized them. Harry is such a lovely character to jerk around and abuse. Oh, just a love. SO, this has been forever in the works, and there will be a part two! :) I'd greatly appreciate feedback, as I'm hoping everything came out mildy-believable, so do be a doll and give me your thoughts!

Much love to you all, and hopefully some of you stick around for part deux!

Kiss Kiss,
Kyla