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He walks in and locks the door. The air is still, smelling of cheap nicotine and old paper, and he briefly wonders if she's started smoking again. He chokes down the disapproval tickling the back of his throat and waits for her to acknowledge him in her space. She doesn't look up from the case file she holds in her strong, delicate hands. He envies those hands, as his own are trembling at his sides. He's cold, even in the sweater vest and his spine gets a lick of pain every now and then, making him sweat.

She finally finishes the file and places it in the pile on her desk. The sound cracks the thick air and his trembling intensifies if only slightly. "George," she says quietly, picking up another file and leafing through it. He can detect the slicing smile in her voice.

He lowers his head, ignores the stinging of his wounds both physical and mental.

"Are you finally taking me up on that little offer?" her voice drips with amusement and if he weren't so tired, he would've been embarrassed or angry. But he's hurting and exhausted so he lowers his head even more, makes himself even smaller than he already feels, and answers.

"Yes."

It's the hitch in his voice that makes her look up, amused smirk dying on her lips. There's a bruise spreading across his cheek like some infectious plague. It's deep purple, and looks painful and humiliating. She rises from her desk, noticing the flinch that attacks his small body as the chair scrapes against the pitted hardwood floors. It's late, she realizes, glancing out the window and seeing the dark night sky along with her own, tired reflection. His head is still down, sharp strands of inky black hair falling into his face. Her heels click against the floor, incredibly loud in the silence.

"George," she says, standing in front of him now, voice like a soft caress. He finally looks up, eyes red and stinging, tears tracking down his cheeks like sticky rivers. She brushes them away with her thumb, noticing the wince that twists his mouth as her fingers brush against the bruise. He's aching and raw, bones and head throbbing in a way that just makes him want to pause and stop and breathe in the words she says to him because those words are the only thing keeping him grounded.

Her fingers leave his cheeks, run carefully through his hair, righting it. His eyes close, acting like dams, keeping the salty wetness from flowing past his pupils. He wants her touch, her hands in his hair while she tells him its okay, even when it doesn't feel like it is, like now when he feels like he is a synonym for desperation.

"What do you need?" She places her hands at her sides, staring at his closed eyes. She's taller even without her heels. His skin glows, illuminated only by the small lamp flickering warmly on her desk. He looks broken and beautiful, bruise marring his cheek like a brand.

A shudder rakes through him. Was it this cold when he walked in? He doesn't remember. His mind thumps against itself erratically, trying to recall his motive for coming here, to her. His limbs feel too heavy. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his fingertips. Everything seems to vibrate with pain.

"I need," he says finally, voice no more than a crisp whisper in the suffocating silence. The clock ticks steadily in the background. His can feel a lump forming in his throat. "I need to forget. I need you to make me forget. I can't keep seeing these things when I close my eyes."

"What do you see?" she exhales softly, patient. He shakes his head. "What do you see, George?"

"The bodies." His voice sounds like someone took a knife and dug into his throat until the trachea was exposed, bloody and muscly and raw. "I see dead bodies, and victims, and sick bastards who smirk as they recall every single thing they did to a defenseless child." His words make her ache, the bitterness and anger and utter desperation is palpable. "That's what I see and I want you to make it go away. I want to take you up on your offer, if you'll have me." His voice quivers and shakes as he bows his head, a picture of relenting submission. "Please have me."

She looks at him, runs a hand through her own blonde hair and adjusts her glasses, scrutinizing all the while. She needs a shower. He needs a do-over. She examines his plump lips, the thick fluttering lashes, soft timbre of his voice and the delicate hands that keep shaking. He's a breathtaking wreck clinging to the frayed edges of his sanity, trying to sleep without waking up in cold sweats, voice hoarse from crying, limbs whining from being thrashed into nightstands and headboards. She's heard the rumors, how he seems out of it, more jumpy than normal at work to the point where even Stabler awkwardly addressed his concern only for the doctor to snap and yell.

He'll have to be fixed before she can own him, she thinks. Above all he was still her friend even when begging for her to save him, even when he stood in her office, sweating and shaking and practically quivering with the effort to not shut down completely. He looks thinner, even in the multiple layers he wears and it isn't surprising that he wasn't properly taking care of himself.. He put every piece of him into his work, absorbing all the pain of victims and not talking to anyone about it. Now, he's breaking, coming apart under pressure and lack of sleep. She can feel how tired he is, how much he needs her now.

"I'll take you home," she says finally. "We can talk then." He nods, reaches for her coat as she walks back over to her desk and begins carelessly throwing files into her briefcase. He helps her into it and opens the door.

She stifles the urge to say "good boy" as the door closes.

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A/N: So the next chapter is already in the works and I am officially done with school for the next couple months so you can expect more updates on this story and others. However, my other George story entitled "Little George" will be discontinued until I am inspired again. Anyway, should I continue this? Please review all you Huang lovers out there!