Author's note: All the fics in the Constellation Series are adapted from a much longer fic (also posted on ) called Comfort. The main difference is that whilst Comfort is a slash fic, the stories in the Constellation Series are not. Mostly they are one-shots that can be read alone, but I will also be adapting the longer case-fics that make up quite a large chunk of Comfort.

I am (re)posting these fics for two main reasons: 1. Not everyone likes slash and is quite a long fic, so not everyone has the time or inclination to wade through it all!

If you have already read Comfort you'll find a lot of the Constellation Series is basically the same, so feel free to skip it.

"Dude, it wasn't your fault. The kid pulled a gun on you. It was him or you."

"I know that Guerrero!" Chance snapped. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured another measure in to his glass. "But maybe it should have been him that got to walk away. You ever consider that? Maybe it would have been better if the dumb little punk got to walk away and had the chance to turn his life around, instead of this!" Chance's gesture encompassed himself, Guerrero and the world in general. "My life is fucked already. There's never really going to be any way back from that, from the shit that I've done. That kid had his whole life ahead of him! He still had a shot, until I killed him."

This wasn't the first time Guerrero had had to deal with Chance's guilt over taking a life, but the fact that the life in question belonged to a teenager had undoubtedly made it harder. Guerrero knew better than to point out that although the kid was only seventeen, he was already a veteran gang-banger with enough blood on his hands to merit the death penalty in certain states. Chance knew that the kid's fate was sealed the first time he picked up a gun, but he had to believe in a person's ability to change, or else Chance himself was still Junior, the Old Man's instrument of death.

"Don't do this to yourself, Chance," Guerrero said, prising the bottle from Chance's hand. "It's done. You can't change that, and I, for one, am glad you were the one who walked away."

Guerrero knew from past experience that the worst thing he could do was to weigh Chance's life against the life that he had ended. It didn't matter that an objective assessment of the situation would prove that Chance living to fight another day, to be around to keep helping those who needed it, would be better than having another gun-toting, drug crazed gang-banger on the streets.

Guerrero found himself another glass, poured himself a generous measure of whisky and sank down into the sofa opposite Chance.

"How long can I keep doing this, Guerrero?" Chance let his head roll back and rest on the back of the armchair and closed his eyes. His glass dangled precariously from his fingers beside the arm of his chair, and he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand.

"As long as you need to, dude," Guerrero replied. "You're not alone. I've got your back, you know that."

"Yeah," Chance sighed. "I know."

"Besides, what with double-wide downstairs, the brat and the boss lady from hell, you have a team now."

Chance gave a weary little laugh at Guerrero's characterisation of his colleagues. "Have I ever told you that you really suck at giving pep-talks?"

"You might have mentioned it once or twice," Guerrero shrugged. "But if you'd rather have Winston up here telling you to keep fighting the good fight…"

"No," Chance interrupted, finally sitting up and opening his eyes. "I'm glad you're here."

Guerrero nodded and took a slug of his whiskey, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Winston appeared in the doorway.

"Man, could you two create an even more depressing atmosphere if you tried?" Winston said. "I thought you were coming up here to make sure Chance didn't hit the bottle on his own!"

Guerrero held up his glass and gave Winston an impatient look. "He's not on his own. See?"

"Yeah, well that's not what I had in mind." Winston grumbled.

"It's fine, Winston," Chance said. "I'm fine. So quit worrying and go home already."

"Are you sure?" Winston asked doubtfully.

"I got this, big momma," Guerrero smirked.

"You need to get out more, Guerrero," Winston scowled. "Maybe then you'd come up with some fresh material."

Guerrero shrugged.

"Well, if you're sure you're okay…"

"Goodnight Winston," Chance said with an almost convincing smile.

"I'll see you tomorrow. And don't let this asshole drive anywhere if he has any more to drink!" Winston said jerking his thumb in Guerrero's direction.

Guerrero slowly and deliberately topped up his drink and held it up to Winston in a mock toast.

"Asshole," Winston muttered under his breath as he left them to it.

Chance and Guerrero slipped back into companionable silence. There was really no need for either of them to speak, Guerrero knew Chance was still torturing himself with the fact that he'd killed someone who would now never get a the opportunity to turn his life around, and Chance knew that Guerrero understood what he was going through. Winston would have tried to make Chance talk about it, to reason with him, but Chance knew there was no point in talking about it endlessly. Guerrero simply sat with him, giving him the support and understanding that he needed wordlessly and without question.

Guerrero had helped him through many dark times in this way. Sometimes it was enough for them to just have a couple of drinks and sit in silence for a while, but on other occasions Chance would keep drinking until Guerrero had to practically carry him to his bed. One night, after a case had gone spectacularly wrong, resulting in the death of their client and her young son, Chance asked Guerrero to stay. Guerrero had to admit that given Chance was even drunker than usual, it probably wasn't a good idea to leave him on his own. Chance was far too wasted to do anything but sleep it off, but with the number of loaded weapons stashed around the building, Guerrero wasn't going to take any chances. There was also the rather more mundane threat of Chance choking on his own vomit in his sleep to consider.

Guerrero sighed and kicked off his boots as he resigned himself to a less than comfortable night's rest on the battered old armchair in the corner of Chance's bedroom. There was no real danger of him falling asleep there and at least he could watch over Chance as he slept. Guerrero hauled Chance to his feet and, with one arm round his waist, guided his clumsy steps to his bedroom. Chance flopped face down onto his bed with a grunt.

"Room is spinning.." Chance complained, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.

"Yeah, it does that sometimes," Guerrero muttered as he removed Chance's shoes and socks and swung his legs up on to the bed. Chance lay there for a moment, his body twisted at an odd angle by Guerrero's efforts to get his legs up on the bed. Under normal circumstances, Guerrero probably would have cracked a joke about Chance's spectacular lack of co-ordination whilst under the influence, but these weren't normal circumstances. Chance had drunk himself into this state to get some kind of respite from the mental pain that had become unbearable. He was a mess because he was hurting, and not even Guerrero could make light of that.

"Come on, dude. That can't be comfortable."

Chance groaned and managed to roll himself over in time to see Guerrero return from the bathroom with a glass of water.

"'m not thirsty!" Chance protested as Guerrero man-handled him into a sitting position and pushed the glass into his hand.

"Trust me, dude, all that booze is going to leave you with one hell of a hangover if you don't re-hydrate."

Chance reluctantly drank about half the glass before handing it back. Guerrero left the glass where Chance could reach it on the nightstand, and was about to go sit in the armchair when he felt Chance tug at the back of his shirt.

"Hey, you need something?"

"Big bed," Chance mumbled.

"Uh, I'll be right there buddy, in the chair."

Chance shook his head and patted the bed beside him. "Big bed. We can share."

Guerrero had to smile at Chance's fuzzy-headed determination. There was something endearing about him trying to be considerate towards Guerrero despite being blitzed out of his brain.

"Okay," Guerrero said, deciding that it was probably easier to just give in than it would be to argue with a very drunk and determined Chance. "But if you puke on me, I swear to god I'll make you eat it!"

"Not hungry," Chance frowned. Guerrero sighed. It was going to be a long night.