Fallible

by SociallyAcceptedSchizoidSadist

At no point had Wes ever even thought the words 'stalked' or 'stalker'. Using those words still just felt . . . wrong. It had Wes reaching for his hand sanitizer each time. But he knew it was true. He was being stalked. He had a stalker. And because of him, they were stalking Travis too. [This is a roller coaster, read at own risk. Rated for blood and swears.]

Love Falls Down

~O~

The first time Wes found flowers sitting outside his hotel room door, he barely gave it a thought, assuming they had been delivered to the wrong room. Multicolored roses and greens, pleasantly arranged in a small, delicate glass vase, blue satin ribbon tied around it in a neat little bow; he nudged them out of the way with his foot and went into his suite.

The second time it happened, just a few days after the first, he moved the bouquet to midway between his and his farthest neighbor's room so no one would mistakenly assume they were actually for him. He was tired after a long day and even longer case so he didn't bother giving it much thought. The flowers were obviously not his.

The third time he returned to his "home" of eighteen months to roses outside his door, he was in a bad mood after arguing with Travis over a dead end lead earlier that day. He was usually pretty good at keeping his own destruction of property to a minimum – having long since given up trying to dissuade Travis's destructive tendencies – but that was one of the rare times his control slipped. He snatched up the vase of colorful flora, marched into his room, and smashed it in the sink of his kitchenette before storming off to the bedroom. Later on, after he had cooled down enough, he shamefacedly cleaned up the glass, water, and limp vegetation. Until he found the small card amongst the wreckage that read only "Thinking of you. – X" which for some reason he couldn't identify only served to piss him off more.

After the fourth time in three weeks he came back to flowers at his door – a mere twenty two days since the first time it happened – he decided to put an end to it. He carried the vase down to the concierge's desk, told Bob that these flowers were obviously being delivered to the wrong room and he didn't want them coming to him anymore. Bob readily agreed, making a note to not let any unauthorized deliveries be dropped off at his door. Wes returned to his room satisfied that that would be the end of it.

Three days later he discovered that very much had not been the end of it when he found a fifth vase of multicolored flowers outside his door. He took that one down to the concierge desk as well. Bob told him that all of the staff had been alerted to his previous request on restricting deliveries so whoever had sent him the flowers had done so personally, by hand. Wes simply told him that the flowers weren't being sent to him just to his room by mistake. Bob didn't comment. Wes dropped the vase and its contents into a trashcan in the hotel lobby before heading back up to his room.

~O~

The first time Wes found flowers waiting for him inside his hotel room – centered carefully on the middle of his bedside table with a small card that simply said "Don't be that way, Wesley. – X" – Wes called security.

~O~

The text messages started soon after that. "I saw something that reminded me of you. – X" "You're always on my mind. – X" "I'm thinking of you right now. – X" All from a restricted number. Wes tried blocking them, but the messages kept getting through anyway. He considered asking Kendall to trace the texts, but he didn't want anyone else to know about it. The messages were all deleted. He considered changing his number.

~O~

"What's with you lately?" Travis asked a few days after Wes found a box of chocolates sitting in the driver's seat of his car – his locked car.

Wes didn't look over at him, didn't look away from the report he was pretending to be focused on, tapping at a few random keys to prove his point. "What are you talking about?" The note on the chocolates had said "You look beautiful today. – X"

"You've been acting weird. Even for you." Travis's full attention was on him, Wes could feel his eyes trying to see into his head.

He should tell him. The hotel, his phone, his car – this was escalating. Quickly. He should tell him. But he didn't. "I don't know what you're talking about."

~O~

Travis didn't let it go, Wes could see the questions in his eyes whenever he glanced around as though being watched – he was being watched, and not by just his partner like usual. Travis noticed, didn't let it go, but he didn't bring it up. Wes might have loved him for that.

~O~

Love?

~O~

Dr. Ryan spent three whole therapy group sessions talking about the negative effects of secrets in a relationship. Wes spent all three sessions staring at his shoe without saying a word. He couldn't help but feel as though Dr. Ryan was calling him out.

~O~

Wes got a text one day a week after he changed phone numbers. It said "That gray suit looks amazing on you. – X" He decided not to wear grey again for a while.

~O~

He and Travis were out to lunch, discussing something other than the B&E case they were working on. They were actually getting along for a change. Wes smiled when something he said made Travis laugh long and hard. It was a warm, unguarded smile; something Wes gave rarely, but more and more often to Travis. Wes had noticed that, but was oddly unbothered by it.

His phone vibrated on the table by his hand. It was another text from the restricted number. "You have such a beautiful smile. – X"

The smile quickly dropped off his face. He glanced around, but couldn't figure out who could have sent it.

~O~

Wes had been looking at houses before it started, ever since he realized Alex was trying to move on so he should too. He wanted one with a big yard, a nice kitchen, at least three bedrooms and two full bathrooms. He'd thought about maybe getting a dog.

Four months after the first bouquet of flowers turned up at his door, Wes wanted a house for different reasons: deadbolts without an electronic master key, an alarm system, privacy, security. He was still thinking about the dog.

He didn't want to live alone.

~O~

He and Travis went out for drinks one night to celebrate a great collar. Three drinks in, Wes was thinking about telling Travis again. He didn't. He ended up drunk instead. He went home with Travis that night. Travis – who was only slightly drunk and too good of a partner for him to deserve because he was worried and joking about a drunken Wes trying to get into the wrong hotel room – was the one who offered without saying a word. It was easier to just share a cab and stumble up the stairs together.

They didn't sleep together together, just both at Travis's apartment. Travis tossed a blanket at Wes, dropped a bottle of water and a couple of aspirins on the coffee table and headed to his bedroom. Wes slept on the couch. It was the safest Wes had felt since he found flowers in his hotel room over three and a half months ago.

~O~

After that Wes started making excuses not to go back to his hotel. He ended up sleeping on Travis's couch two times that first week and three more times the next. Travis didn't ask why, didn't bring it up in front of anyone else, just opened his home to Wes and left a spare blanket on the couch. Wes cooked dinner and breakfast every time he stayed over as a thank you. It was the least he could do.

~O~

Wes had Kendall block the incoming messages on his phone from the restricted number. She asked why and he told her something about annoying wrong numbers. She laughed. Wes deleted the messages. He still didn't tell Travis.

~O~

One night Wes got back to his hotel room late and found that someone had gone through his drawers and closet. One of his button-down shirts, a pillow, and his toothbrush were missing. He spent the entire night down in the hotel laundry room compulsively washing and rewashing all of his bedding and clothes.

~O~

Wes stopped asking if he could stay over at Travis's when Travis started asking Wes to stay over at Travis's. Travis stopped asking Wes to stay over after Wes stayed every night one week. Neither of them had to ask anymore.

~O~

The first time Wes slept in Travis's bed, he was just as drunk as he was when he first slept on Travis's couch seven weeks ago. It had been two weeks since he'd gone back to his hotel room for anything more than a change of clothes.

They just slept in the same bed, fully clothed in t-shirts and sleep pants, together. Travis knew something was wrong but Wes wouldn't tell him what. Wes just didn't want to sleep alone; rather, with someone he trusted. That was a very, very short list with his partner at the top.

~O~

Travis didn't bring it up in therapy which was a miracle Wes didn't know Travis was capable of. Travis did stay late once after their session ended. Wes trailed a little ways behind as Travis followed Dr. Ryan out. He knew they were talking about him when Dr. Ryan glanced sharply at him with assessing eyes before focusing back on Travis. Wes didn't let it bother him; he knew he was acting a little off – distant, quiet, maybe more than a little paranoid. He just stood back and waited for them to finish. Who knew, maybe they could find a way to help without him having to tell them what was going on. And, anyway, he was Travis's ride back to the precinct.

~O~

There was a stack of notes on the hotel bed when Wes walked in for the first time in a week and a half. They were all handwritten in the same curling, slender scrawl that the flower cards were written. The one he skimmed explained in excruciating detail how beautiful he looked doing each and every little thing he had done that day it was written. It was from six days ago; he and Travis had been investigating a murder linked to a series of muggings.

He threw away the notes without reading them, went to his closet, and pulled out his suitcases. Travis showed up half an hour later with Chinese take-out to help Wes pack.

~O~

The black tie Alex had gotten him for their last anniversary together was gone as well. Wes tried not to think about that.

~O~

He didn't file for a change of address, but he had officially moved out of the hotel after two full years of living there. Travis was talking about getting a bigger apartment so Wes could have a bedroom too. Three days later, getting Wes a bedroom was no longer an issue when they began sleeping together. Far less platonically than the first time, with far less clothing in the way.

~O~

Wes suddenly realized that he had moved on, too. He missed Alex, and he would probably always love her, but not like he used to. He loved Travis.

~O~

The messages were blocked, the notes had nowhere to go, and the gifts seemed to have stopped after he moved in with Travis. He was suspicious the first week after the unwanted contact ceased; cautious the third week. By the fifth, he was optimistically hopeful that whoever it was had gotten bored. Two months after moving in with Travis, Wes finally let his guard down.

~O~

They weren't dating, not really. They didn't need to. They worked together, ate together, lived together, slept together. They breathed together. Existed together. Where one went, the other usually followed close behind. Even when they fought, they were still always together.

It was the longest romantic relationship Travis had had in the eight years Wes had known him, and Travis wasn't freaking out or trying to call it off. It was the only relationship Wes had been in since he'd met Alex in college, and he wasn't freaking out or unconsciously sabotaging it either. It felt natural.

~O~

They told Captain Sutton and Dr. Ryan because they both should know and they owed them for getting the two of them together in the first place. Travis was there when Wes told Alex. Wes was there when Travis told Money – the closest of Travis's foster siblings despite his sometimes less than legal workings – and his many foster mothers. The therapy group found out when Dakota caught the two of them holding hands in the hallway.

All of them were happy for Wes and Travis, ecstatic to learn the two had moved in together. Neither of them told anyone else. They didn't need to. Everybody already knew.

~O~

Wes filed for a change of address but sited a PO box at the post office three blocks from Travis's apartment, just in case. He still hadn't told Travis why he'd started sleeping on Travis's – now it was both of theirs' – couch seven months ago. It seemed irrelevant since it stopped, and he didn't want Travis to think that the only reason they got together was because Wes was afraid to be alone. That would be a lie. Wes was more afraid of not having Travis.

~O~

They bickered still, but stopped fighting. It was easier after Wes stopped holding Travis at arm's length so he wouldn't get attached and Travis stopped testing his boundaries to see if Wes would leave. Neither of them was going anywhere. They were both too stubborn to let go.

~O~

They talked about getting a dog. Maybe get a house. With a lawn and a garden and a big kitchen and a swing set and lots of bedrooms. Travis introduced and reintroduced Wes to his family. Wes had never before eaten as much food as he had that week– Travis's foster moms could cook.

~O~

After six months of being with Travis – of being happy – Wes had mostly forgotten about the five months of intrusion he had suffered beforehand.

Until his brilliant, foolproof plan of ignoring the problem until it went away backfired on him.

~O~

It was six months almost to the day since he had received his last note when Travis glanced down at his phone with a confused frown. "What the hell?"

They were out to lunch at a sandwich shop, someplace a bit nicer than Fat Zack's food truck, but still appropriate for a quick lunch date before running down a thin lead on a cold case they were working.

Travis showed the phone to Wes. On it was a text message from a restricted number typed in bold letters "He is mine. You can't have him."

"No!" Wes could feel as the blood drained from his face. He felt cold.

Travis just looked worried. "Wes?"

He grabbed Travis's phone and called the restricted number. The call was dropped after one ring. He tried again to the same result. He smashed the phone as he threw it against the floor.

"Wes!" Travis's hands were on his shoulders; they were both standing. Wes didn't remember standing up. Travis tossed a few bills onto the table and led them out to the parking lot, away from the startled patrons and nosey waitresses. "Wes! Talk to me!" Travis tugged on Wes's arms and it was then that Wes realized he had both hands pressed hard against his mouth as though to keep from vomiting or to hold in a scream. Wes didn't know which. Maybe both. He took a step back and bumped into his car. Travis moved with him. "Wes! Please! Tell me what's wrong, baby." Travis seemed close to panic staring at Wes. Wes knew he probably looked a mess, lightheaded, eyes wide, halfway to hyperventilating.

Wes managed to peel has hands away from his mouth by latching them to Travis's shirt, his pale fingers bunching shakily around the fabric. The words that poured from his lips were nothing but a whisper, repeated over and over. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Travis pulled Wes close to him, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Wes had to suppress a sob as he just held on.

~O~

Travis drove them both home after Wes stopped trying to hyperventilate. Wes was still shaking when he told Travis everything. He didn't leave out a single detail, he owed Travis that much. He tried to distance himself from the words. He failed. Rather miserably, really.

Apparently having an emotional breakdown in the middle of a mostly empty parking lot meant that Travis forwent an angry rant about divulging important information to your partner. He wasn't spared the lecture on personal safety – and wasn't that just ironic coming from Detective Reckless himself. The lecture lost its sting, however, since it was given in between chaste kisses while they lay curled together on their couch.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Wes said after Travis had gone quiet. "I wanted to, but I didn't want you to think that the only reason I came to you was because . . ." Wes's head rested on Travis's chest, listening to his heart beat as his own slowed to match. He let out a self-deprecating huff of air. "Because I was afraid to be by myself." Travis stayed quiet and Wes continued. "I just felt safe with you. I feel safe with you, because I love you. Even then, I was in love with you. . . I just hadn't realized it yet."

~O~

"I'm going to be with you through this," Travis voiced to the dark bedroom a long while later. Wes was still awake, staring at the ceiling with Travis wrapped around him as though afraid he'd vanish into the night. "You and me, together. Got it?"

~O~

Travis wanted Wes to file a report. Wes didn't really want to, didn't want other people involved, but the whole 'ignoring it' plan had proven unsuccessful so he decided to do it anyway.

Travis went to see if Kendall could track the number that had sent the text while Wes filled out the police report. He'd thrown away all the evidence, but as a decorated officer of the law, his word was enough for now. Captain Sutton helped by letting Wes use his office for privacy's sake and just being there as quiet moral support. Filling out the report shouldn't have made it feel more real. But it did.

~O~

At no time in the eleven months since it first started had Wes ever even thought the words 'stalk', 'stalker', 'stalked', or 'stalking'. After filing the report, it was all he could think about; but even then, using those words still just felt . . . wrong. It had Wes reaching for his hand sanitizer each time. But he knew it was true. He was being stalked. He had a stalker. And because of him, they were stalking Travis too.

~O~

Captain Sutton kept it in-house for their sake; Wes's privacy had been violated enough as it was. Things had been stolen from what was then Wes's place of residence so they could claim the case as Robbery Homicide's jurisdiction if pushed. He assigned Cafferty and Laroche to look into it. Kate and Amy were more than capable, and would keep things quiet while need be. They were two of the very few detectives Wes trusted to have his back in the field so he felt he could maybe trust them with this too.

There just wasn't much to look into until the stalker came out into the open, though.

~O~

Kendall traced the number to a pre-paid burner phone, paid for in cash. The store had no video surveillance and the clerk didn't remember that far back. Whoever it was was either very, very lucky or had carefully planned ahead.

~O~

Life went back to normal after that. They talked to Dr. Ryan about it. It was Wes's decision to do so, not Travis's. Travis held his hand the whole time. Her suggestions were indirect, but still helpful. They were already working through it together.

~O~

They talked about getting a dog. Or a cat. Maybe a bird. Travis said Wes would probably like a bird. They're anal like him. Wes just said birds were like Travis in that they never shut up. Maybe a goldfish. Or a turtle.

~O~

They came home one night, just under a week after the report had been filed, to find a bouquet of roses lying on their bed. Red petals were sprinkled around the room like blood drops. They called Kate and Amy who brought a CSU tech to search for fingerprints and other evidence. There was a card with the roses. "You are mine, Wesley. – X"

The dresser drawers and closet had been rummaged through. They couldn't tell what, if anything, was missing. One of the windows was unlocked, it was assumed to be the point of entry.

~O~

Travis and Wes installed an alarm system the next day. They joked about getting a guard dog, or borrowing Hudson for a while. Randy would understand if they explained the situation to her. At least, that's what Travis said. Wes just pointedly ignored him. They did go to visit Hudson before heading out to lunch the next day though. They both missed him.

~O~

The only set of prints the crime scene technician found that didn't belong to either Wes or Travis had no match in AFIS so whoever it was had no criminal or military background. The prints they ran had been found on the handle of Wes's underwear drawer.

~O~

It was just like before, a big incident like breaking and entering to loot and leave flowers and then several smaller gestures like sending notes and gifts. Instead of chocolates in his driver's seat or scrawling cursive notes left on his windshield, Wes walked into the RH bullpen and found a stuffed bear on his desk. It was obviously a left over from Valentine's Day months ago; it was orange with white detailing, smiling as it held a little red heart that said Be Mine.

Wes just stood staring at it. The flowers and fancy chocolates and perfect spelling in curling script, those were all made to be elegant and romantic. This, this was something else. This was almost Travis-like. But Travis would get a bigger one holding a bag of Hersey's Kisses and say something corny like "kisses for my Kisses"; or that inspirational cat poster inscribed with the words "hang in there, baby" Travis had tacked to the back of their bedroom door. That was Travis and Wes loved Travis. This was different and Wes liked it even less than he liked the flowers and fancy chocolates and the breaking and entering.

Wes was still staring when Travis walked in ten minutes later from the breakroom with two cups of steaming coffee. Travis took one look at him, snatched the plush off Wes's desk, tore its head off with a growl, and stuffed both pieces into the bottom of his trashcan. "What?" he aggressively asked an officer giving him a funny look. The officer wisely went back to his business.

Taking a cleansing breath, Wes sat down at his desk without a word.

~O~

The bear plushy had been dropped off by one of the mailroom guys who'd got it from the front desk that got it from a mail-currier whose manager thought it might have been a woman who had it sent. She may have been wearing sunglasses and a ball cap. No, the shop didn't have any cameras, the ones outside were fakes. No, they didn't have a better description of the sender because, yes, they did get weird requests too often to remember them all and, no, a teddy bear wasn't odd enough to be memorable. There wasn't much else to go on.

~O~

No more gifts made it to Wes's desk. Kate and Amy intercepted any that may have been delivered. Wes was grateful. He just wished they could do that with the gifts left by his car or at his and Travis's apartment door, too.

~O~

The text messages started again. They both receive them, but they were different. "We'll be together soon, Wesley. – X" "You don't deserve him." "Nothing will tear us apart. – X" "He's mine! He's mine! He's mine!" "I love you, Wesley. I know you love me too. – X" "Don't touch him again you filth!" Travis received threats, Wes received promises.

Kendall explained that the stalker had probably bought a new burner or a scrambler to get around the blocks. She could block it again, but the stalker could just buy another phone. She couldn't ping a cell phone from a text message, she couldn't track a phone with no GPS, and she couldn't trace a call if it never connected. "I'm really sorry guys."

~O~

Wes took to calling the six months of no contact from his stalker the asymptomatic period. The disease had come back, but it had mutated; it was different this time, more possessive and angry than just unsettling and violating like it had been before. The gifts that were left for him to find were silly toys and sugary candies, watered down versions of things Travis might have – and had – given him. It was almost like the stalker was trying to be more like Travis. That thought frightened Wes more than the actual stalking.

~O~

They adapted. Travis started rounding up the unwanted gifts, sometimes before Wes ever even saw them. The gifts never made it into their apartment. They got spare cell phones as their work phones and ignored their personal cells; Travis put both of their personal cells at the bottom of his nightstand drawer. They went to work, went out to eat, went to therapy, all like usual, just more cautious. They stopped splitting up on cases. Travis didn't let Wes out of his sight. Oddly enough, Wes didn't mind as much as he thought he should. He felt safe with Travis close by. A little smothered, but safe.

~O~

One night as Wes sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of fine red wine, listening to smooth jazz and watching Travis wash the dishes – Wes cooked dinner, Travis washed dishes – Travis suggested they get away for a while. "Ya'know, relaxing vacation, get some time to ourselves. Away from work . . . and stuff."

They had vacation days saved up, not a lot but some. It was tempting. But Wes didn't want it to seem like they were running away. He didn't say no, just "not right now". He refilled his glass.

~O~

Fourteen weeks after the stalking started up again, the first picture showed up in the mail. It was a candid of the two of them together outside the therapy building. Wes remembered the day it was taken; Peter and Dakota had brought their one year old daughter to group, Wes had spent most of the session watching Travis play with the baby. They were both smiling when they had left.

Wes was smiling in the picture. Travis's face had been scratched out. Wes calmly handed the photograph and envelope to Travis and went into the bathroom to throw up.

~O~

More photographs came in. All taken unaware. All from different times in the last fifteen months. Any time Travis was in one, his face was scratched or burned out viciously. The ones with just Wes had hearts or lipstick marks or sprits of a heady floral perfume. Travis started going through the mail every morning. Wes knew Travis was just as upset by all this, that his outward veneer of anger was covering up and controlling the turmoil of emotions underneath. Wes couldn't do anything to make it better, though; couldn't deal with it all himself. He couldn't do this alone. He needed Travis to be the strong one here, and Travis needed Wes to trust him to handle it.

So he did.

~O~

He felt hollow inside, tired and fragile. What parts of him weren't empty were filled with nothing but Travis's love; the love Travis gave him and the love he gave Travis. Some days it was all that got him out of bed.

~O~

The first time they received a photograph of Wes at his desk in the precinct they called Kate and Amy to check security tapes. They didn't know how the stalker got in. They did know that the stalker was a woman of average height and weight. She was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses and managed to avoid the cameras, so that was all they knew.

~O~

The first time a picture of Wes and Alex – her face was scratched out, just like Travis's, just like Jonelle's, Kendall's, Dr. Ryan's, Kate's, Amy's, a victim's sister from a case seven months ago, a female eyewitness to a 'sidewalk special' three months ago – they told her what was going on. Warned her to lock her doors at night and to be careful when out alone. They didn't know if it was an indication that she was in any danger, but it was better safe than sorry.

~O~

They came home one night after working late on a case only to find that their security alarm had been deactivated and the door unlocked. They glanced at each other before both drew their sidearm and carefully cleared the apartment. Smashed plates and glasses littered the kitchen, the small dining table was split down the middle, and several couch cushions had been slashed with a knife from the block in the kitchen. The bed was unmade, blankets lying in a heap on the floor where they'd been torn from the mattress. Wes's dresser drawers hung open, his clothes strewn around the bedroom. Three of Travis's Henley's sat shredded in a corner.

They called Captain Sutton who called Kate and Amy who brought an entire Crime Scene Unit. It was hard to tell what was missing. It wasn't a robbery – Wes's Rolex was missing but all the electronics were still there. The safe hadn't been touched. A few framed pictures were gone; a few others were knocked off the walls and broken. His grey suit jacket. Another tie. A bottle of wine Wes had been saving for their anniversary.

Wes's face went scarlet and stony when he had to tell them that a few pairs of his boxers were missing from the hamper as well.

As soon as they were cleared to go, they packed up a week's worth of essentials and booked a hotel room. A uniform would be stationed to watch the place until the alarm could be fixed.

~O~

Wes decided to take Travis up on his offer of strategic retreat. Captain Sutton gave them three weeks off. Dr. Ryan gave them two weeks of homework. "We'll discuss your results when you both come back. Be sure to call me if you need anything."

They thought about going to Texas; Travis still hadn't met Wes's parents. They talked about hitting up the East coast. Travis suggested Cancun, Wes countered with Niagara Falls.

They settled for going to the Grand Canyon. Travis spat over the edge, Wes rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh. Wes refused to take a donkey tour ride, Travis made loud animal noises at him all the way back to the car. After two days, they drove to Las Vegas. They cleaned up at the blackjack tables, rented a honeymoon suite at one of the smaller hotels, Travis stuffed his face with shrimp cocktail until there was more red sauce than blood in him, Wes dragged Travis to a surprisingly amazing low key jazz show. The day before they were set to drive back to LA, they drank a few too many colorful shots and may have accidentally gone out and gotten unofficially married. It was a walk-in chapel with fill-in-the-blank marriage licenses that Wes was pretty sure were not actually legally binding. They were officiated by a man dressed in Tina Turner drag. They didn't bother with an annulment. It was Wes and Travis's one year anniversary.

~O~

The vacation served its purpose. By the time they got back to work, they both felt refreshed – well, that was a lie, they were exhausted and slightly hungover, but they were happy and reenergized. It had served as distraction, gotten them away from the situation for a while. Reinforced their commitment to each other. They felt better than they had in the six months since the stalker's return.

~O~

Their apartment was clean when they got back to it. The clothes and bedcovers had all been freshly laundered, nicely folded, and put away. Someone had bought them new dishes to replace those that had been shattered. The couch cushions were patched up in a decorative way that made Travis love it more. The dining table was beyond repair and had been removed but there was a two hundred dollar gift card for the nearest quality furniture store left on the kitchen counter next to the new dishes and a nice bottle of red wine.

Wes had never been more grateful for his friends at the precinct.

~O~

They invited them over for diner as a thank you: Kendall, Jonelle, Randy, Kate, Amy, and Captain Sutton. Travis helped Wes cook. Chicken parmesan. Accompanied with the nice wine Jonelle had left them, they ate on the new plates Randy had bought them, spread out in the living room on and around the couch that Kendall had fixed. It was probably the most people the apartment had seen at one time since Travis had leased it two and a half years ago.

Wes set a bowl of chopped chicken and vegetables onto the floor for Hudson before grabbing his own plate and sitting down beside Travis.

~O~

Keeping a stalker skulking around a secret was apparently no trouble at all compared to keeping unplanned nuptial attempts quiet. As it turned out, what happened in Vegas did not stay in Vegas when you worked in a precinct full of nosey cops. Cops gossip and word somehow had got around the precinct of their sort-of-kind-of tying the knot. Wes had been right; the chapel ceremony had not been legally binding. It was, however, seemingly enough for them to technically be considered engaged. Captain Sutton asked them about wedding dates every time they walked into the bullpen.

~O~

They discussed what "relationships" meant to them all in group.

"Relationships in general or the one we're in now?" Clyde asked, Roselle nodding beside him.

"Either one. Both, perhaps." Dr. Ryan glanced around at the circle of people around her. "Who'd like to go first? Travis?"

"Uh." Travis floundered for a minute. Wes was about to let him off the hook and answer himself, when Travis surprised him with his answer. "Well, before Wes and me, a 'relationship' was just a hook-up, ya'know? A couple days or weeks with a pretty girl, treat her right, love her good. Don't get too attached. But with Wes, it ah." He cleared his throat nervously. They had been opening up more about emotions since getting together, sharing more with this group they'd gotten to know so well over the past almost two years, but they both still found it difficult to voice it all sometimes. "With Wes it's like, I can't see myself ever being with anyone else."

Wes felt himself blush a little when Travis looked over at him. Wes smiled. Travis smiled back.

~O~

They hadn't talked about marriage back when they talked about houses with big yards and lots of bedrooms. Wes was a wedding guy but he knew Travis wasn't. Wes understood that. They loved each other. He'd had the big wedding before; he didn't need it again if Travis didn't want it. Vegas was just a drunken, spur of the moment decision.

That was why he was so shocked when Travis stood up at the beginning of group the very next week after everyone had arrived, knelt down on one knee in front of Wes's chair, and asked Wes to marry him. Awed, amazed, surprised, but mostly shocked.

There are quiet squeals and hushed cheers from the other couples in the group, all eyes on Wes who had been knocked speechless. Wes just stared wide-eyed at Travis, one hand lightly covering his mouth. As the seconds ticked by and Wes still hadn't said anything, the hopeful light in Travis's stunning eyes dimmed in uncertainty. Wes couldn't allow that at all. He shook himself out of his shock enough to snark weakly. "You're not going to make me wear a diamond ring, are you?"

Travis lit back up like a flare. "Aw, but diamonds are a girl's best friend, Liz."

"Don't start that again," Wes chided with a pointed finger before he brought a hand up to hide his eyes. "Why are you doing this here?"

"It was this place, with these people, that I realized I love you, have loved you, and will always love you. Wesley David Mitchell," Wes peeked through his fingers, crystal blue locking with oceanic eyes. "I want to spend the rest of my life waking up next to you. So, what'da you say. Will you marry me?"

Wes felt his eyes mist up, felt an honest to God tear slide down his cheek. All he could do was nod. Travis lit up brighter than the sun. Wes scrubbed both hands over his face, sniffed, and let out something halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Get off the floor, you idiot, and kiss me."

Travis quickly complied, to the roaring applause of the therapy group. Wes spent the rest of the session hiding behind his hand. He couldn't hide his smile, though.

~O~

By the next morning, the entire precinct knew about their proper, official engagement. They walked in together to a standing ovation and roaring applause. There were many lost bets and congratulatory pats on the back.

~O~

Wes was flying high on happiness for weeks, even after the disturbing text messages started anew. The stalker had gotten wise and Kendall couldn't keep them blocked for more than a few days at a time. Gifts continued to show up in and around Wes's car – no one was quite sure how she managed to get into the car without setting off the alarm – and outside their apartment door. They'd tried tracking flower purchases with no success. Whoever the stalker was, she had to have been intelligent to avoid detection like that for eighteen months.

But for the first time since it all started, it didn't bother Wes. He was too happy to care.

~O~

Later, Wes felt he should have realized sooner that his happiness couldn't last unchecked for long.

~O~

It was inevitable that they would have had to split up while making a bust eventually – the fact they had managed to go so long without doing so was amazing in itself.

They had caught a home invasion-cum-attempted murder case. Their suspect was twenty-seven years old, fit, athletic, flighty, and bolted when he saw them coming. They'd chased the guy down two blocks when Travis signaled he was going around to cut him off; Wes nodded understanding and locked his focus on the suspect. It was instinctual, the way they'd always worked; perfectly synced to take down the bad guys. Divide and conquer together. So when, three minutes later, Wes had the guy cuffed on the ground, breath heaving and no partner in sight, Wes was more than a little concerned.

Handing the suspect off to a uniform that had just pulled up, Wes yanked out his phone and called Travis. It rang three times before it connected. "Hey, Travis, where are you?"

The voice that answered was most definitely not Travis; it was generically feminine, soft in anger – and something else he couldn't quite define – but largely indistinct. The words she uttered made Wes cold to the core. "You're supposed to be with me, Wesley, not him."

"What did you do to him?" Wes demanded in a whispered growl. His voice was stronger the second time. "What did you do with Travis?!"

"Hopefully knocked some sense into him."

Let that mean he's alive, Wes prayed. Please. One hand tugged on his hair, the other holding the cell tightly to his ear. He couldn't identify the voice, couldn't match it to a name or a face. Didn't know if they were still in the area. His fear was overwhelming him, blocking out logical thought.

The woman continued. "He doesn't deserve you, Wesley. You're too good for him."

A car honk hooonked on the street behind him. A second later he heard an echo of it come through the phone's receiver, faint but there. They were close, very close. Wes took off running.

"You belong with me."

"I don't even know who you are!" He ran back the route he thought Travis would most likely have taken to cut off the suspect they'd been chasing.

"Don't play coy with me, Wesley," the woman teased before growing serious again. "We'll be together soon, my love. I promise you that."

The line cut out and Wes's heart nearly stopped with it. Dodging trash cans, he footed it down a back alley hidden between two buildings, adrenaline adding speed. Just as he thought his panic might consume him, he caught sight of a pair of denim clad legs near the mouth of the alley. Gun out and one eye on his surroundings, he dropped to his knees at his partner's – his fiancé's – side. "Travis! Travis!" Two pale fingers to the mocha column of Travis's throat revealed a strong, steady pulse. The sudden flood of relief nearly undid him.

With a final glance around to see no one in sight or any immediately apparent places for someone to hide, Wes quickly sat down his gun and reached for his partner. He rolled Travis onto his back, one hand cradling his head to keep it stable. He found a bloody gash on Travis's right temple, oozing rapidly. The influx in his sympathetic nervous system converting fear into adrenaline caused Wes's whole body to shake, his voice along with it. "Travis. Travis, honey, wake up. Please, you're scaring me. Wake up."

He was rewarded with a groan and a pair of chocolate colored lids lifting to reveal the crystal blue eyes beneath.

"Oh thank God," Wes stated emphatically, the tension leaving him in a whoosh that left him clammy, weak, and shaking worse than the fear had. He vaguely noted one of the uniformed officers calling it in. An ambulance and more cops would be there soon. His focus was on his lightly grimacing partner, however.

"Ugh, what hit me?" He allowed himself to be shifted so his head was resting on Wes's thigh.

Pulling out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to press against the bloody wound, Wes replied in a strained monotone. "You got clocked by a girl."

"Again?" Travis tried, but the joke fell flat.

With his free hand, Wes slapped Travis's leather clad chest several times, careful not to injure him more, but punctuating each word as he said, "You scared the hell out of me, you jerk!"

Travis brought up one hand to ward off the gentle attack. "Ow. Hey. I wasn't trying to." He saw as Travis looked at him, really looked at him. "Babe?"

Wes just shook his head. "It was her, Trav. It was her. She hit you. She hurt you because of me." He curled himself protectively over Travis, breathing almost in panicked gasps.

"Hey, hey, hey, baby. Wes." He snaked an arm around him and brought Wes even closer. There were sirens sounding in the distance. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

~O~

Wes sat with Travis on the step of the ambulance while a paramedic placed butterfly bandages on Travis's head. He didn't seem to have a concussion despite having been knocked unconscious for several minutes but the medic gave Wes a list of things to watch for. Travis joked that he was saved by his hard head. Wes was just thankful it wasn't bad enough to warrant a hospital trip. Or worse.

~O~

When they got back to the precinct two hours later, they were informed by Laroche that their apartment had just been broken into again. The alarm activating had alerted the police in time so nothing was stolen, but the door had been beat in by what appeared to have been a fire axe from the hallway.

An axe. It sounded like the set up for a B-grade slasher flic. They both took it in stride. Wes held onto Travis's elbow. He could tell Travis had a headache.

~O~

Unsurprisingly, after discovering that the stalker was directly violent as opposed to simply intrusive, Captain Sutton moved them to a safe house and assigned a security detail to them. They protested being pulled off active duty for the immediate and foreseeable future, deigned to desk duty one day a week and a paid leave. Sutton dismissed their protests by simply stating that it was his job to make sure his two best detectives were safe.

Kate and Amy grabbed them two weeks' worth of clothes and essentials while Wes and Travis were escorted to what would be their home until such time as the threat against them was nullified. It was a small two bedroom apartment, empty save for the bare necessities: microwave, refrigerator, table and chairs, couch, television, and a dresser and queen-sized bed in each room. It smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. There were water stains on the ceiling. Wes didn't know how long they would have to stay there, but any amount of time at all was too long in his opinion. He swore to celibacy and showers in sanitizer until they were both safely back in their own place.

~O~

Wes woke Travis every hour that night, asking him a series of questions to check for symptoms of a concussion. The first two times Travis groggily allowed it, verbally stumbling through his answers; the third he could see Travis was starting to get irritated. When, after the fourth questionnaire, Travis threatened to lock himself in the bathroom and sleep in the tub and he was woken a fifth time an hour later and actually got up to make good on the threat, Wes promised he wouldn't wake him again. Concussion watch was officially over.

~O~

They stayed in the safe house for the next two days. Wes scrubbed the place with bleach and disinfectant from top to bottom. Travis sat on the couch watching TV, at Wes's insistence; Travis still had a headache and Wes had always found cleaning to be a good stress reliever.

Soon, Wes felt like he could step through the door without "taking a hit off his hand sanitizer" as Travis had put it the first day.

~O~

They went in to the precinct the next day. They met with Captain Sutton to go over the case with Cafferty and Laroche. The attack on Travis was caught on a convenience store's surveillance camera with a partial view of the alley across the street and down a little. The picture was in grainy black and white, depicting a slim, fair skinned woman of medium height and with shoulder length dark hair as she hit Travis with a baton of some kind. Wes had to grab Travis's hand to reassure himself Travis was there, safe beside him, as the image of Travis collapsed to the ground.

The five of them watched as the woman reared back for a second blow, but stopped to crouch beside the prone detective, rummaging through his pockets until she pulled something out – Travis's ringing cell phone, presumably. Her body language changed dramatically, visible even on the poor quality video, when she answered the phone. In reaction to Wes's voice, her posture relaxed, grew flirtatious, confident. Seductive. She twirled a lock of her hair around one finger. After a minute or two, she closed the phone, dropped it by Travis's foot, and disappeared down the street away from the camera just as Wes appeared to drop to his knees beside Travis. They never caught a glimpse of her face.

They were no closer to finding the identity of the stalker.

~O~

They went out to eat for lunch a few days later, just the two of them. The attack on Travis had been spur of the moment, unplanned but convenient as he had been alone. They both agreed that so long as neither of them wandered around alone, there shouldn't be any problems. Captain Sutton didn't seem to agree.

When they walked out of the restaurant an hour after arriving to see words had been scratched into the black silver-fleck paint of Wes's Chrysler, they suddenly agreed with their captain. She had used a key – or some other tool equally capable of scratching into paint – to carve along the entirety of both driver's side panels and doors in a jagged, broken version of her usual fine cursive. "YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME"

~O~

They were driven "home" in a patrol car by their protective detail that night. Wes's car would be fine after a thorough touch-up, but it was too easily spotted for them to drive around in it.

"Ah, rat-hole sweet rat-hole," Travis announced walking through the door of their safe house with a too-casual-to-be-casual arm slung over Wes's shoulders. The two uniformed cops followed them in, snagged a pair of six packs of beers from the fridge, and planted themselves in front of the television, guffawing in a way Wes could tell annoyed even Travis.

That lasted an hour with Travis trying to get them to turn down the volume while Wes picked up empty beer cans and placed coasters under half full ones. He was in the middle of his third go around – these guys were slow learners, apparently – and had just stepped in front of the TV, blocking their view, when the ferrety one of the two turned to Travis and indicated Wes. "Hey faggot, keep your wifey here on a tighter chain." They both roared with laughter until, even through the alcohol buzz induced haze, they noticed the twin glares of utter contempt that were directed at them. It was all Wes could do to keep both he and Travis from throwing punches.

~O~

The uniformed officers assigned to protect them, Adler and O'Neil, were insensitive, homophobic bigots and Wes swiftly banished them to their patrol car for all their sakes'.

~O~

Another week passed of no work and being escorted around town and tempers were running a bit high. They didn't yell. They hadn't had an actual fight in over a year – thank you Dr. Ryan and her magical powers of patience and civility – but they sniped at each other. Snapped at each other. Took their frustrations of their situation – the safe house, the apartment, the car, the complete violation of privacy from the whole thing – out on one another. Neither of them were proud of it, Dr. Ryan would surely disapprove, but it happened.

Travis had Kate and Amy pick him up on their way to the precinct that morning, leaving Wes at the safe house with O'Neil and Adler – Wes was beginning to think the two officers had lost a bet or something; every day they were on duty, they were on shadow duty.

Wes never believed he and Travis had a perfect relationship – they were too alike in so many ways but so different in others that they always clashed eventually – but even when irritated with each other, Travis still made sure Wes had protection and Wes still insisted Travis not go off alone. They argued, but they loved each other.

Wes spent the morning cooped up in the rat-hole apartment so Travis could have his space. Then Wes decided to be the bigger man, the adult as usual, and made a peace offering. He'd figured a container of fish tempura would be a good enough bribe – appeasement – for his partner and had set about making the lunch. He made a mental note to practice the tamale recipe Travis's foster mom, Margie, had given him once they were back in their own kitchen. With offering in hand, Wes had Adler and O'Neil taxiing him off to the precinct to sweet talk his other half.

~O~

They didn't make it that far. They were halfway to the precinct, O'Neil driving, Adler sitting passenger, and Wes in the back. The ride was mercifully quiet, Wes steadfastly ignoring the uniforms, and they ignored him in return.

Then the first shots rang out, shattering the windshield.

Wes ducked down as he felt the burn of a bullet grazing his arm; a bullet that had come through the driver's seat and the man now slumped there. Unable to help, he watched as Adler scrambled for the steering wheel as the vehicle sped up. Two more shots hit their mark, causing the cruiser to veer to the left, fishtail, and impact something on the passenger's side. The car flipped onto its roof, the only thing that kept Wes in his seat was the seatbelt locked around him.

When the world stopped spinning in hyper speed around him, Wes shakily worked on the clasp for his seatbelt, eyes focused on the two other men. They were both obviously dead, if not by the bullets then by the crash. O'Neil had been thrown from the vehicle, neck bent at a broken angle on the asphalt; Adler's eyes were open and staring blankly. The passenger's side was smashed to hell, but the side closest to him seemed more or less intact; Wes concentrated on getting himself out.

Wes braced himself on the seat as the seatbelt finally came unlatched and he fell to the ceiling of the upturned car. His world spinning again, he slowly pushed himself up on hands shaking from either adrenaline or shock. Before he could ascertain which, the driver's rear door was yanked open. Then she was there, the woman from the grainy video suddenly in full technicolor detail, in his space, touching his head and calling his name. His stalker, pressing a sickly sweet smelling rag to his face before he could hold his breath or push her away. Chloroform his dizzy thoughts supplied as he struggled against the steely grasp with shaky and sluggish limbs.

"Shh, it's okay Wesley. I've got you, now. It's okay."

His last thought before darkness stole him away was a desperate thanks that Travis hadn't been in the car with him.

~O~

His thoughts were surprisingly clear when he woke up, largely free of the drugged fog he had been expecting, but his head was pounding a war drum of a headache and his body felt sore all over. He'd never been chloroformed before, but he knew that chloroform dissipated quickly when it was no longer inhaled so he couldn't have been out for long. He hoped so, at least. Long enough to not know where he was right then, though.

Wes tried not to move as he assessed his situation, taking stock of injuries his body had been too numbed to have felt after the crash. His neck and chest hurt – probably bruises and whiplash from the seatbelt that had held him in place. A stinging pain in his right upper arm reminded him of the bullet graze he had earned as well. Other than that, he didn't feel anything overtly wrong. Physically.

Somewhere nearby there was a woman humming some unknown tune, muffled enough to likely be a room or two away. He was lying on a soft bed and the room he was in was dimly lit with his eyelids closed. Feigning sleep, Wes laid in silence, listening for anyone else in the room with him; only when he was sure he was alone did he finally open his eyes.

He found himself in a room that looked disturbingly like his and Travis's bedroom in their apartment; alike, but glaringly not. The wall color, the carpet, the furniture; it was all so eerily similar it made Wes's skin crawl. He focused on the differences instead: the cheap cotton sheets instead of Wes's expensive allergen-free linens, the lampshades that were off-white instead of the warm tan ones Travis had picked out, the subtle differences in the style of the dresser, the location of the slatted closet door slightly too far to the left, the bars on the windows.

He wasn't restrained at all as he sat up, neck and bruised chest twinging their protest at the movement. No ropes or handcuffs or anything; he didn't know if that was a good sign or not. Rolling his legs off the side of the bed, Wes quietly padded his way towards the door. His shoes were gone, as were his suit jacket and tie. Giving himself a quick once over, he discovered his phone was gone too; and his wallet. And his gun. And his belt. He tried not to think too hard about an unknown woman's hands stripping articles off his person while unconscious.

The door was cracked open slightly; enough to allow one eye to glance down a short L-shaped hallway. The room he woke up in was the corner juncture, there was a door in front of him – presumably a bathroom or similar – and the hallway to his left opened up to a larger area. The humming sounded as though it was coming from there. With a steadying breath, Wes pushed the door quietly open.

It squeaked. Wes froze, hand holding the door still, listening; the humming continued uninterrupted. He moved it, quietly as he could, just enough for him to slide through and into the hallway. With careful steps, he eased his way towards the main room; the carpeting muffled any sound his socked feet made. His attention focused on the humming that rose and fell at seemingly random intervals unceasingly. There were other sounds there, too, Wes noticed as he drew closer; sounds Wes knew well: dishes clanking, a spoon scraping against the bottom of a pan, the sizzling hiss of oil, the quiet bubble of boiling sauce, the overall cacophony of food cooking.

The hallway lead into an open living room/dining room area with a partially enclosed kitchen just to the side from the hall. Using the wall as cover, he carefully peeked around the corner into the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the very same woman from the tapes and the car before ducking back as she turned towards the fridge. Back to the wall and carefully hidden from sight, Wes took in the rest of the room.

The dining room was taken up by a small rectangular table with a cheap maroon table runner and a bowl of fake, plastic fruits. He and Travis had never gotten around to replacing their own table, instead choosing to eat at the breakfast bar or in the living room, and the table they had had before was square – shoved in the corner so it only sat two unless they pulled it further into the middle of the room. The bowl on the table, though, the one full of those stupid fake fruit, looked exactly like one of Wes's own serving dishes that he hadn't seen since the apartment's second break-in. The living room was arranged almost identically to the way their apartment was set. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror, everything so familiar, yet warped; the entertainment center they had picked out together, the knickknacks they had both collected, the picture frames on the walls with photo shopped pictures in them, the couch that had been Wes's sanctuary back when this had all started.

It was wrong. Everything was so very, horribly wrong. Wes had to pinch the nerve in his arm just to keep from panicking. He was usually pretty good at managing his OCD, but even his best coping mechanisms wouldn't have been able to help then. It felt like he'd missed a step going down stairs and had fallen down a rabbit hole into some bastardized version of the home he and Travis shared; he felt physically ill. He needed to leave, right then. Glancing back into the wrong kitchen, Wes saw that the woman – his stalker, his kidnapper – had her back towards him as she worked on the stove, still humming that random tune. With a deep breath to ward off the sudden tic in his hands, Wes crouched low behind the bar counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the room, and silently stole his way to the front door.

His panic reached new peaks when he realized that the deadbolt keeping the door shut needed a key to unlock it. The door was reinforced, too heavy-set for him to kick down. If he had a paperclip or a wire coat hanger, he could pick it in a matter of minutes, but he didn't have anything to use. A second later he knew he wouldn't be getting the chance, either.

"Oh, Wesley, honey. You're awake." The woman's voice was just as generic as Wes remembered it from the phone call, but lilted with cheer instead of anger. "Good. I was going to get you up in a few minutes. Dinner is almost ready. Go ahead and sit down, I'll get the table set in just a minute."

Breath catching in his chest, Wes slowly stood from his crouch beside the door. He froze there a moment, eyes tightly shut as he silently lamented his loss of the element of surprise and the barring of his best exit. His face was carefully neutral when he finally turned to face the woman . . . who had already gone back to fixing dinner. And wasn't that just a startling thought. Dinner. It had been just after lunch rush when he was on his way to bribe Travis's temper away with offerings of sweet words and fried fish.

The thought of his partner – his lover, his fiancé, his one good thing in life – nearly sent him to his knees, but it also gave him the strength to march over and quietly settle down at the table. Travis had to of known he was missing by then. Travis would find him.

~O~

Wes carefully kept his eyes from narrowing into a glare as he watched the woman happily set the table for two. When she caught him watching, all she did was smile. She brought over two plates of food and sat down across from him. It was chicken parmesan with angel hair pasta. While not his favorite meal, it was one he made quite often at home. Wes felt ready to vomit.

He didn't comment as she filled his glass – with his wine – and he didn't move when she sat down in the spot across from him. She laid a napkin over her lap, adjusted her skirt, and took a sip from her own glass before looking up at him with seemingly genuine confusion. "What's the matter, dear? Aren't you hungry? I made you your favorite."

Wes watched her quietly a moment longer, disconcerted to say the least. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" She tipped her head slightly to the side.

He changed tracks. "Who are you?"

The woman made a disgusted face at that. "Now, what kind of a question is that? I'm your wife, of course."

"What?" The shock of her words felt like a slap. "No you're not. I've never met you before today." His words appeared to have a similar effect on her.

"Don't say hurtful things like that. You might make a girl wander." She grasped her fork and turned her eyes to her plate, seemingly finished with the conversation.

"I don't know what you—"

"That's enough, Wesley. Eat your dinner."

"I'm not—"

"Enough!" She slammed her fist against the table, making Wes jump. Something about her eyes when she glanced over at him or something shining inside of them stilled Wes's tongue. Pointing her fork at his plate, she commanded, "Eat."

He picked up his fork but waited until she had taken a bite before quickly swapping their plates and then their cups. She stilled, looked at him oddly for a beat before starting in on her food; she didn't comment.

It was like chewing on glass, drinking from a cup she'd already drank from, but she had already drugged him once; he wasn't about to let it happen again if he could help it. He told himself he wasn't hungry, which wasn't necessarily true but he was too nauseous to eat. He managed a bite every time she glanced at him, that same something in her eyes.

She wanted to play house? Fine, he could acquiesce until he found his way out.

~O~

Wes took to mentally calling her 'Miss Psycho Bitch' – funny how his internal voice sounded exactly like Travis every time he thought that. It eased his mind in a way that little else could.

~O~

He was able to beg off of dessert when it was offered. She sat him on the couch, planted in front of the television, while she cleaned up the kitchen. After five minutes, Wes left the room under the guise of heading to the restroom. Which wasn't a lie, as he did go there first, but only to check the cabinets for anything he could use as a weapon or escape. The bathroom had no window, and the cabinet under the sink was empty. The medicine cabinet held his brand of toothpaste, deodorant, and cologne, as well as his long missing toothbrush, but nothing of any use to him. He scrubbed his hands under the faucet for a solid two minutes, just to try to regain some semblance of control.

Ears trained on the sounds coming from the kitchen, he made his way into the bedroom. Moving towards the window, he tested the bars – something he realized he should have done earlier; perhaps he hadn't woken up quite as clearheaded as he originally thought he had. He was fully alert right then, at least. Alert enough to notice that the security bars were on the inside of the window instead of the outside; designed to keep people in, not out. At any rate, the bars had no give, even when he pulled his whole weight back on them and the glass was frosted so he couldn't see out. Breaking it would make too much noise.

The dresser drawers were full of clothes. Some of it he recognized: his steel-blue button down, his black silk and cobalt cotton ties, his silver-grey suit jacket – folded instead of hung like it was supposed to be. The rest looked newly purchased – ties of varying colors, dress shirts, slacks and matching coats – all exactly in his size. Half of the drawers contained women's clothes. The closet was empty. It was as though Miss Psycho Bitch was creating the allusion that he had been living there, but had forgotten to finish laying props. Like a stage set with rollaway walls and painted, two-dimensional trees. Fake. Plastic. A little girl's dollhouse set to her liking.

~O~

He retreated back to the living room empty handed. There was an overwhelming sense of Déjà vu as he did so, but he navigated towards the couch instead of trying for the locked door.

The television was on, playing on some local news station, volume down low enough to be almost nonexistent. That was fine though, since Wes wasn't actually watching it anyway. A thousand yard stare through the wall just to the right of the entertainment center instead as he "checked out to Wes town" as Travis liked to call the moments when he got lost in his head.

The sound of running water continued a while longer, the silence otherwise unbroken until the water cut off. Footsteps towards him brought Wes out of his thoughts, but he kept still and staring. Standing just behind the couch, the stalker seemingly realized he wasn't watching the television she had so graciously left him to. "Wesley, dear, why don't you put on a DVD for us to watch while I go change into something more comfortable. Okay? I'll be right out."

He didn't respond, but he tensed up still as stone when her hand brushed across his shoulders as she moved away. Wes was frozen. He didn't think he could move even if he tried, so he didn't. Not until a moment later when something in his peripheral caught his attention and he turned towards the television just in time to see a busted up police cruiser laying on its roof, windshield smashed, surrounded by flashing red and blue and white lights behind some reporter with a carefully made face. That snapped him back into action.

~O~

His hand ghosted over the handles in the knife block on the kitchen counter before his eyes locked onto the first good thing to happen for him today: a landline telephone.

Wes snatched up the receiver and dialed the second number that popped into his head. It only rang once before it was picked up and Kendall's cheery voice greeted him.

"This is Kendall! What can the tech wizard do for you today?"

Wes replied without much preamble. "Kendall, this is Wes. I need you to trace this number and send units to my location."

"Wes! Oh my God! Are you okay?" The sound of clacking keys met his ears so he knew she was working on it.

"I'm fine," he dismissed shortly. "Is Travis there?"

"Oh geez, yes, of course. Hold on, I'll patch him in." A moment passed as the phone rang twice before being answered.

"Marks." It came out in a poorly hidden combination of exhaustion and anxiety, but the word still sent Wes's heart aflutter.

Kendall's shout is almost deafening. "Trav! It's Wes!"

"What about Wes? I thought the facial recognition thingy didn't work. Did you find another le—"

"No, Trav, I mean it's literally—"

"Travis."

A stunned beat of silence, then, ". . . Wes?"

Relief and warmth flooded him at the sound of his name on his lover's lips, loosening his chest. And all of a sudden, Wes could breathe again. "Hi Honey."

"Wes, baby, where are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm just achy from the crash. She hasn't hurt me." The bandaged cut on his arm stung, his whole body sore, and his neck stiff, but he was fine physically. It was good enough, would have to do. "Kendall is tracing this call to find out where. But," he explained, eyes locking on the mouth of the hallway, trained for any sign of the woman. 'Speak of the devil,' and all that. "I don't have a lot of time. She could be back any minute. . . She's delusional, Travis. Won't even tell me her name. She's stuck in some kind of psychotic fantasy that she and I are in love, that we live together. And the apartment. Oh God, the apartment. You can't see it, Travis, you can't come in here. You can't come in here." He knew he was rambling, had just enough influence to keep his voice low, hardly above a whisper, but otherwise couldn't stop the word vomit of anxiety in the lack of his better coping mechanisms. After two years of 'communicate with your partner' and nearly one year of actually (sort of, mostly) doing it, telling Travis when something was seriously bothering him came almost as reflex by then – second only by his instinct to shut down when emotionally overloaded. Wes figured the latter was soon to follow. "It's like home, our apartment, but not. And I don't want you to see it, Love. It makes me sick and I don't—"

It took a few repetitions of his name before Travis finally managed to break through to him. "Wes! Babe, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath, okay? Just breathe."

Wes acquiesced, nodding to the phone even as he took a deep, if shaky, breath in through his nose. Then let it out in a controlled exhale between tightly pursed lips. He repeated the process a few times, hearing Travis match him breath for breath, until the tremors in his hands had stilled. "Travis?"

"I know, Wes."

His hand clenched convulsively against his thigh. "I don't want to have to play into her fantasies." He stood tall and firm despite the urge to just curl up in the corner and block it all out.

"I know that too. But I also know that you know that playing along is the best way to keep her calm and distracted until we get there. Wes. . . Wes?"

A silence descended as Wes came to a loss of words. His jaw tensed, eyes scrunching shut before quickly focusing back on the hallway. He felt lost, hard-pressed to keep his panic reined in. He was equal parts dreading and eager for the cold rationality that was sure to come.

On the other end of the phone line, Travis was having none of it. "Now you listen here, Wesley Mitchell. I'm coming for you. You got that? I'm gonna get you outta there. Right now, I just need you to do whatever it takes to keep yourself safe. Ya get me?"

Wes shivers at the desperate intensity in Travis's voice, not missing the implied to keep yourself sane. "I get you." Play along if you can, but if you can't . . . "She has my gun. Both of them."

A beat of silence, then, "I'm coming, Wes."

Before Wes could reply, the bedroom door squeaked. "She's coming back."

Kendall broke in. "Got your location, Wes. It's remote; Closest units are about ten minutes out and—"

"I'll be there in twenty."

With those parting words, Wes released his death grip on the wireless phone. It took everything he had to push the End button, but a shadow had just appeared in the hallway entrance, its caster not far behind. Heart racing again, he quietly flung the refrigerator doors open as though he had been perusing for snacks. Nineteen minutes forty-three seconds. Wes could play along for nineteen and a half minutes.

~O~

Wes grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, pretending to peruse the contents for other finds as he listened to her footsteps lead her into the kitchen behind him. He had to repress a shudder when her hands were suddenly on him, rubbing his back, his shoulders, kneading out muscles that only grew tenser at her touch. She leaned closer to him; spoke softly in his ear, "Did you pick us a movie, dear?" He could feel the heat of her through his thin dress shirt, felt her sickly breath on his neck.

His shields came up, a veil of frigid logic calming his racing thoughts, urging that he could and would play along as long as was necessary.

"I did. I was just grabbing snacks for us while we watch the film."

"Mmm. How about some popcorn?" Her tone turned playful. "Or some chocolate Kisses?"

"Do we have popcorn?" Wes flat out ignored her previous comment, moving towards the pantry and away from her arms.

She let her hands fall to her sides. "I'll make it, Wesley dear. You've had a stressful day. Go ahead and get comfortable on the couch. I'll be in there in a minute."

Not bothering to argue, he headed into the living area when she moved around him towards the pantry. He grabbed the first DVD he could find and placed the disc into the tray of the player, running only on autopilot. He sat stiffly on the couch, unable to even pretend to relax his posture. Two minutes later, seventeen minutes and fourteen seconds until Travis would arrive, she walked into the living room with a bowl in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Setting them both down on the couch cushion beside Wes, she gave a twirl, hands framing her hips.

"So? What do you think?" She smiled, indicating herself, seemingly waiting for his response.

Clothes, Wes realized belatedly. She had changed her clothes. He didn't register much beyond black, lacey, and revealing and Alex would never have worn something like that. "It's pretty," was his vague reply. After another beat, Wes could only think that Travis certainly would try on a trashy negligée if only to see Wes spit water out his nose and double over laughing – a reaction only Travis could bring out of him, and that he would deny every time.

She pouted, apparently not having received the reaction she had hoped for. "It's new. Don't you like it?"

"Yeah, it looks good," he lied without feeling. Wes latched onto her given excuse. "I'm just tired. Stressful day."

Deflated a little, she settled onto the couch beside him, too close for comfort. Even closer when she lifted his rigidly straight arm and tucked herself underneath and into his side. The silence didn't last long, however, especially with Wes mechanically counting down the seconds. Fourteen minutes and fifty-eight seconds. "Oh, this is one of my favorites. You like it too, don't you Wesley?"

He responded automatically, "Sure. Of course."

"It's so sweet and romantic," she lamented. "A perfect representation of our relationship." When Wes didn't comment, she continued. "Ever since we met, I have loved you more and more each day. I can't imagine my life without you, right here beside me. Wesley, my dear Sweet, I love you."

"I . . ." No, not even to save his own life or to buy Travis time – fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds – would he say it. It had taken him too long to finally admit his feelings to Travis; he wouldn't belittle those words by throwing them around now, even if it was only pretend. Despite the wall of cold detachment, he still had to force out the meager rejoinder, "Me too."

He was not expecting her response at all.

"Prove it." That same dangerous glint he'd seen during dinner came into her eyes. He didn't even have enough time to open his mouth to reply, let alone formulate what to say, before she was on him. She shoved him down on the couch with a hand on his bruised chest, manicured nails digging painfully into the arm he placed between them to block her as she settled scantily clad legs on either side of his hips. Her free hand hooked onto the back of his neck and brought Wes's head up into a crushing kiss. It was possessive and furious; her tongue snaking through the cage of his teeth before he could clamp down to seal her out, leaving her to plunder every crevice of his mouth mercilessly. He bucked his hips in an attempt to dislodge her, but it only seemed to encourage her on until he managed to get both arms between them and shoved her off and away.

He stood up quickly, gasping for breath, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. The taste of wine and lipstick blended with something, something else, something wrong lingered on his tongue, making him wish desperately for his toothbrush and mouthwash and handfuls of sanitizer and a scrub in bleach, maybe a few swallows of it too, for good measure. He spat a glob of mixed saliva onto the carpet, forcing down his compulsive urges to focus on the moment. His ruse was up, that much was obvious, but he needed a clear head to deal with her reaction.

"You were faking this entire time, weren't you?!" she began with all the fury of a woman scorned. "Just so you—"

As though the universe had the worst possible timing, it chose that moment for police sirens to become audible to them. Ten minutes and nine seconds. She glanced at the landline in the kitchen, and then turned back to Wes. The dark glint of her eyes suddenly grew to consume them both.

~O~

Wes didn't see where the gun came from; just saw as its butt crashed into the side of his head. It was enough to drop him, but not knock him out. She was shouting, flailing the gun – his gun – around, but his ears were ringing. He couldn't hear, couldn't think enough to find a way to calm the situation that had escalated so far from his control.

He was helpless but to follow as she pulled him across the room. The gun came into his blurry double vision and he made a grab for it, but found himself shoved through the newly opened front door before he could get it.

Wes caught himself with hands and knees on a dusty concrete floor. Something warm and wet was dripping down the side of his face from his throbbing left temple. The air was suddenly musty, industrial smelling, and the sound of his gun being cocked behind him – the hiss of the slide and the click of the round hitting home in the chamber – echoed loudly in the cavernous room.

"Get up."

Warehouse, he realized, blinking his vision clear and glancing around; the mimic apartment was on some kind of second floor balcony, presumably meant for offices and supervision over the warehouse floor. The outer walls of the apartment were grey cinderblock mortared into place in the bare open area removed of offices – a stage set with rollaway walls.

"Get up!"

Her hands were on him again, fisting his shirt and yanking him to his feet in a surprising show of strength. The sirens were getting closer as she dragged him across the balcony. Wes got a glimpse of the lower level – rows and rows of big, empty metal shelves descending into shadows – through ten foot high windows clouded with a layer of grime. He stumbled through a doorway and into a hallway lit with the last rays of the setting sun.

"Climb," she commanded, shoving him towards a wooden staircase half hidden in the shadows.

He wasn't given the opportunity to protest before the gun barrel was nudging against his spine.

"Climb."

And so he did. Grasping dusty, rusty side-railings, Wes climbed, each step creaking beneath his weight. Once a few feet up, he looked back with the vague idea of kicking the gun from her hand but he saw that she had stepped back just far enough to be out of his range while he stayed firmly within hers; he turned forward again and resumed his climb.

There was a door at the top, heavy steel with no padlock. It creaked noisily as he pulled it open and ascended up to the roof of the building and the darkness of approaching night. If the door had opened outward, he could have used it to disarm her; opening inward meant he wouldn't be able to slam it on her without her having a clear shot on him the entire time. With that thought playing through his head, he watched her join him on the rooftop. Wes shifted from foot to foot, trying to glance around at his surroundings.

"Stop," she demanded, drawing his attention back to the gun pointed at his chest. "Don't move. Don't you dare move right now." She ran a hand through her hair before moving it to pinch the bridge of her nose, the gun never wavering in its aim. "I trusted you. I trusted you, and you lied to me!" The sirens had cut off sometime during their ascent to the roof. "After all the work I did for you, for us!" Her free hand moved to emphasize her words. "Making a home for us, a life for us." He was trapped. He had no way out of this. "It would have been perfect." Where were the Unies? Shouldn't they be here by now? "But it was never real, was it?" He could certainly do with some back up about then. "You never loved me, did you?" Where's Travis? He thought at the same time he realized I lost count. "Everything I've done for us and you never loved me." How could I have lost count? "All because of him."

What? That statement directed his focus back to his assailant.

"You think I haven't noticed the way he looks at you? Or worse, the way you look at him?" She took an aggressive half-step forward, still staying just out of reach. "I'm not blind, Wesley. I see the way you two are—are lusting all over each other. It's disgusting." A muscle in Wes's cheek jumped at the force of his clenched jaw. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "He can't have you. No piece of shit gutter trash like him is going to take you away from me. I worked too hard for us to be together! You are mine, Wesley dear."

A repressing silence settled between them as she watched and seemingly waited for a response from him. Moments passed in which Wes struggled to find something, anything, to say – but what could he ever say to someone with this level of psychosis? He was saved from having to reply when the roof access door burst open suddenly; a stream of uniformed officers joined them on the rooftop. Before Wes could so much as blink, there was an arm around his throat and a gun to the side of his head, another half a dozen guns pointed in his direction. Shouting exacerbated his headache enough to drown out the words; the Unies were yelling out orders, shining their flashlights while Miss Psycho Bitch shrieked away in Wes's ear.

Thrown into a spotlight, socked feet dragged along the rough surface as he was backpedaled further from the multitude of weapons on him, the pressure on his throat increasing until he followed instead of fought. His heels hit the roof ledge, cold medal pressed flush against his temple, and it occurred to him how badly this could end. Travis, where are you?

"Ma'am, put the weapon down and step away from the ledge," one of the officers said – Price, Wes thought his name was, having met him before on a case, having to squint to see past the light.

"Don't tell me what to do." There was dark malice in her reply, a command that dared to be defied and promised consequences. When Price seemed about to speak again, the gun nudged harder against Wes's head, silencing the officers. "Don't . . . tell me . . . what to do."

Another uniformed officer, female this time – Price's partner, Laurez – reached out a beseeching hand. "Please step away from the edge, ma'am. We don't want to see anyone getting hurt."

Miss Psycho Bitch ignored the comment. "I'm his wife. Tell them, Wesley." She shifted her attention back to her captive. "Tell them I'm your wife."

Wes wasn't at all interested in playing along; he was sore, he felt dirty all over, his head hurt, and now he was stuck in a standoff. His voice came out in an empty monotone as he said, "You aren't my wife. I don't even know who you are."

She let out a shrill sound into his ear, causing him to wince. "Don't say that, Wesley." The gun was drilled against his head with each syllable, forcing him to tilt it to the side; a bruise forming on his right temple to match the gash on his left. "I love you. And I know we have our problems, but we can work through them. I forgive your indiscretion, Wesley. We can be happy again, together."

Closing his eyes, Wes stated, "You. Need. Help." She was ill, trapped in a delusional breakdown or something.

"What I need is for you to keep quiet and everyone else to back off!" She waved the gun at the gathered uniforms, all of whom took a step back, firearms still raised. The movement jostled Wes enough that he stumbled, but her arm kept him standing. "Every time you open your mouth, you lie. All of you keep lying to me!" She pressed the heel of her gun hand against her forehead, voice quieting as though speaking to herself. "I need to think, need them to leave. They'll ruin everything. Everything. They're ruining everything."

"Ma'am," Laurez again, seemingly attempting to be a voice of reason. "Let's all just calm down. We can talk about this, just lower your weapon." But Wes was sure a trained negotiator wouldn't get through to the stalker; he doubted even Dr. Ryan could. Then the lead was taken by the man walking through the door and slipping between the line of officers, standing with hands outstretched beseechingly and gun pointedly holstered.

Travis.

"You!" was screeched into his ear as the gun was quickly aimed at the new comer. "This is your fault!"

"Cool it, lady. I'm not here for you." Blue eyes met blue eyes. "Wes, you okay?"

Nodding was out of the question, but his voice came out bruised sounding. "I'm. . ." He hesitated saying the word 'fine'. There was a look in Travis's face that few would recognize on him and Wes wanted it to go away. For some absurd reason, the first thing that popped into Wes's head at the moment was that stupid cat poster. Might as well, then. "I'm hanging in there." It worked. The fear was warmed with humor, a gentle quirking at the corners of his lips. Wes himself had to bite back a jag of – rather inappropriate, given the circumstances – laughter, worried it would come out hysterical sounding.

"Touching as this is," Miss Psycho Bitch sneered in a bid to regain attention. As though either of them could forget she was there. "You need to leave."

"Leave?" Travis repeated with feigned confusion. "Baby, I just got here."

Wes could hear her jaw pop with how hard she was gritting her teeth. "This is between Wesley and I. It doesn't concern you."

Travis shifted positions in a seemingly casual way. "Seeing as you have my fiancé at gunpoint, I think this very much does concern me." Don't antagonize her, Travis.

Too late. Her control snapped again with a screech. "He is not yours! You filth! Gutter trash! Homewrecker!" She continued to spew abuse at Travis who appeared to remain completely unfazed. The gun jerked around erratically through the air; her finger was unbearably clenched on the trigger, no more than a hair's breadth from firing. "—rid of you when I had the chance! But I won't make that mistake again." What?

"No!" Whether the arm around his throat had slackened, Wes's daze lessened, or a combination there of, he broke free in just enough time to thrust her gun hand up a fraction of a second before the weapon discharged. He vaguely heard Travis shouting for the uniformed officers to hold their fire, but his attention was directed at his assailant as she placed the warm muzzle against the soft palette under his jaw, keeping him from making a move to disarm her. It took almost a full minute for the officers to stop murmuring to each other and settle down. He couldn't see them or Travis, Wes now stood facing the stalker. She was standing on the ledge – putting her at his height – in the corner so she couldn't be flanked on either side, and with less than a foot of space between them.

"Wes," Travis called out, suddenly sounding nervous.

He sensed the gun start to change position – likely to transfer aim over his shoulder at his fiancé – but he grabbed her forearm with one hand to keep it still underneath his chin. "Don't. Don't hurt him. Please." She stared at him, studying his face without a word, but she didn't try to move the gun. "You have what you wanted. I'm right here. You have me." The muscles of her arm under his grip undulated as she relaxed her finger on the trigger.

Her voice was back to the eerie calmness it was in the mock apartment, her gaze fixed solely on him. "Do I?"

"You have me," he repeated, keeping her attention. He knew he was acting as a shield for her, but as long as it kept Travis safe, he couldn't bring himself to care. "So what do you want?"

She leaned towards him and, for a moment, Wes was suddenly afraid she was going to kiss him again. But then her head moved to the side of his and her lips hovered beside his ear as she spoke. Her voice was low; intimate enough to send an unpleasant shiver down Wes's spine, but in the quiet or the gathering night he knew everyone on the rooftop would hear it. "Do you, Wesley Mitchell, take me as your lawfully wedded wife?" So that's her game, then. "To have and to hold." Wes's stomach clenched. "For richer or for poorer." Her free hand began a gentle caress on his opposite cheek, down the column of his neck, and back up again. "In sickness and in health." He had to fight to keep from jerking away from the touch, to keep his breathing even. "To love and to cherish . . . 'til death do us both part?"

Wes didn't move, pointedly didn't turn around – he refused to think about Travis, refused to think about him standing behind him, about Travis hearing and watching everything or what he would think about any of it – when Wes carefully stated, "I do."

But when her voice became even more hushed, whispering her words for only him to hear and he felt the gun begin to shift away from him again, Wes came to a decision. He pushed her gun hand out to the side and away from everyone with his left arm, and his right came up to shove her back. As she began to topple, her free hand reached out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. He glimpsed wild eyes and a savage smile while, for one heart-stopping split second, he fought for leverage, for equilibrium. But he finally lost his balance, and they both fell over the ledge.

The last thing he heard was his name called from desperate lips above the screaming of the rushing wind before his fall abruptly ended.

---

. . .

---

Author's Note: Yes, that really is where I am leaving it. 15k word build up, and I leave it like that. My now-very-much-ex-fiancé wanted this to have a happy ending; now neither of us get one. I just don't have the energy to dedicate this as a deathfic. In fact, I have 2k words more already of Wes's recovery, but I doubt I will finish it despite the work already put in it. This story has been my pet project for far too long. Who knows, maybe one day I'll give Wes and Travis the happy ever after that I never got. ~SASS~