Threshold

by softgrungefic

Michael and Chuck, newly married, move into a cute house in a new town. All is not as it seems. Some talk of depression, medication, ghosts, injuries, menstruation and hospitals.

2. Part Two

"I'm home."

Chuck looked up from the demon romance he'd been reading. (It was just sitting there on the coffee table... and Rufus had been right. It was questionable.) He managed to smile, as Michael walked through the door. Just a little bit, wavering. "Did you bring me kisses?"

Michael let out a gentle laugh. He shrugged out of his jacket and said, "Of course. As many kisses as you need, once I'm not wearing five layers of clothing." He draped his coat over the back of his chair—left his sweater on, but dropped his scarf over the coat and crouched to take his shoes off. Beside him, he set a small brown paper bag. "It's cold in here. Are the heaters malfunctioning again?" As he stood, he picked up the paper bag. He brought it over to Chuck.

"Oh—" Chuck took the bag, eager to see what Michael had brought him. "I don't know. Rufus left and it started getting colder but I..." He fell silent, and even though he'd broken the sticker on the bag, he didn't open it. He frowned down at his hands. "I was too scared to get up."

The couch squeaked under Michael's weight. He sat right beside Chuck, wrapping an arm around him and leaning his cheek against Chuck's temple. He spoke quietly. "It's alright." He rubbed Chuck's side, as soothing as he knew how. "I'm here now. Did you take your extra medication?" He kissed Chuck's face.

Chuck leaned into him. Closed his eyes and tried to absorb all of Michael's gentle heat. "I did." He turned his face into Michael's kisses so his mouth met his cheek instead of the side of his eye. "It knocked me out for a few hours, and I was kind of... delirious... but I blame that on sleep deprivation." He crinkled the paper bag between his fingers. Leaned so he could push his lips to Michael's. Michael raised a hand and pushed his fingers through Chuck's hair.

"It wore off?"

Chuck nodded. "Wore off, around when Rufus went home." He opened his eyes. "All day, I've felt like someone's watching me. I... I keep seeing weird reflections and Gertrude has been staring into space and... I just feel off. In a different way than usual." His face briefly contorted but then he gathered himself with a deep breath and long sigh. He turned his face away from Michael, but leaned his head on his shoulder. "I just got... kind of freaked out, I guess. Been sitting here for a few hours. Anyway, what did you get me? Cookies?" He finally opened the brown bag and peeked inside. Broke into a tiny, shaky smile. "Didn't you get me some of these on our first date?"

"Hmm..." Michael ducked his head and kissed Chuck again. "Did I?" He smiled. He pulled a canelé, shaped like a tiny caramelized barrel, from the bag and murmured, "Could it be that I bought you a bag of little French pastries, that night?" He almost popped it into his mouth, but then he held it out to Chuck.

"You did." Chuck let Michael put the pastry into his mouth. Said, as he chewed, "From that place back in Oregon."

Michael brushed his lips against Chuck's stubbly cheek, hand drifting to Chuck's waist. "So I did." He leaned their foreheads together. Chuck wrinkled his nose and kissed him on the mouth, while simultaneously pushing him back. Michael let himself be poked at and leaned back against the couch, eyebrows raised. When Chuck settled onto his lap, he smirked and murmured, "Someone's feeling affectionate."

Shrugging, Chuck leaned close. Planted another kiss on Michael's lips. Whispered, mouth to mouth, "I missed you." He set the bag of little French pastries off to the side and wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulders. "It's scary all alone..." He ducked his head, pressing his face against Michael's warm neck.

"You weren't alone, though. Gertrude was here." Michael stroked Chuck's hair. "And Rufus."

Chuck made a noise like he didn't quite agree with Michael. Breathed deeply. He splayed his fingers against Michael's back. "I feel safest with you." He sighed.

Michael ran his hand down Chuck's spine, firm and warm and soothing. "You know, I can't be with you all the time." He leaned his cheek against Chuck's fluffy hair, and closed his eyes as he rubbed Chuck's back. "I'm not your extra limb."

"Ugh." Chuck covered Michael's face with his hand and pouted. "Don't go off into that speech about how you can't fix me, and blah blah blah—because I've heard it and I know and I'm very aware that no one can make me better all the time." He pulled back to look Michael in the face. "And I know I don't need to be fixed, and that you're not my life-changing Hollywood romance." He ran his fingers across Michael's face, light enough to make Michael shiver. He half-smiled at Michael. "But it's easier to feel safe with you. Okay?" He poked Michael's nose with his middle finger. "It's easier with you than with other people."

Michael wrapped his fingers around Chuck's arm and moved to kiss his palm. "Alright." He drew his thumb over the soft, pale skin of Chuck's wrist. "I understand. I'm not an organ transplant, I'm a band-aid."

Chuck laughed under his breath. "A very handsome band-aid." He leaned against Michael again, settling against his soothing heat. Michael kept kissing his palm and his fingers. He smiled fully and closed his eyes. "Sometimes I can forget about bad feelings with you."

Outside, a car honked. Michael looked out the window as he spoke. "But they're still there."

"Yeah."

Michael hugged Chuck tight to his chest, kissing the top of his head. He curled his fingers in Chuck's shirt. Lowered his voice. "I wish I could squeeze them away." He sighed. "I don't want those feelings to hurt you."

Quietly, Chuck replied, "It's okay. I don't want them to hurt me either." His voice came out hoarse and trembling. "Do you remember that time—the first time I stayed the night in your apartment? When my dad died. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried and smoked a joint in the tub and shaved my legs." He almost laughed. "I remember how you looked at me when I came out of the bathroom, 'cause I smelled so bad and you were worried. You made me use your mouthwash. And you didn't say anything about my legs, but when I was high and I asked you to feel them, you did. I really appreciated that, Michael." Chuck sniffled. Hunched his shoulders. "Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated that? You just sat with me and felt my legs and you said they were soft and kissed them and I felt like... Like, gosh... this guy is something else." His voice cracked and he fell silent, clutching at Michael's shirt.

Michael just tightened his arms around Chuck. He pretended he couldn't feel the dampness against his neck and tangled his fingers in Chuck's hair. He didn't know if he should sing or speak or hum, so he whispered, "I love you, Chuck." Watched the neighborhood darken through the window and breathed, "I love you."

The baseboard heaters creaked.

When the dimming street gave way to their reflection in the window, Michael stood, careful not to let Chuck slip from his arms, and grabbed his blanket off the couch as he went to the stairs. The steps squeaked a little under their combined weight. Michael carried Chuck to bed—bundled him up in the sheets and pressed a light kiss to his forehead and asked, "What do you want to eat?" He set his hand against Chuck's jaw. "You must be hungry."

With a shrug, Chuck mumbled, "Food that tastes good."

"Something good and light?" Michael straightened up. "Like ginger chicken soup?"

Chuck nodded. For a moment, he grabbed onto Michael's fingers. Rubbed his face and managed to smile up at Michael. Michael leaned down again and kissed the back of his hand before leaving the room with a soft, "I brought home some chai tea, too." He left the door open behind him.

Pulling his stuffed bunny into his arms, Chuck lay down more comfortably. He closed his eyes and listened to Michael's steps, then the following beats of silence, then the muffled sound of running water. Before too long, Michael came back upstairs and set a mug on the bookshelf beside the bed. Thin tendrils of steam drifted from inside. Michael kissed Chuck's forehead again, and went back downstairs. Chuck pulled himself upright. He smelled the chai, and held it in his hands. Felt the warmth bleed from the ceramic into his fingers and palms. Sighed, with eyes still half-closed. He could breathe the steam in forever, he imagined. But he wanted to drink it, too, so he tested it with his tongue to make sure he wouldn't burn himself. Still too hot.

Around the time Chuck deemed his tea cool enough to drink, Gertrude came in through the open door. She hopped up on the bed and curled up on his ankles. Purred. He continued to sip his chai.

He tried to smile, when Michael came in with two small bowls, but he didn't quite manage it. Michael set one bowl on his desk, and came over with the other one for Chuck. "You don't have to force yourself to be happy, Chuck." He put the bowl down on the bookshelf. Sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on Chuck's leg. "It's alright to feel like frowning."

"I know..." Chuck fidgeted with the hem of his blanket. "I still feel like I need to... to smile, and stuff. People always say to smile. Be happy." He sighed. Raised his eyes to Michael's, and chewed his lip.

Michael gave Chuck's knee a squeeze, hand warm even through the blanket. He hugged Chuck and said, gently, "Eat your soup, okay?" He stood up and went to his desk, but didn't stay there. Instead, he rolled his chair over to the side of the bed and grabbed his soup as well, so he could eat next to Chuck and still have somewhere to set his bowl down if he needed to.

They ate together in relative silence, broken only by the cat's purring and a brief "this is good" from Chuck.

When they finished, Michael took their bowls and Chuck's mug downstairs to wash them. Chuck petted Gertrude while he waited. But he wanted to latch on to something bigger than a cat or a stuffed animal. Luckily, it didn't take long before Michael came back into the bedroom, almost closing the door behind him. He left it open enough that the cat could leave if she wanted to, though, and started taking off his work clothes. Chuck watched him change into his pajamas before speaking up with, "Do you wanna have sex?"

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Not really, no." He came over to the bed and sat beside Chuck.

"Oh, good." Chuck leaned against him. Laced their fingers together. "'Cause I'm too tired." He accidentally dislodged Gertrude, trying to get closer to Michael. She meowed and stalked off to sit on top of the dirty laundry pile. Chuck climbed onto Michael's lap so Michael could hold him. "I just wanna snuggle forever."

Wrapping his arms firmly around Chuck, Michael said, "I think I can do that." He slid down a little, to be more comfortable. Rubbed his hands between Chuck's shoulder blades, through the layers of his sweater and shirt. "At least for a little while." He smiled as Chuck relaxed against him.

They ended up nestled into a warm cocoon of blankets, on their sides and facing each other—Michael with his hands still on Chuck's back and Chuck with his face pushed into Michael's chest. Legs tangled together and breathing slowly. Neither was asleep, but Michael wasn't technically awake either. He seemed to be on the verge of unconsciousness, shifting occasionally and half-responding when Chuck whispered, "Are you there?" Chuck poked him again and he cracked an eye open with a grumble. Chuck patted his face. "You don't wanna forget to brush your teeth."

Michael let out a sigh. But he untangled himself from the blankets (and from Chuck) and stood up. Stretched so his back cracked. "You come too." He made his way out into the hallway, to the bathroom.

Chuck huffed in annoyance. But he, too, got out of bed and followed Michael to the bathroom for the nightly routine of brushing and pill-taking. He didn't even tease Michael when he flossed his teeth twice on accident. He went back into the bedroom while Michael used the toilet. (Chuck didn't mind peeing while Michael was in the bathroom, but Michael preferred some privacy. Probably due to growing up with multiple obnoxious siblings.) Chuck changed into cleaner pajamas, because he felt sweaty and weird, and climbed into bed.

He waited for Michael—Michael came into the room, and turned off the light after just a few minutes. He knelt by the bed a moment. Chuck let him pray in silence, since Michael so rarely set time aside to do so, even at meals, and Chuck assumed it was important. He just held out his arms when Michael straightened up again and joined him in bed. Michael nearly rolled on top of Chuck, as he covered them with the blankets and hugged him close. He kissed his face for good measure. Chuck squirmed a little, to get some of Michael's weight off of him. "You weigh a million pounds." He poked Michael's shoulder. "All those muscles."

"Exaggeration." Michael squeezed Chuck so he squeaked. "At most, I weigh a thousand."

Chuck rolled his eyes.

---

"I have a meeting today, so I might not be able to talk long. But I will try to call you at lunchtime, alright?" Michael buttoned up his coat, standing in the kitchen. He kissed Chuck's forehead. "See you when I get home. If you eat all of the canelé, there are more treats in the cupboard beside the refrigerator."

Chuck nodded. "Okay." He poked at his cereal. Twisted his mouth for a moment, chewing on his lip, but gave Michael the beginnings of a smile. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but closed it again.

Michael pecked Chuck on the nose one last time before hurrying out of the kitchen.

A few seconds later, the front door closed. Chuck carried his half-eaten cereal to the sink and poured it out, watching the milk and soggy corn flakes pool around the drain. He rinsed his bowl out and put it into the sink, and left the kitchen. He almost tripped on Gertrude on his way into the living room, so she chirped at him. He clicked his tongue at her. Stopped at the coffee table to retrieve his bag of pastries before heading upstairs.

He set up his laptop and opened Netflix. Put on The X-files because he'd seen it a hundred times and it always made him feel at least a little bit at ease. He nestled into the blankets with his canelés and hummed along with the music from his computer. He popped a pastry into his mouth. For a moment, something flickered at the edge of his vision. He frowned and looked over at the tall bookshelves against the wall, to his right. Nothing. Another flicker of movement though, off beside them... He leaned forward so he could see through the doors to the covered deck. Briefly, he thought he saw someone standing at the doors—flinched violently and closed his eyes hard enough to see colored static. He felt for his glasses, heart in his throat and eyes still shut tight. He shoved them onto his face and finally dared to peek at the deck again.

Not even a plant or something he could have mistaken for a person. No shadows, or anything.

Chuck suppressed a shudder. He set his canelés on the shelf by the bed—suddenly, he felt a little too nauseous to eat them. He turned off The X-files, too. A bit too paranormal for him, right then. He went for the first non-threatening show he saw, instead—Cake Boss. It would at least be a good distraction while he cowered in bed with his headphones clamped firmly over his ears.

Three and a half episodes in, Chuck heard his phone ring. But when he looked at it, the screen was dark. He frowned. Slid it open—no messages, no missed calls. He put it back, pervaded with a general feeling of discomfort. He tried to ignore it, and went back to his cake show. After a while, though, he started to get hungry. And he wanted real food instead of small pastries, so he made his reluctant way downstairs—but first, he grabbed Michael's portable radio from the bathroom. He felt a little better, other than his growling stomach, as he went through the living room to the kitchen. He even smiled when Gertrude rubbed up against his ankles.

He set the radio on the counter next to the stove and turned it on. Pop music blared from the speakers, so Chuck turned the volume down and switched it to a different station—old country music.

A sandwich sounded nice... a grilled cheese sandwich. Easier to make than anything else, for Chuck. Less daunting than warming up soup, even though technically reheating something would be less work. There was a small comfort in making a grilled cheese sandwich. He got out the bread, and the cheese and the butter, and started to put everything together. Set that all on a plate while he waited for the pan to heat up. Out of curiosity, he peeked into the cupboard to see what other treats Michael had gotten him. A big bag of green and red gumdrops, and caramel corn too. There were some leftover candy canes in there as well, and a tin of cashews. Chuck popped a couple of gumdrops into his mouth before going back to the stove. He laid out the bread in the pan, and set the cheese on it carefully so the whole space was filled up, and covered it with the other bread. Waited, as he chewed his candy.

A short wait and a bit of smoke later, Chuck had a nicely browned sandwich. He almost burned his fingertips cutting it in half. Stuck his middle finger in his mouth as he carried the plate to the table. He sat down, and almost immediately the cat plopped onto his feet. He rolled his eyes and took a tentative bite. Hot, but not hot enough to hurt too much. Nice and melty...

On the counter, the radio fizzed. Chuck ignored it, at first, because he thought the connection had just been temporarily lost. But it started to pan through stations, skipping from one voice to another, back and forth. Chuck stared at the radio, sandwich halfway to his mouth, waiting to see if it would do anything. More channel surfing, and then it just crackled.

Dead air, white noise.

Chuck kept eating, though he kept an eye on the radio and chewed slowly. The hair at the back of his neck stood up. At his feet, Gertrude shifted, silent. She slipped out from under the table with her ears back and her tail bristling. Stalked toward the counter. Chuck watched her and set his sandwich down. Several tense moments passed, while neither of them moved. The radio remained dead and still. Through the window over the sink, Chuck could see the bare tree in the backyard swaying in the wind. The screen door banged, once, loud even through the back door's thick wood. Gertrude hissed at the door.

"Hey..." Chuck rose reluctantly to his feet. "Kitty... c'mere, huh?" He watched the door more than the cat, and held his hand out. Made a kissing noise and wiggled his fingers as he crouched down in the middle of the kitchen floor. "C'mon, Gertrude. You're freakin' me out."

The radio burst to life and Chuck fell onto his butt with a yelp. The cat jumped, too. Straight up into the air, hissing. She raced off to some other part of the house and Chuck decided to lay down on his back. He let out a tiny groan. Frank Sinatra sang at him from the radio, now perfectly functioning on a completely different station. He rolled over so he could stand up again, and sat back down at the kitchen table. He wanted to finish his grilled cheese, after all. Before it got cold and hard.

The rest of the day passed normally—as normally as possible, when Chuck still felt like laying down to cry every half hour. But he made it through with only one small sob session in the shower as he thought about how much his butt hurt from falling down in the kitchen. He wasn't really crying from tailbone pain, though. It just exacerbated his need to bawl his eyes out—he still felt a little nauseous, and he was scared. Scared that either someone would try to break into the house or that the house really was haunted and he was the equivalent of the wife in a horror movie and would be horrifically dismembered by a demon while his husband was at work.

He tried not to think about that last bit too much.

He stopped crying around when he started to wash his face. Felt a little better, even, after letting out some tears. Scrubbing his face, and the rest of his body, he felt somewhat rejuvenated. Like a few thin layers of something evil were being scraped away.

Chuck almost used Michael's lemon verbena body wash on accident, just because he liked how Michael smelled. But Michael bought that specifically because he had sensitive skin, and it was expensive, and Chuck didn't want to make it run out faster. So he grabbed his own soap—most definitely not from the children's aisle of Target—and used that instead.

Now, he smelled like lavender and peaches instead of sweat and grilled bread. An improvement, even if many layers of badness still remained on top of his skin and over his tongue. He stayed in the shower a little while longer before getting out. Dried off, and looked at himself in the mirror. He needed to shave... And he was reluctant to leave the imagined safety of the bathroom...

So, still naked, he trimmed his thinning beard. And the back and sides of his hair. He left the rest of himself alone—didn't repeat the incident from three years earlier. He rubbed himself all over with the towel again to get rid of the tiny stray hairs clinging to his semi-damp skin, and shook it out. Swept the trimmings into a pile and dumped it all into the trash. He looked at himself in the mirror. Better. Not great, but better. He still looked like he hadn't slept in a week, kind of haunted and red-eyed... But at least his hair and beard were neat.

He finally put on his pajamas and took a moment to breathe before leaving the bathroom.

Quiet, warm. Normal. Nothing waiting to eviscerate him. He sighed, feeling about half of his muscles relax all at once, and shuffled to the bedroom. He felt like he should write... It was his job, after all. Instead, he lay down on his stomach and imagined a scenario in which he was taller and less squishy and not afraid of anything in the world. The daydream quickly dissipated though—too unrealistic, even for an author of poorly written supernatural fiction. He turned his head to the side so he could breathe and turned his thoughts to other things. More appealing things—things like Michael, wet, in a partially see-through white t-shirt. Much more realistic. And much sexier.

Chuck hid his face in his pillow.

And he thought to himself, "I shouldn't be embarrassed. He's hot. I'm married to him. I can fantasize about my hot husband all I want." But he still blushed, as he resisted the reflexive urge to stick his hand down his pants. He didn't even want to masturbate, not really. He just wanted to think about Michael. Michael reading. Michael cooking. Michael bathing. Michael in wet, see-through clothes... taking his shirt off... kissing Chuck and pinning him down...

"Shit." Chuck rolled onto his back and covered his face. He willed his pulse to slow. Focused on his breathing and murmured to himself, "How did I get him?" He eyed the ring on his finger. Rolled upright—off of the bed—and went to the bookshelf, crouching down so he could search through the reference books until he found a thick photo album. A scrapbook. He sat down beside the bookshelf and opened the satiny white cover. Ran his finger over the first page. Perfectly scripted words in deep blue ink, simple but elegant. "The Shurley-Milton Wedding."

Chuck flipped the page. It thunked a little, weighted down by a small, square envelope affixed to the thick paper. He opened the flap and pulled out his engagement ring. Just a narrow silver band with a tiny little round crystal in it. Not diamond—nothing so fancy. Chuck would have felt uncomfortable in a flashy, more expensive diamond ring. Michael obviously knew that when he went for silver and quartz instead. Chuck turned the ring around so the gem caught the light, and he smiled. He slipped it onto his finger, snug against the wood grain patterned steel of his wedding band.

Silver, steel, more silver. Just the one tiny stone.

Rubbing his thumb over the bands, Chuck turned his attention back to the scrapbook. There weren't any photos on the ring's page—just the small envelope and a label. But across from it were two pictures. One, a grinning selfie of them on the couch in Michael's old apartment, with Chuck holding his hand up by his face as if he couldn't believe the thing on his finger. They'd put that photo up on Facebook as a kind of announcement. It was silly and sweet, and Chuck couldn't help but smile wider.

The other photo was softer. Chuck, sitting with his chin on knees, arms wrapped around his legs, flushed and looking away. Looking at it, Chuck could remember how shy he felt after the first photo. Remembered Michael's quiet words—"I feel blessed," he'd said. "I feel blessed to have met you." And that always sat funny in Chuck's chest, that someone as smart and handsome and patient as Michael could feel blessed to be with Chuck, when Chuck found himself wondering what his appeal was every day. But Michael had said that, and took a photo of Chuck's half-hidden face, and then kissed him all over.

Chuck rubbed his eyes. He blamed the dryness of winter for making them water.

He flipped through the rest of the pages, one at a time. A lot of pictures of relatives, and guests. Michael's whole family, gathered into one shot. Then all of them plus Michael and Chuck in the center. A few distant relatives of Chuck's—he barely knew them, but somehow ended up inviting them anyway. An aunt, and some cousins. A grandmother he'd only met a few times. No parents. They both died years before. Some of Chuck's friends from college were there. An ex-girlfriend, even. Michael's own friends, as well.

There was a photo of Anna and her pregnant belly, looking beautiful in a deep blue blouse with Jo at her side. Michael must have taken it.

Chuck only found a photo of himself several pages in. Probably because he'd spent a large portion of that day in the bathroom trying not to vomit. Just one big bundle of nerves and nausea wrapped up in a white tuxedo... That was the first photo, essentially. Chuck, sitting on the floor in his tux, leaning his forehead against a toilet seat and flipping off the photographer—Luke. Thought it was funny to take a picture of a suffering man, obviously.

After that, Chuck appeared in more of the photos. Pictures of him getting ready. Double and triple-checking his tuxedo, smoothing his hair, smiling nervously at Luke or whoever else was photographing him.

Another photo of Chuck looking pale and ill, but happy, as his old college roommate led him down the aisle. (He never would have made it alone, and without a parent to walk him to the altar...the task had fallen to a friend.)

Chuck and Michael, facing each other, hand in hand. Michael slipping the band onto Chuck's finger. Them kissing. Their backs, as Michael led Chuck out to the car so they could go home before Chuck passed out from relief.

One more photo, and this time Michael was carrying Chuck because he'd tripped down the steps on their way out of the church. That was just after the anxiety medication had really kicked in and made Chuck dizzy as hell. He'd certainly enjoyed the pervading sense of ease, after that. Though he felt fairly sure he'd also almost thrown up in the car. Key word being "almost." But not quite.

After that, there were a few blank pages. But then, at the very end, almost on the inside of the cover, was one photo of Michael and Chuck asleep on the couch, both still in their tuxedos—Chuck was laying on top of Michael, head against his chest, while Michael's hand rested on the small of his back. Underneath it, someone had written "Just married" in looping green-gold letters. It didn't match most of the rest of the ink in the album, and Chuck wondered if that was because it was purposefully different—green was his favorite color, after all, while navy was Michael's. Gabriel and Anna had put the scrapbook together as a gift, and he vaguely remembered them asking about that. So perhaps they added the metallic green in, as little curly accents on the other pages and a word here and there, because of him.

Chuck ran his fingertip down the edge of the photograph. Ended up staring at the rings on his finger. He wasn't used to the slight glitter of quartz. He kind of liked it. Didn't feel like it was too feminine, or too gaudy for his tastes. Maybe Michael had been right, that he would look fine in expensive things. He still felt silly, though.

He kept the ring on his finger as he put the book away and stood. He wanted to do something, but he didn't want to think. Didn't want to read, or write, or even watch anything. Maybe he would just lay down instead... He was already in his pajamas, anyway. So he climbed into bed. Cuddled up with his bunny and burrowed himself into the blankets, and thought about nothing in particular.

---

The phone didn't ring all day. Not until Michael got off work, late, at eight o'clock.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you at lunch."

Chuck stroked the cat as he replied, "It's okay. I promise. I'm fine." He sighed. "I even made lunch without needing to be reminded and there was only a little bit of creepiness."

The sound of the car door closing came through the speaker. "I'm glad. What was creepy, though?"

"The radio kinda went on the fritz, and the wind was banging the door." Chuck rolled onto his stomach, hugging Gertrude to his side. "Nothing else, thankfully." He tickled the cat's chin and she nibbled at his finger.

"Good, good. I'll be home soon, then."

"Okay." Chuck paused. "Drive safe."

Michael said, "I love you." He hung up, leaving Chuck with a silent phone.

Chuck set his phone on the bed and stuck his face into Gertrude's fuzzy side. She purred. Even let Chuck bundle her into his arms as he rolled onto his back. He kissed the top of her head. She blinked at him, green eye glinting in the dim light from the lamp. The sky was dark outside, all deep purple clouds. Stormy. Threatening. A few flakes of snow drifted past the window at the head of the bed, and Chuck hoped that wouldn't affect Michael's drive home. But his hopes weren't too high, considering how unprepared the area always seemed for snow. He sighed.

Surprisingly, though, Chuck only lay there for about an hour before he heard the sound of the car outside. Beside him, Gertrude perked up. She tilted her head to the side, listening, before bolting from the room. She all but galloped down the stairs, from the sound of it, and Chuck wondered what had her so suddenly energized. Chuck slipped out of bed and peeked out into the hallway. Nothing out of the ordinary other than the deep shadows of a windowless hall. The nightlight threw out a pale red glow, and pasted Chuck's silhouette against the wallpaper as he walked past. The stairs seemed to creak louder than usual as he went downstairs, but he thought that might just be paranoia on his part.

Through the living room, and there was Michael in the hall, between the doorway to the living room and the doorway to the kitchen.

"Welcome home." Chuck kissed Michael, draping his arms over his shoulders and getting in the way as Michael tried to take off his scarf. He pulled back after a second so Michael could finish unwinding his scarf, and went for the buttons of his coat. "I was lonely without you." Chuck undid the last button before pushing Michael's coat off of his shoulders. Hopped up on his tiptoes to kiss him again.

Michael let his coat slip off of his arms and fall to the floor, reaching for Chuck's waist once his hands were free. He managed to say, "Me too," between kisses. Tilted his head down, allowing Chuck to stand flat on his feet. He ran a hand up Chuck's side. Eventually pulled back just enough to speak, with their foreheads pressed together. "Did you accidentally take an aphrodisiac, or did I just happen to come home at a time when you were aroused?"

Chuck laughed. "I just missed you." He leaned against Michael, ducking his head. He nuzzled against Michael's neck and muttered, "I wanna snuggle."

"Oh, is that all?" Michael wrapped his arms around Chuck with a half-formed smirk.

"Yeah, that's all." Chuck was tempted to bite Michael (not hard, just playfully) but he resisted the urge and poked him in the chest instead. "Wanna snuggle with you and your manly arms." He poked at his bicep, too. For a moment, he let his hand rest against Michael's arm, but then he let it drop and looked up at Michael. Face serious, he said, "I'm hungry."

Michael let out a soft laugh under his breath. "Alright, alright." He cupped Chuck's face between his hands, briefly. Turned away, bending down to pick up his coat and scarf as he said, "You're starving and horny, I get it." He took his stuff into the hall, so he could hang his coat on one of the hooks by the door. Draped his scarf over it as well. "Come in here, and I'll heat something up." He pulled Chuck after him into the kitchen.

The last bits of some leftover soup made up their dinner, along with some toast made from stale French bread. Gertrude tried to stick her nose in Michael's bowl, appearing from nowhere just for his soup, but he shooed her away and went to fill her bowl.

After dinner, Chuck followed Michael upstairs and they got ready for bed.

Chuck turned off most of the lights, but he kept the lamp in the corner on—let it spread a soft, golden light through the bedroom and climbed onto the bed. Onto Michael. He straddled Michael, in fact, and encouraged him to take his shirt off. Michael did more than that, slipping out of his t-shirt and then helping Chuck out of his own, as well. He pulled Chuck down for a kiss. Ran his fingers through Chuck's hair and suddenly seemed to realize something. He broke their kiss long enough to ask, quietly, "Did you cut your hair while I was at work?"

Chuck grinned. "I trimmed the shaved parts." He covered Michael's hands with his own, and lowered his voice, suddenly bashful. Averted his eyes. "Do you like it?"

"Of course I like it." Michael brushed their noses together. "You always look handsome, but you're even more attractive with neat hair." He pressed his lips to Chuck's, more gently than before. Chuck melted against him. Grew pliable under his touch, and sighed at the slightest caress. Michael rolled him onto his back, as he kissed down his throat and chest. Hesitated at his stomach, and looked up at Chuck with his hands on the waistband of his boxers.

Chuck nudged him with his knee. "It's okay. The drugs haven't kicked in yet, you don't have to worry about me not being able to consent or anything." He folded his hands against his chest. "I want this—Think of it like... a New Year's present for us both."

"Alright." Michael laughed, under his breath, as he mouthed at Chuck's stomach.

---

"Dude," Chuck pointed his fork at Michael. "You know I'm down with oral sex at bedtime. But... a six a.m. pounding? Not so much." He stabbed his pancake a little more viciously than he intended as he continued, "I think you broke my pelvis." He shoved his breakfast into his mouth with a shake of his head.

Michael had the decency to look ashamed, as he stirred a spoonful of vanilla almond milk into his orange juice. He set his spoon on the table. "My apologies." He reached for Chuck's free hand, tapping his fingertips against Chuck's knuckles. "I was... overeager." He turned Chuck's hand over so he could trace the lines of his palm.

Mouth full, Chuck mumbled, "You were rough." He continued to eat, and ignored Michael's touch.

"You enjoyed it, though. Right? You would tell me if you didn't like it." Michael leaned down and kissed Chuck's palm. Smiled softly. Ducked his head. "Anyway, I wasn't the one who kept saying, 'don't stop.'"

Chuck rolled his eyes, but grinned. He held onto Michael's hand with a quiet click of his tongue. "You're blushing." He tugged Michael's hand up and kissed his knuckles.

"I'm not..." Michael raised his other hand to his own face, almost as if he wanted to hide the slight pink flush staining his skin. He moved his hand, and rubbed the back of his neck. Spoke almost under his breath—"I'm warm, that's all." He met Chuck's eyes. Poked at his lower lip with his middle finger. "Just warm."

With a laugh, Chuck nipped at the tip of Michael's finger, holding tight to his wrist. "Oh, sure—you're warm... Warm from being all embarrassed! You think I don't know what it's like to blush?!"

"Oh, I underestimated your memory, I suppose." Michael pulled his hand away. "And your levels of cannibalism, apparently." He frowned down at his finger. "Trying to eat me, like some piece of candy." He scoffed and sipped from his milky orange juice before continuing with, "I should report you."

Chuck kicked at Michael's ankle under the table. His foot barely connected, but he figured the point was clear. Teasing back and forth, pretend violence. He leaned on his elbows and bit his lip, batting his eyes at Michael—movements exaggerated, of course. "Are you shy?" He crossed his ankles. "Scared of a little old man like me—who, by the way, does not appreciate that comment about his memory." He pretended to glare at Michael, just for a second. Quickly caved into a crooked smile, leaning his chin more heavily on his hand. "But I forgive you, 'cause you're handsome."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Are you flirting with me, Mr. Shurley?"

Shrugging, Chuck walked his fingers along the tabletop. He poked Michael's arm. "Shouldn't you have said 'Mr. Shurley-Milton'?" He laughed. "That sounds strange, doesn't it?"

"It's only been a month." Michael snatched at Chuck's hand—kissed his fingertips before he could get away and said, "In a few years, I'm sure anybody could call you 'Shurley-Milton' and you wouldn't even notice."

"As long as they don't call me Charles."

Michael made a face. "That would be too strange."

Chuck wrinkled his nose and wiggled his fingers, slipping them out of Michael's grip. "Charles Shurley-Milton sounds like someone who isn't me." His forehead crinkled. "Someone stuffy and old."

"Probably Canadian."

Chuck laughed. "Something like that."

---

"Wait, okay—" Chuck kept Gertrude from scampering off, hands around her waist. "Just a little bit?" He managed to get her into his arms, as he spoke around the handle of a cat brush. "I'll be nice, I promise!" He wrestled with her a moment, trying to get the brush out of his mouth with one hand while holding her with the other. Got the bristles through her fur one time before she squirmed free and ran off. Chuck sighed. He put the cat brush on the coffee table and pulled himself onto the couch. He sprawled out with his head against the arm, folding his hands over his stomach. "I guess today is not a brushing day." He looked out the window.

Slush coated the road and sidewalk in streaks, marked by tire treads and foot prints. A dog sniffed at the edge of the yard as it walked past with its owner—almost stopped to pee, but apparently changed its mind. Chuck wondered if he could use the slush and melting snow to build a snowman. Probably not.

He squinted.

No harm in trying. He hauled himself to his feet and went upstairs. He needed something warm to wear... Wool socks and a pair of leggings underneath loose jeans. A nice long sleeved thermal shirt, oatmeal colored with little orange foxes on it—Chuck had definitely not bought it from the junior's section of Target. Absolutely not. (Except he absolutely had.) Over that, a thick brown sweater, knitted by Michael himself. Probably good enough, as long as he wore something waterproof over it. Luckily, his raincoat was hanging in the closet. A bright green shell to prevent him from getting all wet. It rustled as he went downstairs, searching for his shoes.

He found one by the shoe rack and the other—Gertrude lay under the kitchen table, gnawing on the laces. Chuck convinced her to let go, muttering, "Someone's feisty today." He put his shoes on, and the cat only tried to bat at his fingers once. She followed him to the door, but didn't go outside, so he shut it behind him.

The slush squelched under the soles of his shoes, and he realized that (perhaps) he should have worn something a little less thin. He ignored the water seeping in through the canvas sides of his Converse and crouched down in the yard so he could start putting together some kind of ball. It sort of worked. The combination of slush and snow crumbled as he tried to roll it into a sphere, but it retained most of its shape. Chuck made a second ball of snow, the size of a small melon, and stuck it on top. It squished a little. The head of the slushman was essentially just a melty snowball, packed together between Chuck's hands.

Chuck stared at his attempted snowman.

"Good enough." He wiped his hands on his pants and stood up. Sure, his snowman didn't have a face or arms, and sure it was made out of slush... but it was enough for him. He went inside and headed straight for the kitchen, stripping out of his raincoat as he went. He made a beeline for the sink. Turned it on and let the water warm up and stuck his hands beneath the faucet. He let it run until his fingertips no longer hurt from the cold, and wiped them on his pants instead of a towel, as he left the sink. Bad habit, but it could have been worse. At least he didn't smoke, anymore.

A meow came from the doorway, and Chuck turned his head. Gertrude was sprawled out on her back, hind legs sticking out into the hall, stretching her front paws into the kitchen. Her whiskers twitched. Chuck waved at her. Came over and dropped to his knees in front of her, holding his hand out. She licked his fingertips.

"Good kitty." Chuck patted her head.

With a meow, she squirmed away and dashed off.

"Fine, be that way." Chuck stood, supporting himself on the doorway. He leaned against it for a moment, back to the kitchen, face to the shadows of the hallway. The lights in the kitchen flickered. He glanced over his shoulder—turned around and went to the pantry. Peeked in at the canned food and laundry before shutting it firmly. He double-checked the lock on the back door, as well. It rattled, but the lock was in place. He left the kitchen, shutting off the lights before they could flicker again, and made his way upstairs. He wanted to sleep. His few dregs of energy had drained away when he made that slushy snowman, and he felt like collapsing and not moving for a long time. Plus, his head spun.

He climbed into bed fully dressed and lay on his stomach, face half-pressed into his pillow. Let out a sigh as he closed his eyes.

Chuck could hear the light tap tap tap of rain on the windows. His slushman would definitely melt. Oh well. He ignored the slight creaking that slipped through the hush of the rain and rolled himself up in his blankets. Took his glasses off and set them on Michael's pillow as he bundled himself up. The house continued to creak, and Chuck felt almost as if he was on a slowly spinning boat—unsteady and dizzy and nearly floating. His forehead creased, and his nose wrinkled as he scrunched his face up. He opened his eyes to softly lit bookshelves, the insistent tapping of rain, and Gertrude staring at him. She sat in front of the bookshelf, tail flicking, watching Chuck.

Rather, she watched a spot just above him.

Reluctantly, Chuck turned his head to look up, reaching for his glasses.

Nothing. He slipped his glasses on, and still saw nothing.

Almost immediately, Gertrude let out a chirp and trotted away from the bookshelves, hopping into the dirty laundry pile across the room, in front of the closet. Chuck frowned at her. "You scared me." He sat up, pulling the blankets around him like a cloak, and said, "I thought something was gonna jump out and eat me!"

Gertrude just twitched her ears and rested her chin on an inside-out pair of jeans.

"Buttface."

Despite the lack of monsters in the corners of the bedroom, Chuck still felt off. The hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stood up, and he shivered. He rubbed the goosebumps from his arms. Pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, keeping eye contact with the cat.

Outside, the rain hardened for a second—a rush against the side of the house, hard and drumming. Chuck crawled to the foot of the bed so he could look through the doors to the porch. The windows blurred with water, but he could still just make out the dim burn of street lights. He wondered how intense the storm would be, and as if on cue a flash illuminated the bedroom, sending watery silhouettes against the walls. Thunder rolled almost immediately after, loud and close. An overhead thunderstorm with no prior warning.

Chuck crawled back to the other end of the bed. He got up on his knees and pressed his nose to the glass of the window above the headboard. Lightning flashed again, practically blinding him as the thunder rattled his bones. He blinked hard a few times and peered out into the backyard. The bare trees shook in the wind, and all traces of snow had been beaten into the dirt and grass. Puddles covered the ground instead of ice and the sky was a deep, bruised gray.

The storm went almost as quickly as it came, rolling off into the clouds until Chuck couldn't hear a thing out of the ordinary.

He sank down, still facing the window, and watched water droplets slide down the glass. The rain itself had let up as the thunder and lightning drifted away. Now, the only sound was his own breathing and pulse, the click of water dripping out of the gutters, and the slight creak of settling wood. Chuck looked over his shoulder. The cat was asleep in the laundry, and the door was shut. He frowned—the door had been open before, and Gertrude certainly hadn't closed it.

Chuck shook his head and looked down at the blankets. Pale blue sheets and a thick comforter and a hand-made quilt, cream-colored and patterned with pansies. Michael had made it, around the time Chuck first moved in with him, in his apartment in Oregon, a year and a half earlier.

Chuck ran his fingers over some of the blue and purple flowers.

He wanted Michael to be home, or at least to call him. He looked over at the clock. Almost six... Almost time for Michael to get back, depending on traffic and weather. Chuck lay back down and covered his head with the blankets. He resolved to stay there until after Michael came home—until Michael looked for him.

It wasn't as long a wait as usual. Michael actually pulled into the driveway at a normal time—Chuck glanced at the clock when the front door opened and Michael announced his presence. It read 06:53. Chuck stuck his head back under the covers and listened to the clatter of pots and pans downstairs, as Michael washed the dishes. Chuck frowned. He'd meant to do that, earlier. But then he'd been so tired after making the slushy snowman... and he'd just lost track.

Michael didn't come upstairs for a long while, not even to make sure Chuck was in the house.

But, finally, the door swung open, and Michael brought a bowl of spaghetti and some toast over to Chuck. As he set their food down on the bookshelf, he murmured, "I asked you to do the dishes." He didn't look angry... but he clearly wasn't pleased, either.

"Sorry..." Chuck sat up, cocooned in the blankets, and gave Michael his most apologetic face. He sighed and scooted over to the edge of the bed. "I... forgot." He grabbed his toast and nibbled on it. Stared down at the floor rather than look Michael in the eye. But Michael sat down beside him and leaned down so he could see his face. Purposefully made eye contact. Chuck couldn't help but meet his gaze. He whispered, "Sorry." again and looked away.

Michael reached for him—slipped his hand under Chuck's chin, and turned his face to look at him again. He shook his head. "It's alright." He pulled Chuck into a hug, warm and loose. "I was annoyed, at first, but I'm not angry." He rubbed Chuck's side. "I know you forget, sometimes, and I know that it can be difficult for you to do much other than nap, some days." He rested his chin against the top of Chuck's head.

Chuck closed his eyes. "Promise you're not mad?"

"Promise." Michael tightened his hug. "But... tomorrow, could you do some cleaning? Even if it's just the litterbox?"

"Okay." Chuck pulled away from Michael, stomach growling. He grabbed his bowl of noodles and set it on his lap, poking at it with his fork. Steam engulfed his hand. He glanced at Michael for a moment, noting his still-stern expression. "Michael—" He stared down into his spaghetti. "I'm really sorry, Michael. I'm sorry for being so... such a hassle. So helpless."

Frown softening, Michael set his hand against Chuck's back. "No, Chuck." He leaned closer to kiss Chuck on the cheek. "You're not a hassle. I'm just tired, and you know how I get grumpy when I'm tired. I should apologize for being cross with you."

"I dunno, man." Chuck took a bite of his noodles. "You're so patient. Anyone else would have probably, like... dumped me by now. Never would've married me, 'cause I'm work."

Michael reached for his own dinner. He scooted closer to Chuck, brushing their arms together. "You're not work." He let out a quiet breath. "Being with you is anything but work."

Chuck gave Michael half of a smile. "I missed you, today."

The bed squeaked under their combined weight, as Michael leaned into Chuck, wrapping an arm around his waist just for a moment. He drew his arm back as he said, "I missed you, too." He twirled some noodles onto his fork. "I would much rather be with you than do paperwork." He took a bite. Grimaced. "I hate spaghetti."

"Me too." Chuck took another bite, anyway, because he was hungry. "To both of those." He shoveled more spaghetti into his mouth, curling his toes in the carpet. He watched Michael for a moment as he ate. Mumbled, "Why'd you make it if you hate it?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "I told you, I'm tired." He smiled, though. "And it's easy. Also, don't talk with your mouth full."

"Okay, dad."

Michael wrinkled his nose. As he stood, he said, "I know I've asked you not to call me that. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Oh," Chuck swallowed his food before continuing. "Would you like it better if I called you daddy?"

"No." Michael left the room.

Chuck laughed to himself as he finished eating. He followed Michael downstairs with his mostly empty bowl, calling out, "Does it make you uncomfortable when I call you grandpa?" He poked his head into the kitchen. "What about uncle?" He smirked. "But you're younger than me. Son?" He carried his bowl over to the sink and pretended not to see Michael's feigned glare. "Oh, I know, I'll just stick to snookums."

Michael snorted. "Snookums is ridiculous, but I'd honestly prefer that to some kind of pseudo-incestuous pet name." He wrapped his arms around Chuck, pressing his lips against his temple. "I would rather you call me by my name, though."

"Oh, Michael?" Chuck lifted his hand to Michael's face. "I guess."

"I'll start calling you Charles."

Chuck made a face. "I mean, it's better than Charlotte but God, please don't call me Charles."

Michael smirked and kissed Chuck's face again before pulling away. He took Chuck's hand. Led him into the living room, to the couch. He sat, and pulled Chuck down to sit in his lap—Chuck went with no further urging.

Chuck leaned against Michael, breathing softly. "Did you hear the thunderstorm, earlier?" He twined his fingers with Michael's, as Michael hugged him close. Closed his eyes and continued, "Came out of nowhere and went away real fast."

Humming, Michael took a moment to think. He pressed his nose against Chuck's cheek. Eventually murmured, "I thought I heard something, but it was far away."

"Oh."

Chuck shifted in Michael's lap, squinting an eye open to look out the front window, quiet. Without his glasses on, it was mostly a blur, but he could just make out the street lamp as the sky darkened. He opened his mouth to say something, but a distant grumble made him shut his mouth right away. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as if that would help him see better—he kept one hand on Michael's shoulder, to keep himself from falling off of the couch.

He almost fell despite that, when a bright flash startled him, reflecting off the coffee table. A louder rumble sounded and he leaned back against Michael again.

"Looks like your storm is coming back." Michael squeezed Chuck's side. "It heard you talking."

Chuck shook his head, smiling. He slid off Michael's lap and onto the cushion beside him, resting his cheek on Michael's shoulder. "Like one of those things where if you talk about it, it shows up—" He laughed. "A cursed thunderstorm."

They watched the storm, together—well, Chuck listened to it and flinched every time a bright flash illuminated the street. Michael stroked his hand through Chuck's hair, cheek pressed against the top of his head. The rain on the street made a shushing noise like rice pouring into a glass jar. It didn't take long before the drains in the street bubbled over with water, spewing it back onto the pavement. The combination of melting snow and hard rain must have filled them up faster than usual.

A fork of lightning flicked across the sky, bleaching the street, and the windows rattled with the thunder.

Seconds later, a brighter flash of light, blue and pale, flooded the living room, accompanied by a loud bang. With a flinch, Chuck clung to Michael.

The lights dimmed, flickering before brightening momentarily and dropping again.

Michael stood, leaving Chuck on the couch as he pressed his forehead to the window, trying to see what had happened. He left the living room and went outside.

Chuck watched him, as he walked out to the sidewalk and looked around.

Another flash and bang shocked a yelp from Chuck, and Michael ran back inside, pelted by rain. As he shut the front door, the lights went out completely. He swore and hurried into the living room, eager to get out of the black shadows of the hallway. He sat beside Chuck again, a slight tremor in his hand.

"What was that?" Chuck laced his fingers with Michael's, almost as a reflex.

Michael shook his head. "I think the transformer blew out, or something..." He kissed Chuck's forehead, eyes half shut, and murmured, "Would explain why the power's out." His fingers tightened on Chuck's hand and he ducked his head. Pushed his face against Chuck's neck, breath warm against his skin.

"Should I go get the flashlight—" Chuck made to move, but Michael kept him from standing, wrapping his arms tightly around Chuck's waist. Chuck frowned. "Just for a second, Michael. It's not even that dark yet. See?" He gestured toward the window. No more streetlights, but the dim illumination of storm clouds made a pallid haze of the street, and lightning brightened it every few minutes. After a long roll of thunder, deep through their bones, Chuck whispered, "I'll just be in the kitchen for a minute." He peeled Michael off of him.

Reluctantly, Michael let him go. He looked out the window, barely twitching at the lightning.

Chuck hurried toward the front hall. He paused in the doorway, just for a moment. No windows made for a deep blackness that intimidated him. He squeezed his eyes shut and ran into the kitchen, glad that the doorways for the kitchen and living room stood directly across from each other. When his feet touched linoleum, he opened his eyes and went straight for the cupboards. He found a large, industrial flashlight shoved behind the candy and snacks. Tested the button—it sent a disc of light the size of a hubcap against the far wall. He kept it on as he went into the pantry, nervous but certain there was a lamp somewhere in there.

Sure enough, he found a camping lantern on one of the shelves above the washing machine.

With a triumphant grin, he made his way back to the living room, barely pausing in the hallway as he swung the flashlight beam toward the front door and the closet door, instinctively. He hurried past, though. Ignored the shadows sent up against the walls and ceiling, and headed back to the couch. Michael wasn't sitting on the couch—he was perched up on the windowsill, forehead pressed to the damp glass, watching the rain fall in sheets.

"Get away from the window, Michael." Chuck shuffled close, curling his toes in the slight chill along the floor. He held his hand out, with the lamp dangling from his fingers. He expected Michael to take the lamp from him, but Michael grabbed his wrist instead. Chuck sighed, but tried to give him a reassuring smile in the unsteady light from the window. He pulled him away, around the couch and towards the stairs.

Michael resisted, wordlessly. He let go of Chuck and hunched his shoulders, mouth twisting.

Chuck pushed the camping lantern into his arms, lowering his voice to say, "I know it's dark, but we have the lights. We can go in the bedroom and hang the lamp from the ceiling. Okay?" He patted Michael's arm. "But first we gotta get up there, so I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me, Michael?"

Meeting Chuck's eyes, Michael nodded, knuckles white on the handle of the lantern. He grabbed Chuck's free hand. Held tight, almost painfully, and let Chuck lead him to the stairs. He screwed his eyes shut, and focused on the feel of the steps under his feet—best not to trip. He didn't want to hurt himself, or Chuck, after all. But even with the flashlight aimed up the stairs he couldn't bring himself to look at the darkness creeping along the edges of his vision.

They went in relative silence, and Chuck didn't bring up Michael's closed eyes or his too-tight grip.

The last step hit Michael like a kick to the stomach, as he misjudged, assuming he had one more step to go. But Chuck whispered to him, "Careful—" and steadied him. "Just a little further, right? Then we'll be in the bedroom."

Michael nodded.

The carpet rustled under the soles of his shoes—he should have taken them off earlier, but he'd gotten distracted by Chuck's enthusiastic greeting and the storm. He let out a soft breath, trembling but quiet. Chuck squeezed his hand.

"Open your eyes, please." Chuck shut the bedroom door behind them, pulling his hand from Michael's and flexing his fingers to get the blood running right. He set the flashlight on the computer desk and took the lantern from Michael. "I'll hang this up, and it'll be just like sleeping with night lights. Right?" He turned the dial to the highest setting, and light spilled across the floor.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Michael nodded. He watched Chuck grab a chair and climb onto it to hang the lamp from a hook on the ceiling—a hook for a plant, presumably.

The room was still dim, as Chuck climbed off of the chair, but it was at least partially illuminated and that was enough for Michael. Chuck could see the relief slide through his limbs, as his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face. Chuck pushed the chair back to the desk and sat beside Michael. The bed squeaked under his sudden weight. He leaned against Michael and murmured, "The battery should last all night long." He set his hand on Michael's thigh. Smiled at him. "I'll keep you safe. And we have the flashlight for if one of us has to pee or something."

Michael heaved out a sigh. He twisted, wrapping his arms around Chuck, and pulled him down against the blankets. "Thank you." He tightened his embrace. "I know it's silly for a grown man to be afraid of the dark, so thank you for putting up with me."

"Whatever," Chuck shoved Michael onto his back with a playful grin. "I'm scared of all sorts of things and you're always there when I need you to be. The least I can do is make you feel better." He settled down on top of Michael, resting his head against Michael's chest. He listened to the sound of Michael's breathing, as it steadied. Listened to his heart rate slowly dip to a more usual speed. After a few long seconds of silence, Chuck tilted his head up and asked, "Are you okay now?"

With a slight exhale, Michael nodded. "Mostly." He set his hand against the back of Chuck's head, brushing his fingers over the short hairs. He liked the way the shaved part felt under his palm, all soft and bristly. "It helps to have a fuzzy kitten on top of me." He smirked.

For a second, Chuck's face twisted in confusion. "Gertrude's not here—" Then he bopped Michael's forehead with an exaggerated frown. "I'm not a kitten!"

Michael laughed.

For a long while, Chuck lay on top of Michael, and they didn't say much of anything. Michael almost fell asleep, but Chuck poked at him until he pushed Chuck away and sat up. They settled together against the headboard, propped up by pillows, and Michael turned on a little booklight as he flipped through the book Raphael had gotten Chuck. Chuck leaned against Michael's shoulder as he read out loud.

Eventually, Michael fell asleep in earnest, halfway through a sentence. Chuck took the book, marked the page, and jabbed at him with a finger until he woke up. "Michael, you need to brush your teeth."

So Michael let Chuck light the way to the bathroom and they got ready for bed, with the flashlight pointed at the bathroom mirror so it would be brighter. They got back in bed as quick as they could, and Michael was already just about asleep by the time Chuck got comfortable under the covers. He snuggled closer, cold and grateful for Michael's high body temperature. It took him longer than normal to fall asleep, but eventually he must have, because the next thing he knew he was jolted awake by the bedroom lights snapping on, and the bathroom fan suddenly coming to life.

Chuck squinted, rolling out of bed as Michael grumbled under the covers. He peeked out the window from the porch—the streetlights were all on, and several of the neighbors' windows had lit up. Chuck rubbed his face. As relieving as that was, he would have to go downstairs to turn off the lights. He sighed, and left Michael to hide grumpily under the blankets, flicking the switch off as he went.

All the way to the kitchen, tripping on the cat on his way, and then all the way back upstairs, turning off lights one switch at a time.

When he finally got back into the bedroom, he used a broom to hit the camping lantern until the dial turned and it went out. He'd take it off of the ceiling in the morning, when he was less likely to fall over from dizziness. For the moment, he just wanted to get into bed. He climbed under the covers, and listened to the heaters click to life as he snuggled up with Michael.

---

Stepping out of the shower, Chuck felt a brush of air against his bare skin—almost like the slight touch of a cool hand. He shuddered and hurried to dry himself off. Moved quickly, and got into his clothes the moment he was no longer completely wet. As it was, his jeans still gave him trouble, clinging to the slight dampness of his thighs. He grumbled. Tried his best to ignore the vague, creeping feeling that he was being watched, and focused on getting his hair to be less of an unruly mess.

He wiped at the mirror, trying to clear it up. As he glowered at himself in the glass, the lights gave a brief flicker. He glanced up at the ceiling. Nothing else seemed amiss—the lights didn't flicker again. He stood listening to the fan and the slight drip of the showerhead. Other than that, silence. No movement, either. He shook his head and left the bathroom, turning off the light as he went. The switch gave a slight crackle, and he paused in the doorway. Flicked it up, and back down, and both times it made a quiet little snapping sound. He frowned.

He made a brief detour to grab his phone from the bedroom, and walked downstairs as he searched his contacts and dialed Raphael. He figured Raphael might know if something was up with the light switches—he seemed to know a lot about electronics, anyway.

No luck, though. Straight to voice mail. So Chuck left a message asking for Raphael to call him back if he knew anything about crackly light switches, then pocketed his phone. The cat trotted after him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere but probably coming from under the couch or the coffee table. Chuck crouched down to pet her.

"Hey there." He scratched her chin with a smile. "Are you gonna go on a walk with me, or should I just let you get hair on all the furniture?" He ruffled her ears and she purred at him before deciding that she wanted to do something else—she slipped away, stalking a piece of dust or something equally small. Chuck shook his head and went into the hall so he could put on his coat and scarf.

The sidewalk (and just about everything else in sight) was slick with rain, but the sky was completely clear. Chuck hoped it would stay that way, as he locked the front door. He didn't want to go back in and grab his umbrella. He didn't even know where it was. Probably in the closet. He stuck his hands in his pockets and set off down the street.

He noticed, as he walked away from the house, that his slushman was still there. Sort of. Just a little lump of ice in the front yard. He sighed. "Poor slush guy."

Chuck stopped at the street corner and leaned forward to see around some bare bushes. When he felt absolutely certain there were no cars coming, he ran across the road. Almost tripped, trying to run with his hands jammed into his pockets, but managed to rebalance himself with some awkward hopping as he got up onto the sidewalk again. An old lady tittered at him from her front yard, where she sat planting seeds in the damp, cold dirt. Chuck pretended not to notice her, walking fast to get past her house. He wondered what she was planting. It was early January, after all. A little cold for most plants. Maybe onions. He shrugged to himself and hurried down the street.

He had no idea where he was going; he just wanted to explore. A sudden urge to leave the house had struck him over breakfast, prompting him to shower and get out. He thought fresh air might be nice for him, and also worried that if he tried to use the stove the power would go out again, and stay out instead of coming back on in the middle of the night.

A dog barked at him as he approached one house, so he shied away and crossed the street to avoid it. Sure, it probably didn't mean any harm, but it was big and loud. He scurried off around a corner. Pulled his scarf up to cover his nose, as the breeze picked up, and looked around. Nice, old houses, for the most part. Chuck passed them by, glancing up at them as he walked. He thought the wide windows and scalloped trims were pretty—liked, in particular, one house with dark sides, and a bright red door flanked by narrow windows, and white lights strung along the edge of the roof. The lights' reflection glittered on the wet pavement.

Chuck turned some more corners, and wandered down some more roads, gradually getting more lost as the sun rose higher in the sky. His stomach grumbled. Something smelled like baked chocolate, and he could definitely see some more steam and smoke than before. He walked a little faster. Waited for a few cars to rush past before running across the street, toward what looked like a bakery.

Sure enough, when he pushed his way inside he was assaulted with heat and the smell of baked goods. The door jingled as it swung shut behind him, and he shuffled over to the display case to see what kind of foods might be for sale. Lots of cookies, croissants, fruit cake. Everything to be expected. Leftover Santa cookies, too. And pie. Maybe just a piece of pumpkin bread...

But, oh, they had donuts as well, and Chuck could never resist a custard filled chocolate bar.

Just as he made up his mind, his phone rang. He backed away from the counter, into a corner out of the way, and checked the caller ID. Raphael. He answered with a quiet, "Hello? Is our house going to explode?"

"You said your light switches are crackling?"

Chuck leaned against the wall, sticking his free hand in the pocket of his coat. "Yeah, they are. The other day, when there was this big storm, the transformer exploded and our power was out but they replaced that, but since then the switches have been all crackly sounding, especially upstairs. And the lights have been flickering but they kind of already did that... To be honest, I think the house is haunted, or something."

On the other end, Raphael chuckled—Chuck flushed with a mix of pride and embarrassment. Either Raphael was laughing at him, or laughing at his words, but it made Chuck feel pretty special considering Raphael's usual response to jokes and amusing situations. (A knowing smirk, most often, with the occasional mischievous glint in his eye.) Chuck scratched the back of his leg with his foot and went on to say, "Any advice?"

"I would advise you to call an electrician." A brief pause. "Perhaps a Ghostbuster, as well."

Chuck huffed, but he smiled. "I guess. I just don't know who's any good, or what they need to do. Like, are the lights gonna explode? Does the whole house need to be re-wired? I just don't know." He sighed.

"Google is your friend, Chuck."

"Aw, you're mean." Chuck scuffed his foot along the floor. "Making me think on my own—With my luck, I—I'd probably end up finding all the wrong info! But I guess I'll have to try it, anyway." He stepped away from the wall. "Talk to you later?"

Raphael's voice softened, somewhat, and he said, "Look up arcing lights, first. Then find a place that charges a price neither too low nor too high. I will speak with you later. Let me know how it goes."

"Bye-bye." Chuck stood a moment after hanging up, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He squinted at the chalkboard behind the counter, until he found what he wanted. Finally got in line behind a couple of other people, and ordered an Americano and a donut when his turn came. He sat in a corner by one of the windows, at a small round table with just one chair. He watched the few cars go by as he picked at his donut—ended up grabbing a fork because he didn't want his fingers to get all sticky, since there was apparently no bathroom in the bakery. He sliced up his donut, and watched some of the custard ooze out before devouring half of it. He would probably regret having something so sugary for lunch, but for the moment he appreciated the taste.

His coffee was still pretty hot by the time he finished eating, but in a comforting way instead of an "I'm going to scald your face off" way. He sipped at it, carefully. Looked back out the window, at the damp street and the bare trees. The window shed a slight chill from its glass, and Chuck shivered even with his coat and scarf, and the warmth blasting from the heaters. Hot on one side, cold on the other. At least the coffee made his insides feel warm.

He sat there for an hour, until his coffee was gone and he had to pee. He put his cup and his plate in the bin of used dishes and left, hunching his shoulders against the cold air outside.

Slowly, with water seeping into the sides of his shoes, he retraced his steps back home. For just a moment, he felt lost, but then that dog started barking again and Chuck knew he was on the right track. He scurried off down the street, and soon found himself on his own doorstep. The floor creaked as he went inside and locked the door behind him, and almost as soon as he'd gotten out of his coat, Gertrude was rubbing against his ankles. She purred at him, and he crouched down to pet her.

"Miss me, kitty?"

She meowed.

Once he'd taken off his shoes, Chuck made his way upstairs, with Gertrude right behind him. After he went to the bathroom, they snuggled up in the bed. Chuck opened his computer and started to look up what Raphael had mentioned, along with electricians in the area. It was tedious, and sometimes he found himself confused, but at least by the time he switched to something more fun he had a few phone numbers and details written down on a piece of paper.

Satisfied, he scrunched himself up and started a movie with the cat squished against his shoulder.

After a while, Chuck rolled out of bed. He needed to do the dishes—he didn't want to, but he needed to, and he didn't want to disappoint Michael two days in a row. Anyway, that donut hadn't been too filling, so he was hungry again. He dragged himself downstairs.

In the kitchen, he checked the thermostat. Too low—barely above sixty degrees. He wiggled the lever, curling his toes against the cold kitchen tiles, and pushed it up a little higher. Seventy sounded much more pleasant than sixty.

He went to the sink, then, and put away the dishes already in the dishwasher. Let the water run, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for it to get hot. It took almost five minutes, but once it warmed up, it stayed that way. Chuck took his time washing the dishes. Filled the dishwasher as much as possible, until he couldn't find anything else to clean. Probably a good thing, because he doubted he would be able to shove anything more than a spoon into the washer, with how full it was. He made sure to put the soap pack in the door, and turned the dial on, and immediately headed for the refrigerator.

Food, food, food. He stuck his head in to see what he could find. Sandwich meat, cheese—lots of cheese—and a bunch of lettuce. Milk, condiments, some leftovers, the usual. But nothing caught his eye. Just a sandwich, then. Simple, not particularly substantial but more filling than a donut. Probably slathered in mayonnaise with barbecue sauce to make it more interesting. Chuck shoved as much turkey and cheese as he could between the slices of bread, and peeled the crust off meticulously. He tossed the crust into the trash before hoisting himself up onto the counter. His feet dangled just inches away from the floor, and he was careful not to bump his head on the cabinet behind him as he ate.

He swung his legs a little.

When he finished eating, he left his plate on the counter. He left the kitchen, turning the light off behind him. Gertrude followed, right on his heels. He left the hallway light on, but turned off the living room light before dragging himself upstairs. He felt like a nap, or something. But he needed to call one of the electricians he'd listed, so he climbed into bed in his clothes and picked up his phone and his little sticky note and dialed one of the numbers.

He made it through three numbers before getting a reasonable price estimate—and the woman on the end of the line sounded a lot more trustworthy than the others, somehow. Less patronizing, perhaps. Chuck spoke with her until they settled on a time and date—the next day at ten in the morning—and when he hung up, he felt pretty good. Hopefully their lights or wiring would be fixed up in no time.

Chuck rolled onto his stomach, feet on his pillow and head at the foot of the bed. He hung his arm over the edge of the bed. Let his hand dangle. Gertrude nosed at his fingers, and licked his knuckles with a meow. Chuck laughed and pulled his arm away, flopping onto his back. She hopped up onto the bed, settling herself on his stomach, and began to purr.

"Such a sweet kitty." Chuck rubbed her ears with a small smile. She butted his hand, single eye half-shut in contentment. Chuck laughed. He craned his head back, as he fiddled with her ears. Looked out the doors to the porch, at the darkening sky—darker from clouds, rather than dwindling daylight. They gathered and covered the blue sky, turning it a roiling gray-brown, with purple and black shadows. Maybe it would rain again, or snow. Hail? It certainly looked like something would happen—Chuck just hoped it wasn't more lightning.

He continued to pet the cat, letting his eyes drift shut as he wished for Michael to get home soon. (He knew it would be a long while still, considering it was just past lunch, but he wished anyway.) He sighed, and tried to drift off.

He met with little success.

Only managed to slip into a semi-conscious state, vaguely dream-filled and somewhat unsettling.

Every so often, he jerked back into full awareness, with the slight sense that someone was watching him. Of course, when he looked around, the room remained empty but for the cat and himself.

He whiled away the afternoon like this.

By the time Michael pulled into the driveway, fat snowflakes had begun to fall, confirming Chuck's half-formed prediction. And he vaguely remembered being told that it hardly ever snowed in this town, but obviously this year was some kind of exception. He went out onto the deck, leaning against the glass, looking out from the side of the house. He could see the neighbors' sheer curtains, and a cat staring back at him from one of the windows. He stayed in the deck area even after Michael opened the front door. It was cold, despite being separated from the elements by thick glass panes. Chuck sat on the seat of the elliptical. Also cold. He wondered why there was an enclosed deck in the first place. Why not a normal patio? One he could hang a wind chime on? It was kind of neat, though, to be able to sit apart from the bedroom but still inside of the house, and have his breath make clouds in the air.

"Chuck?"

Chuck went back into the bedroom as Michael came in from the hall. He hugged Michael, leaving the doors to the deck open in his hurry to cuddle. Michael slipped his arms around Chuck right away, reflexive and automatic, though strangely stiff. Chuck frowned. "Your hands are freezing!" He looked up at Michael, worried. "Did the heater in the car break?"

With a smile, Michael replied, "Oh, yes."

Goosebumps crawled up Chuck's arms. Again, that feeling of being watched, but this time from a clear source—from Michael. After a moment's hesitation, he tried to step away from Michael, but Michael's arms didn't loosen—in fact, they tightened around Chuck's waist, even colder than before. A gust of air curled around his feet from the deck, as well. Like frost on his heels. He pushed at Michael's chest. "Please let go, Michael."

"Why?" Michael's eyes glinted in the dim lamplight, almost yellow.

"Because I... because I asked." Chuck managed to squirm out of Michael's arms, nearly falling to the floor in his hurry to get away from Michael and his strange demeanor. Before Michael had a chance to move, Chuck steadied himself and half-ran out of the room. Michael said something, but Chuck didn't understand it. He thought he heard the phone ring as well, but he shook his head as he hurried to end of the hall. He ignored anything he heard behind him and bolted down the creaky stairs, through the dark living room, into the brightly lit front hall. He didn't even stop to put on shoes before shoving the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

He stood a moment, breathing hard. The click of the deadbolt made him jump back from the door. He hurried down the path and stopped on the sidewalk, and looked down the empty street. (No black Mercedes anywhere in sight.) He glanced back at the house—completely still. He half expected Not Michael to be standing at the front window, but there was nothing... Absolutely nothing. Chuck wouldn't push his luck to check the deck windows, either. No way would he walk around the side of the house, barefoot, to see if there was someone staring down at him.

Someone... because it certainly wasn't Michael. It couldn't have been. Too cold, and too creepy. Michael was stubborn, sure, but if Chuck didn't like something he always stepped away or stopped. That was... like a puppet made to look and sound like Michael. A wax imitation, uncanny in its resemblance but still not quite right.

Chuck curled his toes in the thin snow. He didn't know what to do. It was cold, but even if he wanted to go back inside... the door was locked. And he didn't want to bother Rufus. But he also didn't want to get frostbite. A t-shirt and boxers weren't suitable for thirty degree weather, after all. Especially not with snow falling more thickly as the sky grew a glowing dirty pink from light pollution and reflections.

Almost ten at night... Chuck's stomach growled, as he hunched his shoulders.

The bottoms of his feet already hurt.

"Chuck!"

Chuck's head snapped up—Rufus ran across his driveway, almost angry looking. Chuck shrank back from him, but didn't try to get away when Rufus grabbed his shoulders.

"What the hell's wrong with you?!" Rufus dragged Chuck over to his porch—up the steps, and through the door, growling, "Michael just called me because you didn't answer your phone. Said he called you twice, and you always have your phone nearby even in the bathroom, so he was worried. He's stuck in traffic." Rufus jostled Chuck into the hallway and shut the door behind them before facing Chuck square on, hands on his hips. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, standing half-naked in the snow?"

Shivering, Chuck shrugged. He licked his lips, looking down at his cold feet, forehead creased and fighting the urge to hide. "I just..." He ran his hands through his hair, so it stuck up wildly. "I got scared—I got scared, okay? I saw something and I got freaked out."

Rufus scoffed. "What, a radioactive spider?"

Chuck shook his head. He let Rufus lead him (much more gently, now) into the living room. Just barely trembling (and not from the cold), Chuck sat down before he answered the question Rufus no doubt wanted to ask. "I uh—" He tucked his feet up underneath him in an attempt to warm them. "I thought Michael came home... I was wrong." He almost laughed, under his breath. Rubbed his face with one hand.

Frowning, Rufus sat beside Chuck and crossed his arms. A stern, concerned glare, and he asked, "What are you going on about? You thought he came home, but he didn't. What's that mean?" He stared at Chuck, considering. "You hallucinating?" He almost put his hand on Chuck's shoulder, but seemed to think better of it and re-crossed his arms. Waited for an answer.

After a brief pause, Chuck nodded. "A little, yeah." He picked at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. Turned his head enough to meet Rufus' eyes. "But it felt real. All the other ones—I mean, I've had other... experiences... recently. But they were... They were sound. Illusions—but this..." He shook his head. "This was different. I could feel it—he touched me and I couldn't make him move and he was cold, like... well, like an ice pack or something. Not even warm in the middle." Chuck sighed and looked at the fireplace. Covered his face with his hands. He didn't want to see Rufus' face, not if he suddenly thought he was a freak.

But Rufus didn't call him crazy. Instead, he kept his voice low and said, "I'm surprised you didn't piss yourself." He laughed. "You're braver than I was at your age."

"I'm thirty-eight!" Chuck pushed at Rufus half-heartedly, still nervous, but somehow reassured by Rufus' teasing. "Anyway..." He wilted a little, where he sat. "You... you believe me?"

"I believe you." Rufus cleared his throat. "I've seen some shit in my life. Hallucinations don't seem too impossible when you grow up stabbing blood-sucking assholes in the chest."

Chuck made a face. "Uh." He blinked.

"Don't worry." Rufus cracked a grin. "I was a cop."

"Oh, thank God." Chuck leaned his head back against the couch with a sigh. "I thought you were like secretly a Slayer and I was gonna be like... I swear I'm not possessed." He stuck his legs out, wiggling his toes. They tingled, from him sitting on them.

Rufus snorted and stretched his own legs out, toward the dwindling fire in the grate. "I'm no vampire slayer. Not a serial killer, either, so don't you worry your little head about it." He raised his eyebrows. "Promise I'm not lacing your food with diphenhydramine."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, that's a relief. 'Cause I totally suspected that." He let out a soft sigh. "Thank you." He glanced over at Rufus. "I mean for always being so patient with me. And for not, like, carting me off to the psych ward or something."

"Well," Rufus' expression grew more serious, and he twisted to face Chuck better. "Whether your hallucinations are supernatural or mental in nature, they're not a reason to lock you up or do anything against your will. Like I said: I've seen some shit, Chuck. A lot of cops, and a lot of civilians, and a lot of everyone—they treat mentally ill people real bad. And I don't wanna be like that." He held up a hand. "And I'm not necessarily saying you've got a mental illness. I just want you to know that if you do, I won't antagonize you." He rubbed his forehead. Sighed almost as deep as Chuck and muttered, "No one deserves to be treated less than human."

Chuck couldn't think of anything adequate to say, sitting there beside Rufus. He fidgeted. Whispered, "Thanks." He chewed his lip, biting at the perpetual dry skin there out of habit . "Really, thanks. And—I mean...technically I think depression and all that stuff counts as some kind of mental illness. So..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Just... Sorry or whatever."

Rufus shook his head, and gave Chuck's knee a pat. "Don't need to apologize for being human."

"Thanks, again."

They sat quietly for a while.

Eventually, Chuck broke the silence to say, "You remind me of my dad." He tapped his feet against the floor. "Like... he was kinda gruff but he could be really kind, sometimes. And he was bald and liked whiskey." He looked up at Rufus with a slight smile. "And you make me think of him."

"Oh, so I'm some kind of paternal replacement for you, now?" Rufus raised his eyebrows. "You miss daddy, so you come to me?"

"No!" Chuck flushed, and looked down at his feet. "I just... was reminded, is all. Jeez."

Rufus nudged Chuck with his elbow. Grinned, teasingly. "I'm just messin' with you, kid."

"You're a jerk." But Chuck grinned, even as he tried to hide his embarrassment.

More silence, and this time it was broken by the sound of tires on gravel, after about thirty minutes of staring at the fireplace and eating the occasional mint. (Because Rufus had a bowl full of those brown and green chocolate peppermints on the table beside the couch.)

Chuck perked up, and tried to look out the window but his view was blocked by thick curtains and a spider plant, so he made his way to the front hallway and opened the door a crack. Sure enough, the black Mercedes sat parked in the driveway, and Michael was just getting out. Chuck walked tentatively out onto the porch and waved his arm. For a second, he thought Michael wouldn't see him and he'd have to yell, but then Michael looked in his direction and immediately started to walk over. When he realized just how little Chuck wore, he walked faster.

"What on earth—"Michael set his hand on Chuck's arm, face creased with worry. "Chuck, why aren't you wearing any pants?"

"Oh." Chuck looked down at himself, going bright red, and let Michael shove him back into Rufus' hallway. "I—I was in a hurry..." He looked over his shoulder at Rufus, who stood with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. Looked back at Michael. "Sorry."

Michael hushed him, and cupped his face in his hands. "Here—" He pulled his hands away—loosened his scarf and pulled off his long coat so he could drape it over Chuck's shoulders. "You can explain later, but first let's get you back inside—Inside our own home, that is." He helped Chuck button the coat. Gave Rufus a polite smile over Chuck's head and said, "Thank you for, I assume, keeping this reckless man from catching pneumonia in the snow."

Rufus laughed. "No problem. I'm used to it. Got four grandkids who like to run around half naked all the time, all weather." He waved his hand, and turned away. "Just get that dumbass into bed, or something."

Chuck couldn't bring himself to be offended. He was embarrassed, though. Especially when Michael carried him across the snowy ground, despite his protests of, "I'm perfectly capable of walking!"

"It's not a matter of whether or not you can walk." Michael unlocked the door with some difficulty, frowning. "It's a matter of whether or not you want your toes to fall off." He shouldered the door open, and only put Chuck down after kicking it shut behind them, plunging the hallway into black shadows broken only by a pale yellow glow from the nightlight by the closet. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "How did you lock the door, anyway?"

No response, from Chuck. He didn't have one.

"Chuck?"

Chuck hunched his shoulders, staring down at his toes, curled in the carpet. "I didn't lock it."

Michael frowned deeper. He took his coat back from Chuck and spoke quietly. "Who locked it?" He hung his coat on the hook beside the door, and moved closer to Chuck. Set his hand against the small of Chuck's back and looked him in the eye. "Chuck, if you didn't lock the door, then who did?"

"Ghost?" Chuck shrugged. He shuffled his way into the kitchen, flicking the light on as he went, and sat down at the kitchen table. He shoved his face into his hands. "I ran out of the house, okay? And when I closed the door it clicked and then I stood in the snow for a minute and you know the rest. Spent an hour eating candy in Rufus' living room. I just—" He peeked between his fingers at Michael, who stood just a foot away. "The door got locked and I don't really know how."

Michael sat down. Scooted his chair closer and took Chuck's hand. He kissed his knuckles. "It's alright." He ran his thumb over the backs of Chuck's fingers—when his finger caught against a bump of quartz, he glanced down. Pushed against the small stone with his thumb. "You're wearing this in your pajamas, but you won't wear it with jeans because it looks silly." He grinned.

Chuck felt his face go a little pink and pulled his hand away, sticking it between his thighs to hide the ring. (Which, of course, gave his legs goosebumps from the cold metal.) "I was just looking through our wedding pictures the other day and I wanted to try it on again and I guess I never got around to taking it off." He wiggled his toes. "I was gonna put it back..."

"You're silly." Michael kissed Chuck's forehead. "And sweet. And I can't believe I didn't notice you wearing it before. I'm neglecting you, aren't I?"

"No!" Chuck shook his head. "Of course not! You're just busy."

Michael smiled. "You're too lenient." He moved to kiss Chuck on the corner of the mouth—Chuck turned into the kiss, deepening it as he raised his hands to Michael's shoulders. Michael pulled him into his lap, and he went eagerly, draping his arms around Michael's neck. Michael slipped some tongue into their kiss, sliding his hand up Chuck's side. He held his waist. Dug his fingertips into the soft skin just above Chuck's hips.

They kissed until Chuck's stomach growled loudly and he blushed again.

Smiling, Michael bumped their foreheads together. "You're hungry." He rubbed Chuck's side. "You should eat something, and then we can go to bed."

"Okay..." Chuck climbed reluctantly off of Michael and went to the fridge to search for something suitable. He went with a bowl of cold leftover pasta from a few days earlier. He knew it would probably give him a stomachache, to eat something so fatty late at night after not eating since eleven in the morning. But it tasted good, and he was starving. He at least tried to eat slowly, while Michael nibbled on a sliced apple. (He'd eaten dinner in traffic.)

Gertrude sat in Chuck's lap as he ate. He stroked her with one hand and ate with the other.

When he finished eating, Michael took his bowl for him and set it in the sink. Walked back over and took Chuck's hand, as they left the kitchen. Chuck turned off the lights behind them, while they went from the kitchen to the living room, from the living room to the stairs. They brushed their teeth side-by-side, and Chuck accidentally drooled toothpaste onto his arm. Michael laughed at him.

As Chuck followed Michael into the bedroom, he turned off the bathroom and hallway lights behind him.

"Hey... Michael?"

Michael turned to Chuck, head tilted just to the side. "Yes?" He sat on the bed and watched Chuck, and spread his fingers over the sheets as he leaned back on his hands.

Feeling just a little more timid than usual, with his arms crossed and his toes curled in the carpet, Chuck glanced down at his feet. He made a soft, hesitant noise before asking, "Could you read something to me? For me to fall asleep to." He knelt on the edge of the bed—plopped down to his hands as well and crawled to Michael's side. "I just wanna hear you read, for some reason." He sat up beside Michael, leaning his forehead against Michael's shoulder as he held his breath and waited for a response.

"Oh," Michael slipped his arm around Chuck's waist. "Of course." He coaxed Chuck to lay down, dropping a brief kiss on his forehead, and pulled away. He moved to the bookshelves against the broad wall of the bedroom. Sat on the carpet as he searched for something to read. He began to pull The Bell Jar from the shelf, but then he pushed it back and stood up and moved back to the bed, hands empty. From the dresser beside the bed, he took Abarat. He climbed into bed, pulling the covers over them as he leaned against the headboard, and he opened the book to a dog-eared page. Not the page that he'd left off on, as he glanced at it. A later page, where Chuck must have read to on his own.

He started at the top of the page, as Chuck nestled closer to him.

"When she was about a mile from the house, she came upon a pillar topped with a little platform on which a well-fed fire was blazing." Michael read in a soft, calm voice. He let Chuck use his chest as a pillow, holding the book open with one hand and wrapping his free arm around Chuck's shoulders to hold him close.

Through the uncovered windows, a pale orange light filtered and slid against the walls, brightening and traveling with the headlights of passing cars. The snow made the light more brilliant as well, reflecting it like a mirror into the clouds. Between that and the dim illumination of the lamp in the corner, Michael could just make out the words.

Chuck drowsed against Michael as he read, head slipping against his chest. Once, he made a little noise in the back of his throat and shivered back into full consciousness. But then, moments later, as Michael lowered his voice, Chuck drifted off to sleep, breathing slow and shallow.

Michael lowered him gently to his pillow and marked his page in the book, setting it aside. He stepped out of bed just long enough to turn the lamp off, letting the shadows settle through the room, and climbed back in beside Chuck. Covered them both with the blankets, and wrapped Chuck up in his arms.

He whispered "goodnight," and kissed the top of Chuck's head before closing his eyes.

---

"I don't think my meds are working how they're supposed to." Chuck made a disgruntled face at his apple juice, mouth twisted and eyebrows drawn together. The darker-than-usual bags under his eyes hinted at his lack of sleep—he'd woken up an hour after losing consciousness, and kept waking up every hour, on the hour, until five in the morning, plagued by dreams of cold air and shouting and violence.

He rubbed his face with a sigh. "Maybe I should make an appointment... It's almost time for a check-up, anyway."

Michael sat down beside him with a plate of toast. "If you feel like you need to see the doctor about it, just let me know when you end up scheduled and I can drive you." He peeled the crust from his toast as he spoke. "There are no important dates at work for the next few months, so it shouldn't be an issue." He smiled at Chuck. "Just think how convenient that will be if you need to get somewhere—won't have to take a bus."

Wrinkling his nose, Chuck sipped at his juice. He reached for Michael's hand absentmindedly and muttered, "That would be nice. But I wouldn't wanna be, like, a burden." Twining his fingers with Michael's, ankles crossed, he went on to say, "But maybe I'll call... Or I could make you call her..." He raised his eyebrows. Pouted, just a little bit, to wring some sense of sympathy from Michael. "I don't wanna talk on the phone, and you're so much better at talking to new people than I am..."

"Oh, fine." Michael rolled his eyes. He squeezed Chuck's hand, though. "I'll call her after breakfast."

Chuck smiled slightly. "Thank you for being the most amazingly wonderful husband who calls people on my behalf." He scooted closer to Michael—close enough that he could rest his head against his shoulder, closing his eyes. "For real, though. Thanks."

Shaking his head, Michael said, "It's not a problem." He took a bite of his toast. "I would rather call your doctor than see you cry."

"I wouldn't cry!"

Michael pressed his lips together. Set his toast down. "The last time you called a stranger after a night of no sleep, you broke down in the backseat of the car." He patted Chuck's back and continued, "So... pardon me, if I'm inclined toward disbelief."

Chuck huffed. "Whatever." He closed his eyes as he leaned on Michael, and thought about how nice and warm his shoulder was.

A short time passed, as Michael ate his simple breakfast of apricot jam on toast. Chuck relocated to the couch, curling up on the cushions with Gertrude nestled up in the crook of his knees. He attempted to nap, but nothing came of it, so he stared out the front window at the newly snow-covered yard. He listened to Michael talk on the phone—focused on the slight creak of his feet against the floor boards as he paced across the living room, behind the couch. Chuck also listened to the sound of Gertrude's purring, and to the slight hiss and plop of barely melting snow outside as it slid from tree branches and off of the roof. A brief ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, but then the blue of the sky was obscured once again.

The tip of a small icicle was just visible from where Chuck lay—it hung from the edge of the roof, in front of the window, and grew longer as Michael set up Chuck's appointment.

When Michael said "goodbye," the sky had gone darker and a breeze rustled the dead branches of the trees outside. The inside of the house had gotten colder, as well. Snow no longer fell to the ground. A thin sheen of ice seemed to cover most of the snow, in fact, glistening in the mid-morning shadows.

Chuck felt slightly nauseous.

"Chuck." Michael leaned over the back of the couch, trailing his hand across Chuck's arm. "The receptionist says the doctor can see you on Friday morning for a check-up and to assess your medication, so I'll take you then. I'll take work off." He flattened his hand, broad and hot, over Chuck's shoulder. "Sound good?"

Chuck nodded. "Okay."

Michael gave his shoulder a squeeze before going off to finish getting ready for work. Chuck continued to watch the snow outside, as it seemed to freeze over. Over time, the window began to fog up, and Chuck realized that it had gotten warmer again, inside the house. He listened, and sure enough he could make out the faint crackle of the baseboard heaters. He closed his eyes, focusing on the smell of hot dust and the sound of expanding metal. He wanted to eat something, but he didn't want what they had—he wanted an apple, and they had no more. Even all of Michael's oranges were gone. It was mostly leftovers and fatty things like pasta, or cheese. Chuck wanted something light. Staying awake most of the night had left him feeling both hungry and sick.

He settled for curling up tighter, face pressed into the couch cushion.

Gertrude hopped off of him, feet pattering on the wood floor as she stalked off.

Quiet sounds and various wafts of air—cool, and warm, and citrus-scented—filled the house, as Chuck floundered on the couch. With the smell of oranges came Michael's voice, and a warm hand on his side as Michael kissed his forehead.

"Call me if anything happens." Michael ruffled Chuck's hair before leaving.

The windows rattled when he closed the front door. Chuck heaved out a resigned sigh and pushed himself upright. He figured he ought to get dressed, for when the electrician showed up. But he was so comfortable in his flannel pants and his fuzzy, striped robe. He convinced himself to stand up and shuffled across the living room, socked feet silent against the floorboards. He made his slow way upstairs, and into the bedroom. Stripped out of his pajamas piece by piece and stood shivering in the middle of the room with his toes curled in the peachy cream-colored carpet. He debated taking a shower and decided he just didn't have the energy—he was light-headed, anyway, and he really didn't feel like passing out in the shower and probably cracking his head open on the bathroom tiles. So he pulled on his stiff, cold jeans and covered himself in as many layers as he could justify.

By the time ten rolled around, Chuck had to take off his sweater and wool socks, and roll up his sleeves. He left his extra layers in a pile on the couch, and made his way to the kitchen. Of course, the doorbell rang just as he crossed the hallway, so he backtracked and went to the front door instead.

"Hi, I'm Ellie." The tan woman on the doorstep shook Chuck's hand, firmly. She grinned. "I'm here about your arcing light switches."

Chuck half-stumbled out of her way, as he beckoned her inside. "Um, hi." He shut the door behind them and scratched the back of his neck. "Thanks for coming over so... soon, I guess. I mean, I didn't expect next day service or anything."

Ellie waved her hand. "Nah, someone canceled before you called. It's cool." She carried her stuff into the living room, and Chuck followed her. She held up her toolbox. "Mind if I put this on the coffee table?" When Chuck gave her a nod, she set it down on the glass tabletop and opened it up, at-ease as she searched for what she needed.

She didn't stay as long as Chuck expected. Replaced some light bulbs—downstairs as well as upstairs—and fiddled with some wiring. Of course, Chuck imagined she probably did more than that, but he sat on the couch most of the time, petting the cat while he waited for Ellie to finish doing her job.

She came downstairs after a bit and said, "Most of your problem was loose screws." She tossed something into the toolbox. "Did have to replace one of the switches—lucky for you, I brought a replacement with me today or else I would have had to come back." She began to pack up her things. "If you keep hearing crackling or if the lights keep messing up on you, gimme a call, and I'll come back down. Should be okay, though."

"Wow. Thanks." Chuck pulled his wallet from his pocket, hand a little unsteady as he pulled out his credit card to swipe in her card reader. "I thought it would be more complicated than that. I'm glad it was easy."

Ellie laughed. "I'm glad too, to be honest. Sometimes it's nice to do something simple, you know?"

Chuck nodded. "Yeah."

Before she left, Ellie shook Chuck's hand. He closed the door behind her, and as her truck grumbled to life, he slid down to the floor and closed his eyes. He suppressed a yawn. He wanted so badly to sleep but a light electric feeling fizzed under his skin and his chest felt tight and he couldn't make his breathing slow down—sleep was entirely out of the question. He tried to focus on something other than his sudden distress. He was just glad he'd kept it together until after the electrician left. He covered his face with his hands, fingers shaking, and curled up.

It was cold again.

Chuck shuddered, both from the chill on his skin and the anxiety curling up his spine. He felt wrong, like when he was younger. Up until just a few years ago, even—the early days of dating Michael when he couldn't afford a check-up, let alone get himself medicated. Hadn't wanted to, either. Stubborn, nervous, and unhappy...

But the past few years had been better, he thought. Michael had helped pay for a lot of medical costs, for anti-depressants and the dentist. Had helped him eat better, and get into a habit of cleanliness and self-care Chuck hadn't practiced since high school, when his father was around to make him shower every day. And sure, Chuck still had bad days. Michael wasn't a cure and neither were the pills, though they helped.

Lately, however, the bad days felt worse. And the shadows and apparitions and fluctuating temperatures weren't helping.

Chuck felt strangely trapped. Maybe his dosages needed to be changed, or a certain medication was suddenly conflicting with another. Maybe it was something else. He uncovered his face. The hall felt constricting. Cage-like. He hauled himself to his feet, reluctantly, and stood still. Where to go? The living room seemed far-off and daunting, and the kitchen exuded an air both welcoming and threatening. A strange contradiction.

He chose neither direction. Instead, he crouched and shoved his shoes on, and opened the front door. The half-frozen air gave him goosebumps and he felt better almost immediately. Dizzy, but less scared. He made sure to grab the keys from beside the door before shutting it behind him.

In just his jeans, shirt, and sneakers, Chuck felt vulnerable. He should have grabbed his jacket—but of course, why would he think to do something reasonable like that? He sighed. Constantly forgetting things... He trudged over to Rufus' house, and knocked on his door.

After a few cold seconds, Rufus answered, eyebrows raised as he pushed the door open. "You're not about to die, are you?"

"What? No—" Chuck crossed his arms. "I just wanted to get out of the house and I forgot my coat so... I thought I'd say hi." He scratched the back of his leg with one foot. "Uh... I guess I should visit for normal reasons more often instead of... you know..."

Rufus rolled his eyes. "Get inside, before your arm hairs freeze off."

Chuck let himself be dragged into the older man's warm house, breathing slightly easier—his chest still felt tight but not like his lungs were gone. Chuck kicked his shoes off. "I'd rather lose my arm hairs than my beard hairs." His nose crinkled as he managed to grin, half-heartedly. "I worked hard for my hipster hobo look."

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it falling out any time soon." Rufus patted Chuck's shoulder. He took Chuck's arm, grip firm but not too strong, and led Chuck past the living room, toward the kitchen. "I'm making myself lunch right now, if you want some."

For a moment, Chuck considered the idea of lunch. He twisted his mouth as he sat down at the kitchen table. "I dunno. I feel sorta sick." He leaned his elbows against the tabletop, and pressed his thumb against his palm. He sighed. "Sorry. Today's... weird."

Standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, Rufus asked, "Weird, how?" He stirred the pot on the stove—smelled like split pea soup. "'Cause, with you, I don't know whether you mean ghosts or break-ins." He didn't laugh, or smile. Narrowed his eyes at his soup as Chuck shifted in his chair.

"Man, I dunno." Chuck slumped against the table. "I didn't really sleep last night and after the electrician left I felt like... Like I was having a panic attack except... Different." He clasped his hands against the back of his neck. His fingers were cold. "I couldn't catch my breath. You know? I couldn't breathe and I felt all claustrophobic and I started thinking about, like, the past. But then I opened the door and it was like... A stereotypical free feeling, like the fresh air made me feel better which is... normally bullshit." He laughed to himself. "But it's like, nothing's been working right but then I go outside and I feel better. Inside the house I feel like... like a rabbit in a little cage with a coyote right there, but then outside it's like... Everything works again and I can breathe again. It doesn't make any sense. I mean, fresh air is not exactly a cure for anxiety. Or anything else, for that matter."

Rufus set a big glass lid on his pot of soup, turning the burner down low to simmer. "That does sound weird." He came over to the table, stretching one leg out as he sat, favoring his knee. He leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms. Took a moment to think before saying, "Sounds like you need a break from that house. Cabin fever, maybe. Oughta go on a vacation, right?"

"Maybe." Chuck closed his eyes with a sigh. "I dunno—I'm gonna talk to the doctor this weekend so... I guess we'll figure out if something's wrong with my prescriptions or if it's something else."

With a snort, Rufus said, "Prescriptions are a goddamn pain in the ass, aren't they?" He patted his leg. "But they can be handy."

Chuck nodded. "Very handy."

"Well," Rufus let out a huff, as he relaxed in his seat. Gave Chuck an appraising look. "I stand by what I said. You oughta get out of that house for a few days, see if anything changes. Maybe it's just you building up an immunity to your pills, or having an unusually bad time for some reason or other... But I worry. That house always made me feel a little funny, walking past, when it was empty. Like the windows were staring at me. But, well, I'm just an old man."

Quietly, Chuck said, "I think you're onto something, old man or not."

Rufus chuckled to himself and hauled himself back to his feet, limping over to the stove to check his soup. He muttered to himself, about sore knees and haunted houses, while Chuck sat still in his chair and watched, and listened, and thought.

It was nearly silent, though sometimes Rufus shot out a word here and there. A comment that he hoped the snow would "stop falling so damn much." A question about the stone on Chuck's ring, still nestled against his wedding band. The soft admission that once, a long time ago, he'd been engaged. Way back, maybe before Chuck was born, maybe around the time he first started crawling. A pretty girl with curly hair and dimples.

"Shy, chubby, real nervous... But she stood by her opinions and her motives, and she never let herself be spoken down to or trod on." Rufus coughed a little, and turned off the stove. "She was like a sister to me, really. One of many reasons we broke it off. Would've been too weird, to marry her. It was her idea to end the engagement, and I was glad she brought it up, 'cause I sure didn't know what to say." He laughed. "Of course, she got old and died along with everyone else—you'd figure they would've lasted longer, but I guess not. My generation get into their sixties, start dropping like flies. Disease, drugs. You name it." He shook his head. "But here I am, fifty-nine with a screw in my knee and still kickin'."

Chuck shifted in his seat, crossing his legs, hands clasped and flattened between his thighs as he leaned forward. "I'm sorry." He stared down at the linoleum floor, the color of eggnog, and breathed deeply. The smell of split pea soup filled his mouth and made his stomach turn. Too much. He cleared his throat but didn't say anything else.

Rufus just shook his head.

---

"You're still coming back with me, right?" Chuck laced his fingers more tightly with Michael's, as they sat in the waiting room at the doctor's office. "'Cause I don't wanna go alone, with a new doctor."

Michael pulled his hand from Chuck's, and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Of course. I know you're nervous, so I'll make sure you're not alone. Alright?" He set his free hand, warm and familiar, against Chuck's leg. "Don't worry." He squeezed Chuck's knee. Let him nestle into his side, practically sitting on his lap.

With his eyes nearly closed, Chuck muttered, "Your insurance pays for all this kind of stuff anyway, so, I mean... You should be there, right? Moral support with money." He wrinkled his nose, smiling crookedly.

"The only reason I need is moral support." Michael stroked Chuck's back, almost reflexively, and said, "Everything else is secondary."

"Aw." Chuck reached for Michael's hand on his knee and twined their fingers together again. "So sweet."

Michael rolled his eyes.

They waited a while longer, wordless. The waiting room was almost empty, mostly silent, but for a mother with her two children—a baby on her lap and a toddler staring at the fish tank in the corner. Eventually, a nurse came out and called Chuck's name, so he stood up and tugged Michael after him into the back. The nurse didn't bat an eyelash. Just led them right on back so they could start with the typical physical check-up things: weighing, measuring, blood pressure. All that, while Michael stood to the side, out of the way.

It was all normal. 132 pounds, five foot seven. He did unsurprisingly awful on the sight test and his blood pressure was a little low, but not too much.

The nurse took them to a room in the back. She left them there alone, with the door closed. They waited for a while longer, until the doctor came in.

"I'm Doctor Lee." She shook both Chuck's hand and Michael's hand before sitting down with her clipboard. "I'm just going to take a moment to look through your papers. If Mr. Chuck Shurley-Milton could sit on the examination table, I would appreciate it." She glanced up briefly, to check that Chuck was climbing onto the paper-covered table, and began to scan the papers on her board. Offhand, she remarked, "I'll assume the slouch is your computer posture."

Chuck straightened his back, clasping his hands in his lap and clearing his throat. He glanced over at Michael, who smiled at him reassuringly. Chuck frowned back.

The doctor laughed to herself.

She didn't take too long with the papers—set them aside and went about the routine of a check-up. Chuck flinched at the cold of her stethoscope one his chest, but it was mostly painless. Though he could have done without the stomach prodding. She asked questions as she checked him. Little things, verifying the medications listed on his sheet, double-checking he'd had all of his vaccinations. She sat down again, leaving Chuck on the table as she wrote something down. "Tetanus shots? HPV?"

Chuck glanced at Michael again, uncertain. Michael nodded, so he said, "I think I have my shots." He swung his legs, over the edge of the examination table. "I think... last year I got the tetanus one renewed? Updated. Whatever it's called. And the other one—the HPV one."

"I see." Doctor Lee checked something off. Leaned back in her chair and swiveled to face Chuck more fully. "I see you took testosterone from 1996 to 2006. Any reason you stopped? I assume you still have most of your internal organs, or you'd be taking something like estrogen in its place. Is that right?"

Another clear of his throat, and Chuck spoke up. "Yeah I... have all my insides." He wrinkled his nose. "I stopped 'cause I just didn't... need it anymore? Ten years is a long time, and I just eventually stopped, I guess. And I mean—" He took a breath. "I just didn't need it anymore." He sandwiched his hands between his thighs, hoping for his fingers to stop trembling as he stared down at the floor.

Doctor Lee lowered her clipboard to look at him, a hint of concern showing in her eyes. She folded her hands on her clipboard. "You can sit in the chair again, if you'd like. No more exams today. Just questions. Alright? And I meant to ask," She gestured at Michael. "Who is this? Family member? Friend?"

Michael spoke up with, "I'm his husband. I'm here for emotional support."

"Right." She turned to Chuck, as he slid off the table and moved over to Michael. "If you don't want to answer a question, let me know. Though I would like the answers, just so I can have a clear vision of your health." She paused. "And I also ought to ask—well, this form appears to be incomplete. May I ask what gender you identify as? I don't want to make assumptions."

Chuck leaned against Michael, taking his hand as he answered, "I'm male."

She nodded. "Thank you. You are thirty-eight, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And, one more question about this particular set of papers. I see a note of 'some surgical history,' which signifies a mastectomy. However it doesn't specify the year. Would you mind telling me about that?"

Chuck shifted in his seat, and Michael wrapped an arm around him. He bit his lip as he thought. "I don't remember what year it was... like... No, I think it was 1999? When I graduated college my dad paid for it. And, um... I guess they considered it cosmetic, since I didn't have cancer or anything like that. They thought it was unnecessary, or we would have been able to use insurance for it... but... Anyway. 1999."

"Alright, thank you." Lee wrote a few words down. "So, no history of breast cancer or any other cancers in the family?"

"No."

"Alcoholism? Any other diseases?"

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "My dad was an alcoholic, yeah. But I don't think there were other things. Just... uh... cirrhosis of the liver." His mouth twisted into a grimace, for a moment.

"I see. Well, then, I'm sure you've heard this before but I advise you to avoid alcohol." Doctor Lee paused a moment before continuing. "These next questions may be personal, and you can ask your husband to leave if you'd like." She waited, and when Chuck shook his head and clung closer to Michael, she continued. "First of all, I wanted to ask when your last pelvic exam was."

Chuck shrugged. "Like, a year ago?"

"Pap smear?"

A pause. "Yes. I'm pretty sure." Chuck crossed his ankles. Michael rubbed his back, and he leaned into the touch.

The doctor continued, asking about Chuck's use or non-use of recreational drugs, alcohol, and so on. She laughed when he said he smoked pot sometimes in college. "Seems to be a common thing throughout the generations." She smiled, shaking her head. "Let's see... drugs out of the way... How sexually active are you?"

"Um... normal?" Chuck shrugged. "Like, a few times a month, at least? I mean... it changes."

"On average...?"

Chuck thought for a second. Squinted. "Once a week, ish."

Lee nodded. "Do you practice safe sex? Condoms, or any other form of birth control?"

"We always use a condom."

"Any pain or discomfort when you urinate or have sex? Any complaints about any part of your body? Migraines, or anything like that? Any concerns related to sexually transmitted infections?"

"...No? I mean, other than the normal side effects from my medication, like drowsiness and stuff. It doesn't hurt to pee or have sex or anything, and I'm not really worried about STDs. And I haven't passed out at all this year, except I almost did once in November, but the rest of the time I'm mostly fine other than a little bit of dizziness when I stand up too fast. Sometimes I get kind of nauseous, when I don't sleep enough. And... well..." Chuck paused. Bit his lip. "I've kind of been, I don't know, paranoid? When I'm home alone, I feel like I'm being watched, and I'm not sure if it's because my medications aren't working as well or if it's something new."

Doctor Lee looked up, watching Chuck a moment, apparently deep in thought. She wrote something down. "You say you almost passed out in November. Was there a cause, or was it sudden?"

Chuck crossed his arms. "It was from a combination of stress, relief and anti-anxiety medications. I got really dizzy and tripped down some stairs at a church and almost fainted. But I was okay after that. Oh! And once, earlier in the year, I forgot to eat and I fainted. But only that one time." He huffed, almost laughing.

"Do you have nightmares? Insomnia?" Doctor Lee shifted in her chair.

Chuck's face dropped a little. "I have nightmares, yeah." He almost grimaced. "The medicine used to just make them go away, but they've been coming back since we moved up here, and they've been getting worse. It's hard to sleep, because I have a lot of dreams where people I know die, or there's something out to get me." He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. Leaned back against Michael. "A lot of the side effects are still there, but the actual effects of the medication seem to be wearing off. I keep getting weird kind of temporary bouts of depression, and even though I mostly still fall asleep fast, I don't stay asleep for long. And I think the promethazine is supposed to prevent nausea along with helping the insomnia but it's only been helping me fall asleep, mostly."

"Well," Doctor Lee noted a few things down. "From what I can tell, you take twenty milligrams of fluoxetine and one milligram of prazosin in the mornings, and fifty milligrams of promethazine at night." She tapped her pen against her clipboard. "Would you be interested in changing the doses? I'm considering modifying your prescription to lower your promethazine and increase your prazosin. There's a chance the former may be affecting your nightmares, and it's unlikely that fifty milligrams is entirely necessary unless you're suffering from more severe insomnia."

Chuck shrugged. "The old doctor said the sedative affects would be good for anxiety. But, sure."

Doctor Lee nodded. "Alright. Well, I'll change your dosage, and you let me know if you suddenly lose consciousness. If the effects don't change, we might consider switching you to a combination of fluoxetine and trazodone, though I'd like to keep that as more of a last resort. I'd also like to stress, again, the importance of avoiding alcohol. The combination of hereditary alcoholism and chemical interactions could have a negative effect on your health."

"Okay. I'll make sure to stay away from alcohol, for sure. I don't drink, ever, anyway. 'Cause I really don't wanna know what happens when you take vodka and anti-depressants together."

Lee nodded, smiling. "Alright. Then we're done, unless you have any questions?" She handed a slip over to them, with some prescription information.

Chuck shook his head. "I'm okay, I think." He stood, and Michael stood with him, grasping his hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Have a good day."

"Bye." Chuck managed to smile at her, and waved before they left the room. He kept close to Michael's side as the made their way out of the office and through the waiting room. Clung to his arm, and murmured, "She seemed nice."

Michael nodded, squeezing Chuck's hand. "Very understanding." He smiled down at Chuck. "And you didn't have to get any shots, either. I'd say that went very well."

Frost crunched under their shoes as they walked toward the car. Chuck waited until he was firmly in the passenger seat to say, "I'm glad she wasn't mean about the crappy paperwork or the other things."

"The gender things?"

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Yes."

Michael patted Chuck's knee. "If she wasn't nice, we would have left. Now," He raised his eyebrows. "Since we drove all the way out here already, and you had to answer some awkward questions... Do you want to go eat a somewhat expensive brunch?"

"Oh, fancy french toast?" Chuck grinned, clapping his hands together. "I love fancy brunch!"

Resisting the urge to laugh, Michael started the car. "Fancy brunch, it is."

---

"So, she said to only take one pill of promethazine at night, instead of two, and then a tablet of Vasoflex..." Chuck washed his medication down with a glass of water. "And then in the morning, take the fluo... fl... the Prozac and the Vasoflex like normal... And then two tablets of Vasoflex after lunch with another Prozac pill... Okay." He set his little slip down beside the sink and turned to Michael. "If I faint, make sure to catch me." He hugged Michael.

Michael wrapped him up tight in his arms and said, "Of course." He kissed the top of Chuck's head. "As long as I'm around, I'll catch you."

Chuck wormed his way out of Michael's embrace, snatching his hand and leading him out of the bathroom. "Let's go snuggle." He urged Michael toward their bed, climbing in after him and pulling the blankets over them so only a tiny sliver of light illuminated Michael's face. He rested his head beside Michael's. Brushed their noses together, and laced their fingers. Michael pecked Chuck on the nose, and Chuck wrinkled his nose. "You smell like toothpaste."

"And mouthwash." Michael curled his arm around Chuck. "Too minty?"

Shaking his head, Chuck snuggled closer. He mumbled "no" against Michael's collar and closed his eyes. Listened to Michael's measured breaths. Michael rubbed his back, slowly. Warm palm along his spine, rustling the fabric of Chuck's thermal shirt. Chuck felt like, if he was a cat, he would start purring. But he just made a soft, contented noise and curled his fingers against Michael's chest.

Michael smiled to himself.

---

With slightly trembling knees, Chuck leaned heavily against the door frame and waited for his vision to clear. He all but clung to the wood as his legs threatened to give out. Even once he was able to see again, his hands shook and his knees felt practically liquid. He frowned to himself, and made his unsteady way out into the hallway. He'd slept in, somehow, and the house was quiet. Michael must have left already. The slight cloying smell of pancakes filled the living room, when he finally got down the stairs (gripping tight to the railing, for fear he'd get dizzy again.) The smell only grew stronger the closer he got to the kitchen. The room was empty, but as he expected, a casserole dish sat on the counter beside the stove, and when he lifted the lid he found a few still-warm pancakes.

He grabbed one—just one—and covered it in maple syrup, and sat down at the table to eat.

The air in the kitchen was cold. Chuck hunched his shoulders while he ate, toes curled in the loose hem of his overly long pajama pants. He shivered, a little.

Gertrude padded into the room, and let out a loud meow as she came closer. She slipped under the table and sat on Chuck's feet, as if she knew he was cold, and began to purr. Chuck wrinkled his nose—the vibration on his toes kind of tickled. He finished eating with her weight on his toes, and stayed still even after he'd emptied his plate. Didn't have the heart to make her move just so he could put the plate in the sink.

Eventually, though, he had to push her away. He crouched down to pet her, one hand on the table leg and the other ruffling her soft ears. He scratched her chin before standing back up and taking his plate to the sink. There was a note, stuck to one of the knobs. He snatched it up. Just the usual reminder to take his meds and take out the cat litter. He grumbled to himself, but found his pills and swallowed them with cold coffee from the refrigerator.

Gertrude followed him, when he went to sift her litterbox. She meowed at him the whole time, and stood in the doorway when he took the plastic bag of dirty litter out to the dumpster. He picked her up as he came back inside, cradling her to his chest. She reached up one dainty paw and poked his cheek.

"Aw, kitty." Chuck kissed her paw, carrying her into the living room so he could snuggle with her on the couch. She curled up on his lap, as he settled on the cushions, and purred so quiet Chuck could barely hear it. He stroked her side, absentmindedly, watching the occasional car go down the street. Boring, but calming. He let his eyes drift shut, and daydreamed while Gertrude kept his lap warm. He mostly thought about his sudden craving for potato chips... also, the beach. But not the cold beaches of the Pacific Northwest. Warm, sunny, sandy beaches—the kind with tourists and sunbathers and clear skies. Fictional, for all he knew. He sighed. Let his mind drift, absentmindedly.

Chuck's stomach growled.

He really did want potato chips. Resigned, he pushed Gertrude off of his lap and made his careful, slow way upstairs so he could text Michael, "Will u buy me some chips pls?" He settled in bed, with the phone on his stomach, and lay there like a starfish. It didn't take long before Michael texted him back.

"What kind?"

Chuck shot back, "BBQ potato chips" and rolled onto his stomach, setting his cell on the pillow next to his head. After a few seconds, the cat hopped up onto the bed and curled up on his back. He let out an amused breath, almost a laugh. His phone buzzed again, with a simple message from Michael:

"Alright."

Chuck scrunched his face up, a little amused, a little pleased, and very tired. He sent a little heart to Michael and put the phone aside, on the dresser. He wished he could take a nap, but doubted it would happen anytime soon. So instead, he continued to lay there, as Gertrude purred and occasionally kneaded his back, and he thought about the beach again.

"Gertrude," he said. "Take me to the beach and we can lay in the sand together. Okay?" He hummed. Gertrude meowed at him, and he crinkled his nose up, smiling. "I know, you're no magic kitty. Just a pirate kitty." He let out a breath. "Pirate kitty, with big bat ears." He laughed to himself and, on his back, Gertrude shifted. She kneaded her paws against his shoulders and sniffed around—her whiskers tickled the back of Chuck's neck, and he held back a tiny laugh. (A giggle.) She meowed at him again, so he reached back, arm at an awkward angle so he could attempt to pet her head. He managed alright, and she purred.

"You're so soft."

Gertrude nosed at his fingertips until she got bored. Slipped away from Chuck, and off through the open bedroom door.

Chuck sighed. "Now my back is cold." But, not particularly willing to move or exert effort of any kind, he didn't climb under the blankets. Just lay there, mind wandering, eyes closed—almost like a nap, but more like resting his eyes for a really long time.

Three hours later, still tired but now with the addition of a dull headache and dehydration, Chuck rolled out of bed. He steadied himself on the edge of the mattress, grimacing at the throb in the back of his skull, and waited for his sudden dizziness to pass. He went to the bathroom, and cupped his hands under the faucet. The water was cold, but he was alright with that. Warm water tasted strange to him, anyway.

Once his throat felt a little less like sandpaper, Chuck dried his hands and went down to the living room. He had to cling to the banister on his way down the stairs—felt unbalanced and weak at the knees. It was a cliché, he thought, but his legs felt like Jell-O.

He half-collapsed onto the couch to rest a moment and clear his head up. Static-y knees and a pounding head left him disoriented, and dizzy. He felt around the pocket of his robe, and found his cell phone—just as expected. Leaning his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Three days since they changed his medication, and the vertigo and lightheadedness only got worse. It was only a matter of time before Chuck fainted. He speed-dialed Michael.

A few long seconds passed as the phone rang. Those watery, drawn-out beeps. Chuck closed his eyes. Tapped his fingers on his thighs. Breathed deep and ignored the auroras against his eyelids.

"What's wrong?"

Chuck scrunched his face up. "No 'hello'?"

"No, because if you call me while I'm at work it means that something is wrong. What's wrong?"

With a quiet sigh, Chuck said, "I'm really dizzy, Michael." He rubbed a hand over his face—back through his hair and coming to rest on his shoulder. "Like, really dizzy. I know they said it might happen at first, but it just keeps getting worse and... I guess I'm worried."

A beat of silence—thoughtful. "I'll call the doctor—unless you want to?"

"No—" Chuck shook his head. "No, I don't want to."

"Alright... I will call the doctor, I will try to get an appointment for you as soon as possible, and I will call you back." Michael paused. "Alright?"

Chuck nodded, as if Michael could see him "Yeah." He sprawled across the couch. "That sounds good."

The line went silent, so Chuck clicked the end call button and put his phone back in the pocket of his robe. He rested his head against the arm of the couch, gaze fixed once more on the ceiling. The shadows in the valleys between slight bumps of stucco looked like faces and animals, people and mountains. Chuck squinted. If he looked just right, one shadow seemed like a reaching figure with long arms and legs. He shuddered and looked away, toward the window.

Just about jumped out of his skin at the silhouette of a tall, slim man—reaching for him.

When he blinked, hard, there was no one there.

He let out a shaking breath and tried to let himself relax again. Easier thought than done, of course, as he lay there with his heart thudding too fast and his breath coming too short, too shallow. He willed himself to melt. To go all liquid and soft. Sort of succeeded, closing his eyes and feeling his arms and legs go limp. His pulse slowed, as he held very still. Very quiet. Thought about snuggling with the cat or with Michael, and how nice that always felt.

By the time he felt calmer, he realized he was too afraid to open his eyes—feared that he might see something else. Another silhouette, or something worse. That it might be like the false Michael who had held him too tight and too cold.

Chuck's worries were somewhat alleviated when a meow broke the silence and Gertrude jumped up onto his stomach. The pain of her paws jabbing his guts distracted him enough that he cracked an eye open to glare at her. She stabbed him with her feet a few more times before settling down and purring, balled up on his tummy with her eye half-closed. Chuck sighed. The room was empty again, and Gertrude felt warm. He stroked her head and looked out the front window.

No one, this time. Just the glass panes separating him from the soggy, cold world outside.

A few moments later, his phone rang—he flinched, and fished it from his pocket.

"Hello?"

For a moment there was only an odd crackling noise, but then it cleared up and Michael's voice came through clear and gentle. "—an appointment tomorrow afternoon. Someone canceled last minute." He paused. "Is that alright with you?"

Chuck scratched Gertrude's neck and said, softly, "That's cool." He sighed. Breathed deep. "Thanks, Michael."

"Don't thank me." Michael sounded... almost tired. Concerned. His voice was low and careful. "Are you alright? You sound... not alright." He fell silent. Clearly didn't know what to ask, specifically. Chuck could just imagine it—questions like "Are you seeing things, again?" Of course, Michael didn't say anything like that. Just waited for Chuck to answer him.

Shifting where he lay, Chuck murmured, "Saw a funky shadow. I'm okay, I guess. Are you okay? 'Cause... you sound real tired, and you're always worrying about me, and you're so patient. So... are you okay?"

"Don't worry about me, Chuck." Michael seemed almost amused. Huffed, and his breath fizzed down the line. "I'm fine. Nothing a little bit of extra sleep won't fix. You're the one with the negative side effects and hallucinations. Worry about you, please. Keep yourself in your own thoughts, and worry about yourself. Alright?"

"...Alright." Chuck frowned to himself, fingers stilling in the cat's fur. "Alright, I'll worry about me. Just... drive safe and let's go to bed early tonight."

Michael almost laughed. "Yeah, we'll go to bed right after dinner. I'll see you when I get home."

"'Kay." Chuck closed his eyes for the thousandth time that morning. "Love you. Bye."

"Bye."

Chuck lifted his hand from Gertrude's side—splayed his fingers across his face. "I love you."

A moment of silence, and through the growing interference Chuck could just make out Michael's response—"I love you, too."

Relief. Chuck hung up, and shoved his phone into his pocket, and covered his face with both hands. He pulled a trembling breath in through his nose and held it as long as he could until it leaked back out again. "Thinking too much, Chuck." He pushed himself upright, upsetting the cat—she hopped to the ground and left him alone. He sighed. It was a sighing kind of day. "Stop thinking and make yourself a damn sandwich." He dragged himself off of the couch and made his unsteady way toward the kitchen. Leaned on the doorway a few seconds, trying to retain his balance.

The sandwich he made, when he finally got to the fridge, was almost entirely cheese. Wheat bread, slathered in mayonnaise and covered with multiple slices of muenster and Swiss cheese. A travesty of a sandwich, in all honesty, but Chuck shoved it into his mouth anyway. Sat on the cold tiled floor in front of the stove while he alternated between peeling off the crust and taking too-large bites.

After he ate, he took his pills—all three of them, with some reluctance and a lot of grimacing. He rummaged through the cabinets and grabbed a handful of stale gum drops, and popped one into his mouth on his way back to the couch. Again, he had to stop just out of the hallway, and found himself leaning heavily on the wall. He waited. Dragged his feet when he moved again and plopped down on the couch with his gumdrops and a glass of water, as soon as he could. He curled his toes, sitting there. Yawned to himself. Sipped his water, and ate a couple more gum drops. Or were they spice drops? He didn't know, but they tasted pretty good.

The cat stalked her way under the coffee table, brushing against Chuck's feet, and then disappeared into the kitchen. Probably chasing a speck of dust, or a bug. Chuck wrinkled his nose. He hoped it was dust.

For a while after he finished his gumdrops, Chuck just sat there and fidgeted.

A few minutes, and he began to grow bored. He hauled himself to his feet and shuffled over to the stairs—half-pulled himself up the staircase, on his way to the bedroom. He buried himself in blankets on the bed, knees up and laptop at his feet, and opened the word documents for his book-in-progress. With the deadline barely over a month away, he really needed to get to work. Halfway done wasn't good enough. He needed the whole thing, or at least three quarters. He grabbed his glasses, so he could see what he was typing—the screen's light illuminated his little cocoon and glared off his glasses, in the dimness of the bedroom.

He contemplated getting up and turning on a lamp, but he decided not to. Too much effort. He would work by the light of the computer and what little sunlight came through the window over the headboard.

The clack of the keyboard was the only sound—he kept meaning to turn on some music, as he typed, but he forgot each time, and continued to write in near-silence. Sometimes a caw would sound from outside. Some lone, foolhardy crow calling out its guttural squawk. Other than that, nothing. Just the occasional slight creak from the wood of the house. He blocked out the settling sounds and focused as much as he could on the document in front of him. Sometimes, he opened Firefox and promptly forgot what he'd meant to do. Other times, he went to Google and looked up the effects of blood loss and various other miscellaneous things.

He didn't notice the room growing gradually darker until he got up to go to the bathroom and realized the room was completely engulfed in shadow, but for his laptop's blue-white glow.

"Creepy..." Chuck swerved to the corner and turned on the lamp before climbing back in bed. A breath-like breeze touched his neck—he shuddered, and rubbed his neck as he slumped in front of the computer again. He folded his legs, but they started to tingle almost right away so instead he lay down on the bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, and rested the laptop on his stomach as he typed. Somewhat awkward, but a little more comfortable than sitting on his feet until they went numb.

Further silence, with the clack of the keys.

Chuck found one of his writing playlists—mostly calm, violin-filled tracks from movies—and let that fill the quiet. For a few minutes, he stared at the screen, eyes unfocused as he tried to word a sentence. Off at the edge of his vision, he caught a vague flicker. He looked, nervous, and was actually relieved to see a large spider dangling from the ceiling. His stomach still gave a weird, displeased lurch at the sight of the eight-legged bug. He shoved his computer away and wobbled over to the closet on still-tingling legs, so he could search for something to kill it with. A pair of Michael's sandals, on a low shelf for the winter. Chuck grabbed them and went back over to the bed.

For just a moment, he thought the spider had gone—but it still hung there. He smashed it between Michael's shoes, grimacing, and threw the shoes at the dirty laundry.

Satisfied, Chuck returned to the bed.

He started a new chapter, with the thought that it might help him get some ideas flowing.

Instead, he ended up mostly drifting. Closed his eyes, mind wandering with various scenarios that didn't quite work. He sighed. Everything that he came up with gave off this overwhelming air of being contrived, stereotypical or overdone. Nothing new, no matter which way he twisted it. So, he decided he was done for the day and shifted his attention to the internet and all its distractions.

The current song on his playlist skipped, and instead of another instrumental track the speakers began to warble out "Cheek to Cheek." Chuck frowned. He was fairly sure he had no Sinatra on that playlist, but he didn't bother to change it. He liked the song, after all. He continued to scroll through Facebook and Pinterest, and hummed along under his breath. Occasionally he sang a line or two.

"Heaven, I'm in Heaven..." Chuck paused. He frowned. Something about the song, and the way it sounded left him feeling strange. Or perhaps just a sensation from the air, completely unconnected to Frank Sinatra. He could hardly tell, anymore. He turned off the music, shutting the laptop and shoving it to the side. Still, the feeling persisted. Goosebumps rose along his arms, so he rolled his sleeves down.

Again, he felt a chill.

The brush of air against his cheek. He shivered.

There was a tightness in his throat and in his chest. A pull at his faded scars and the skin on his face and the white bumps of his knuckles. He suppressed another shudder and covered himself with the blankets, rolling onto his side and curling half into a ball with his arms curved around his shoulders.

Slowly, under the safety of multiple layers of fabric and heat, the sensation of chilled touches faded away. No strange caresses from the moving air. Just muffled warmth and stale oxygen. Chuck kept his eyes closed and his fingers loosely curled at his neck, utterly still except for the shallow breaths expanding his ribcage.

The house continued to settle around him, as it always did, letting out creaks and groans.

But he also heard the growing sound of a car's engine, and the sudden crackle of gravel. The front door opened and shut fairly quietly. It only took a little while before Michael came up the stairs and pushed the door open, Chuck's name soft under his breath.

Chuck peeked out from under the blankets. He stuck his hand out—held it toward Michael, until Michael stepped closer and laced their fingers together. He sat on the bed next to Chuck and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"Any improvement? Or are you still dizzy?"

Sitting up, Chuck scooted a little closer to Michael. "A little better, but my head hurts." He clung to Michael's arm, and rested his head on Michael's shoulder. Sat in silence for a few seconds before going on to ask, "Can we go somewhere? Not today, just... I want to go somewhere else."

Michael frowned. He let his hand drift up, pushing his fingers through Chuck's hair. "Why? What's wrong?" His concern creased the skin between his eyebrows.

"I just want to go somewhere that's not here." Chuck closed his eyes. "I feel weird in this house, and I think maybe I just need to be somewhere different for a day or two." He rubbed his face. Draped himself across Michael's lap, arms looping around his shoulders as he continued. "Like... like a change of scenery, you know?"

A nod. "I see." Michael supported Chuck, all but hugging him. He rubbed his back a little. "Maybe this weekend we can go somewhere. Where, though?"

"Even a Motel 6 would be better than here. I think." Chuck wrinkled his nose. "It's just—it doesn't need to be fancy, okay? As long as there's a bed and a bathroom and way for me to eat... And electricity, I guess."

Michael nodded again. Hummed thoughtfully. Tightened his arms around Chuck's waist as he murmured, "I'm sure we could find a way to entertain ourselves, even without electricity." He almost smiled, then went back to his more serious expression. "I'll try to see if I can book a room somewhere for this weekend—Friday to Sunday?"

Chuck buried his face in Michael's neck with a small, affirmative sound.

"Alright." Michael continued to stroke his back.

---

"Isn't your boss annoyed that you're missing so much work?" Chuck let Michael pull him out of the car, leaning against him for support as he was struck with a dim wave of vertigo. He stood a moment, wobbly, with Michael's arm around his waist. Michael led him from the car to the front doors of the doctor's office before responding.

He helped Chuck down the hall as he said, "She doesn't mind too much, actually. It's slow right now and she owes my father a favor, so I've got some extra vacation days." He frowned. "But I plan to use them for emergencies, only. I'd feel guilty, otherwise." He let his arm slip away from Chuck's middle but grasped his hand on the way into the waiting room.

Chuck nodded. "You and your morals." He half-smiled, and trailed after Michael with their fingers linked together, and fell silent while Michael spoke to the receptionist. He played with their linked hands, eyes downturned, until Michael pushed him gently toward a chair. Once they sat down, Chuck slumped in his seat and rested his head on Michael's shoulder. Michael kissed his temple.

Compared to before, their visit with the doctor was very short. The nurse checked his blood pressure but that was all, and Doctor Lee poked him a little, but in the end she just said, "It's normal to be dizzy for a couple of days after a change but if the problem persists or if you faint, call me and I can change your prescription back to what it was before."

She sent them on their way, and by mid-afternoon they were back home.

"That—" Chuck sighed and sat on the floor to take his shoes off. "That was pointless. You could have been working all day. We could have done that over the phone." He frowned. With his shoes off, he reached up for Michael to pull him upright. "I mean, I'm glad it wasn't over the phone but still." He let out another, more dramatic sigh and shuffled out of the hallway and over to the couch. Plopped down on the cushions, putting a hand to his head.

Michael followed closely—sat beside Chuck and offered his open arms. Chuck slumped into his embrace with a little grumble, and Michael hugged him tight. "She's just trying to be accommodating and personal." Michael let Chuck lay down to use his lap as a pillow. He stroked Chuck's hair as he continued, "I'm sure she knows what she's doing."

With yet another sigh, Chuck had to admit Michael was right. He fiddled with his rings—convinced to wear both that morning—as he lay with his head in Michael's lap, and eventually mumbled, "Will you make me a milkshake?" His stomach burbled a little.

That drew a soft laugh from Michael, and he ran his fingers through Chuck's hair one last time before scooting out from under him. "Chocolate and peanut butter, right?" He waited for Chuck to nod, then went off into the kitchen. Chuck continued to lay on the couch being grumpy and hungry.

After a few seconds, he heard a meow, and the cat joined him on the couch. She curled up beside his head, feet sticking into his face, and purred disjointedly for a few seconds before it smoothed out into the usual low rumble. Chuck reached one hand up and poked at her little foot. She barely twitched, even when he squished her paw pad between his fingers. A little flick of the tail, and that was it. Chuck scooted up, just a bit, and stuck his face into her soft belly fur. She patted at his ear, but otherwise didn't seem to mind as he snuggled up to her tummy. Nice and warm, and silky.

Her purring was drowned out by the sound of the blender, a few times. But Chuck could still feel the vibrations against his forehead.

When Michael returned with Chuck's milkshake, he asked, "Is this a pre-menstrual craving or a pre-illness craving?" He set the glass—beaded with condensation already—on the coffee table and picked up Gertrude before sitting down in her place. She seemed like she might lay on his knees for a minute, but skulked away instead.

Chuck sat up. He squinted suspiciously at Michael but reached for the milkshake. "You put vitamins in it, didn't you?" He rolled his eyes. "Always gotta ruin good things. Gosh."

"Oh, hush." Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck's waist and ducked his head so he could speak low in Chuck's ear. "I'm just trying to keep you healthy." He paused. Kissed Chuck's neck. "I put Emergen-C in it."

Wrinkling his nose, Chuck squirmed away. "It's gonna be all fizzy and weird. Chocolate and peanut butter aren't supposed to fizz." But he leaned forward and grabbed the cup, careful not to let the damp glass slide from his hands. He made a funny face after the first sip, but didn't seem to mind the slight carbonation—he cuddled up to Michael again, as he drank his milkshake. Sat with his knees up, toes curled against the couch cushion. Michael rubbed his side and occasionally planted a kiss on his temple or his cheek.

"You're... very affectionate, today..." Chuck set his glass down on the coffee table for a minute, wiping his hands on his pants. He turned enough that the kiss intended for the side of his face landed on his nose instead. He smiled. "Extra smoochy."

Michael gave a fluid shrug, and pulled Chuck onto his lap, setting his palms against Chuck's hips, steadying and warm. "Perhaps I just feel extra loving." He pressed his lips to Chuck's, for a moment. "And I realized that I've been missing you, and I enjoy spending time with you during the day. Only nights and mornings isn't as fun." He kissed Chuck again, for much longer this time—Chuck draped his arms across Michael's shoulders with a quiet sigh.

He pulled back enough to suggest, under his breath, that they relocate. "Let's go upstairs. The bed is more comfortable."

"Oh?" Michael tightened his arms around Chuck's waist. Paused a moment and gave a heave upright, standing with Chuck still in his arms. Chuck clung to him, nearly yelping at his change in height. Michael smirked. "Do you have plans, or is added comfort the only thing drawing you upstairs?" He resettled Chuck in his arms as he started to walk to the stairs.

Chuck shrugged. "I was thinking something involving a strap-on, but, you know." He grinned. "Anything is fine with me."

"Oh." Still smirking, but perhaps a little more pink, Michael carried Chuck up the stairs—he was careful to watch his feet, so he wouldn't miss a step and injure them both. He glanced up, though, to catch Chuck's eye. His smirk broke into a grin, embarrassed and sweet as his eyes crinkled at the edges. "It's been a while since we've done that... But I'm not opposed."

Raising his eyebrows as Michael carried him down the hall, Chuck ducked his head. "Good." He pressed his mouth to Michael's neck, just shy of his ear. Kissed here and there, and let his teeth graze. He managed to draw a shiver from Michael before they made it into the bedroom. Michael all but threw him onto the bed.

"Lucky I didn't drop you on the floor." Michael—blushing a furious shade of magenta—pulled himself on top of Chuck, pushing him down into the sheets.

But Chuck would have none of that. He shoved at Michael until he rolled away, onto his back. Chuck sat on Michael's hips, and ran his hands up underneath his shirt with a quiet, "Would've ruined the mood..." He smiled, leaning down to peck Michael's cheek. "Injuries aren't very sexy."

Michael stretched his hands over his head, and tried to catch Chuck's mouth—but Chuck pulled back too fast. Michael sighed. "Some people would disagree, but you're right. So, it's a good thing I only dropped you onto the mattress."

"Hmm..." Chuck left Michael alone on the bed, off to find the things he needed.

Michael stared up at the ceiling, and waited.

---

"Do I ever tell you how cute you are?" Chuck ran his finger down Michael's bare chest, using his arm as a pillow. "'Cause you're really cute..." He let his palm rest against the dip of Michael's solar plexus, between the curves of his ribs. Kissed what skin he could reach, near his collar, and murmured, "So quiet, and soft, and sweet..."

Slightly pink in the face, Michael covered Chuck's hand with his own. "Hush." He stroked Chuck's knuckles. "Let me bask."

Chuck laughed, under his breath. He fell silent, though. Let Michael breathe and relax without interruption. Until he got a little impatient, and asked, "What are you even basking in?"

"I am basking in... something." Michael rolled over onto his side, grabbing Chuck's wrist—he loosened his grip and slid their fingers together. Closed his eyes as he spoke. "Love, or something. Afterglow—that sounds strangely dangerous, actually. So, love." He let go of Chuck's hand so he could wrap his arms around him instead.

"What the heck." Chuck scrunched his face up. "You're such a sap." But he smiled.

With a pat on the cheek, Michael said, "Yes. And I need to use the bathroom, so I'll be right back." He sat up and left Chuck in the bed, padding his way out of the bedroom on silent bare feet.

Chuck bundled himself up in blankets, reluctant to go to the effort of putting all of his clothes back on. He curled up on his side with his eyes closed, on Michael's side of the bed, away from the wall. He felt nice and warm and safe in the blankets—a rare thing, for him. He bundled up more. It didn't take long for Michael to come back and join him, wordlessly wrapping his arms around Chuck under the blankets. Chuck shivered.

"You're cold, Michael." He frowned. Michael didn't respond, so he opened his eyes. "Michael?" He craned his neck to see Michael, but in the dim light of the room it was hard to see much more than the slight shine of his eyes and a few deeper shadows. Chuck rolled onto his back, trying to see better. Still all shadows and a yellow-hued glint in his eyes.

"You're not—" Chuck twisted away, and the cold arms slipped from his waist without resistance. (Thank God.) He scrambled out of the bed—ended up falling to the floor in a tangle of blankets, with a yelp and a thud.

"Chuck?"

Chuck raised his arm from his pile of blankets. Within a few moments, Michael was at his side—the real Michael—helping to untangle him from the blankets he'd dragged with him. Michael pushed the comforters back onto the bed, and helped Chuck to his feet. Put a hand to Chuck's face, frowning so that his forehead creased with worry.

"Are you alright?"

"Sorry. I'm fine." Chuck scratched the back of his neck. "Clumsy, I guess." He pulled away from Michael, and went to gather his clothes from the floor and the edge of the bed. Pulled on all his layers, until he was nice and almost-warm and covered up from neck to toe. He faced Michael, leaning against the edge of the computer desk. "Did you find a hotel, or anything?"

Michael frowned, as he thought. "Oh, yes. A cheap place, because most other hotels are booked already, but it has a bed, and a bathroom, and the reviews say it's clean." He stepped closer to Chuck, but slowly, holding his hand out. When Chuck took his hand, he smiled. "We'll make sure the cat has everything she needs on Friday morning, and then we can go to the hotel, and spend a weekend together. Of course, I still need to work, but I'll be home—I'll be done earlier than usual, so you won't be all alone in a strange room for the whole day. Just for a little while."

"Okay." Chuck let Michael coax him a bit closer. He felt dizzy, again. For a while the vertigo had dissipated, after they'd gotten home from the doctor's office. But now he could feel it creeping up the back of his skull again, and behind his eyes. He tightened his grip on Michael's hand, melting into his arms. He rested his head on Michael's shoulder. He frowned. "I left that milkshake on the table..."

Quietly, Michael reassured Chuck that it would be fine, but Chuck shook his head. "It's probably all melty, now." He let out an overly dramatic sigh. "Gross." He could feel his legs going weaker, so he clamped his arms around Michael's torso, frowning deeper and staring at his collar in an attempt to not black out.

But his knees gave way around the same time his vision and hearing faded.

The next thing he saw, of course, was Michael's worried face.

"You fainted..." Michael, now fully clothed, brushed a stray little hair from Chuck's forehead. He cupped Chuck's jaw in his hand for a moment before letting his fingers trace down the side of his neck. He helped Chuck sit up, supporting him with his free hand. "You scared me."

Chuck rubbed his face. Leaned heavily on Michael. "Good thing you were there, huh?" He smiled, halfheartedly, and held his arms out. When Michael hugged him, he closed his eyes and muttered, "Woulda hurt myself." He snuggled deeper into Michael's embrace. "Would've knocked my head on the desk and then—bye-bye Chuck." He made a face.

Michael shook his head. Squeezed tighter. "Don't say that." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to worry, now."

With a quiet laugh, Chuck said, "Don't worry."

"Too late." Michael pressed his face into Chuck's neck, shifting on the sheets and pushing Chuck back down onto his back. "I'm going to worry all day." He was careful not to actually lay on top of Chuck, settling beside him instead, with one leg across Chuck's knees and his arms still tight around his ribs.

Chuck went along with it, glad to be so warm and safe. "Sorry." He closed his eyes and tried to feel Michael's heart beat through the layers of skin and bone and cloth separating them. No use. He listened to Michael breathe, instead, and repeated himself in a half-whisper. "I'm sorry."

Michael hugged him tighter and let out a calm "Hush..."

---

"I called the doctor, and she said you can go back to your old schedule for now, and that she'll modify the prescription again so the pharmacy doesn't try to give you more than you need."

Chuck stretched his arms over his head with a little squeak—he'd been woken by his cell phone ringing. "Thank you." He frowned to himself. "I wish I wasn't so dizzy, since I'm actually sleeping better... I mean—" He let out a quiet sigh, rolling onto his side and accidentally twisting the blankets around his legs. "I still have kind of scary dreams but they're not as real, and I can sleep longer and stuff and... Ugh." He buried his face in his pillow. "Except I'm still always tired even though I'm sleeping more so... I dunno which is more annoying."

Michael's subdued laughter crackled on the over the line. "It seems to be a lose-lose situation." He paused. "Has it been helping anything other than your sleep?"

With a hum, Chuck flopped onto his back again. The sheets tangled even further. "I feel a little more... Well, less like everything is a chore, but not much less. Everything is still a chore and I am lazy and worn out and randomly sad." His nose crinkled as he smiled to himself. "And everything else is the same. You know, as far as... ghosts."

"Ah."

Chuck nodded. "Yep." He groaned and pushed himself upright. "To be honest... it's why I fell off the bed." He brought his legs up, and rested his chin on his knees. Closed his eyes. "It was there with me. On top of the blankets. Like... like, trying to spoon or something."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

A grimace, and a sigh. "I dunno, Michael. I just don't... I don't like to bring it up." He kicked the blankets off of his legs, with some shoving to get them untwisted from his ankles, and moved to stand. "I mean, what am I gonna say? 'A ghost was trying to cuddle with me so I fell out of bed'? No. And I don't want you to think certain things. And I don't want you to worry, and I don't want to think about it, and right now I don't really want to talk about it. Okay? I just woke up... I just want some coffee and something to eat."

Michael was silent for a few seconds, but eventually he said, "My apologies." Stiff, and uncertain. "I worry about you, is all."

"I know." Chuck stood still beside the bed, and rubbed his hand over his face. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm frustrated and freaked out."

Michael seemed to sigh, quietly. "I understand that." He took a moment, again, to pause as he thought. "I think our small vacation this weekend—if it can be called that—will benefit us both."

Chuck nodded. "I think you're right." He hugged himself, with one arm. "I'm gonna go eat, since it's like... noon. I'll talk to you later. Okay? I love you."

"I love you, too. I'll see you when I get home."

Chuck almost said, "Bye." He stopped himself. It seemed redundant. He wanted to say "I love you" again, but instead he pressed the end call button and slipped his phone into the pocket of his pajama pants. He grabbed one of his sweaters—cable knit and the color of black coffee—on his way out of the bedroom, slipping it over his head as he made his way down the hall. He paused, at the head of the stairs. Steadied himself a moment. Straightened his sweater, and fixed his sleeves. As he took a tentative step down the stairs, one hand firmly on the banister, he said to himself, "I am not going to faint again." He took nearly thirty seconds to get down the stairs. "I am going to stay conscious all day, until it's time to sleep."

He only got a little dizzy on the way through the living room.

Cereal at the table, as cold light streamed in through the kitchen window. Gertrude was nowhere to be seen or heard, so Chuck curled his toes up and waited for the heaters to slowly start working. The one on the wall blew warm air around, but it took a while for the heat to really spread. Chuck shivered as he ate.

The refrigerator hummed on when he passed it on his way to the sink. A quick rinse of his bowl, and he stopped in the middle of the kitchen, head cocked, feet cold against the maroon and white tiles. Other than the fridge, there was a strange silence. The kind Chuck felt in his teeth. It amplified when the refrigerator turned its hum off. He shook his head—his ears rang, from the cloying quiet.

"Gertrude?" Chuck shuffled reluctantly toward the back door. "Kitty?" It was locked, of course. The pantry was open, so Chuck poked his head inside, flicking on the light. Nothing there, just some clean laundry that needed to be folded, and a lot of cans. Chuck shut the door tight behind him. He decided he should go back upstairs—not that upstairs was ever any safer, but he still felt like he should be in bed. He inched his way from room to room, and hauled himself up the stairs, and shut himself into the bedroom.

Gertrude was curled up on his dirty laundry, as always.

Chuck let out a soft breath and went over to her, giving her a quick pet on the head before climbing back under the blankets. He settled in bed, curled into a loose S under layers of cotton and embroidery. Still, the air felt too still and silent, but the comfort of the blankets, topped with Michael's floral quilt, made him feel just a bit more secure.

Eventually, the cat joined him. Trilled and curled up on top of him, purring through the sheets. Chuck held still, so as not to disturb her.

The air felt better, with her warming his side. Maybe it was because of the noises she made, breaking the silence and filling it up with her content little buzz. Chuck curled up tighter, but only a little bit so he wouldn't startle her off, and he closed his eyes. The dark, stale atmosphere under the blanket made him feel like he was in a soft, small cavern. A little hideaway. He breathed easy, even with recycled oxygen making up most of his air. He felt his limbs relax, bit by bit—finger by finger, from the back of his neck down to his toes, he slowly relaxed against the mattress.

Just like that, he found himself asleep.

He woke up to a cat butt in his face and cold air on his ear and neck.

"Kitten, what are you doing?" he mumbled, and shoved at Gertrude's fuzzy bottom. She gave him an offended chirp before rolling away and relocating to the foot of the bed. Chuck poked her with his foot under the blanket. "Silly kitty." He lay there for a bit. Yawned to himself. Shuddered at a quick little rash of goosebumps, from a cold rush of air sneaking under his blankets.

He rolled out of the bed, careful not to take the quilt or comforter with him—he stood and leaned on the bed while he caught his balance and waited for his bout of dizziness to pass. Hunger, and the lingering side effects of too much medication. He shook himself and left the room. His head hurt, like it always did when he took a nap. He ignored the tightness and stepped carefully down the stairs. His growling stomach called him to the kitchen, so he went there—but first, he stopped in the small downstairs bathroom. Upstairs, he had been fine, but he suddenly felt like his bladder might explode if he didn't pee. And he had a sneaking suspicion that the slight ache in his back was from more than just sleeping too much in one day.

Sure enough, light spotting. Chuck rolled his eyes and hoped, as he washed his hands, that his cramps would hold off.

Seemed unlikely.

God, but he could just imagine the smug look on Michael's face when he noticed his prediction had been right. One milkshake in the early half of the month, and of course Michael knew Chuck was due to start bleeding all over the place.

Chuck sighed.

The air, still strangely empty, shifted at the edges of his vision.

On his way to the kitchen he had to trail his fingers along the walls, for fear of vertigo. Falling onto the wooden floors or the kitchen tiles sounded unpleasant and painful. But he made it into the kitchen just fine, and went about the task of making himself a sandwich. He hummed to himself while he ignored the strange downward pull of insides. Tried to ignore the pinching in his skull and his pelvic region.

He felt like his body echoed—like his feet on the tiles sent out ripples along the floor, and his movements through space distorted the light around him. He sat at the table, with the chairs all askew, and ate his sandwich while looking out the front window. The midday light made it hard to see, reflecting off half-melted snow and foggy windows. A slight muffled buzz, backed by murmuring, seemed to fill Chuck's ears, and he wasn't sure if it was just the thin silence of the house distracting him, or if it was something else.

He shook his head.

But there it was, more noticeable. A quick buzz, something like static. Something like a voice, and a melody. Chuck frowned. Familiar, but he just couldn't place the sound. He tightened his robe about himself. Almost the same time, his phone vibrated and he jumped. He took a breath, calming himself as he reached for his phone. Michael, of course.

"Hi." Chuck leaned his elbows on the table, crossing his ankles.

The line fizzed, but Michael's voice came through clear. "Afternoon. Have you eaten anything today?"

Chuck wanted to roll his eyes, but the slight urge to smile to himself overcame his exasperation. He ducked his head, with his phone to his ear. "I'm halfway through lunch." He poked his sandwich, twisting his hand at an odd angle. "What about you? I guess you're probably eating lunch right now, huh."

"Yes." Michael's voice sounded light. "A sandwich. And let me guess, you're eating a sandwich as well? Though I'm sure yours has much more cheese than mine." His smile was nearly audible.

"Whatever—" Chuck did roll his eyes, then, and sat up a little. He leaned back in his chair. "Just 'cause I like cheese doesn't mean I have a whole ton. It could be a little bit!"

Michael laughed. "Five slices?"

"Shut up!" Chuck glowered, but then he broke into a grin. "Jerk."

They both fell silent for a moment, comfortable. Chuck liked the sound of Michael's breath over the line—almost like he was in the room with him, but of course... not quite. Chuck closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the back of the chair. "This is random, but... Saying that I love you kind of scares me, sometimes, but I really do love you. I mean—I just do. And I thought I should say that."

"I love you, too." Michael paused. "Are you alright?"

Chuck held his breath in a moment, but then he let it out in a little rush, drooping in his chair. "I'm fine. Gonna go back to bed, I think. I don't feel good, and I think my entire lower body is turning into one big cramp, so... I'll see you when you get home and I love you lots and... Bring me some kisses."

"I'll bring a thousand kisses. And I knew you were going to start—"

"Oh my God, Michael." Chuck frowned and said, "Shuuuuuush. None of that 'I knew it' stuff right now. I love you even when you're smug, but I'm tired. Goodbye."

Michael huffed, clearly amused. "Alright. Goodbye."

Chuck hung up. He shoved his phone in his pocket as he sagged in his chair with a little sigh. He hadn't been lying—he was tired, and his insides felt like a tangle of knots, and he felt funny. Not nausea... not quite. Near enough that Chuck couldn't help but rub his stomach as he made his slow way back upstairs—one hand on his roiling tummy and the other pressing at the soreness of his lower back. Only while he walked up the stairs did he take his hands from his middle. In bed, he curled around his bunny and Michael's pillow and closed his eyes tight enough to see little bursting roses on his eyelids.

Roses...

Roses sounded nice. Chuck squeezed his stuffed animal closer, face shoved into Michael's pillow like the smell of artificial oranges and lavender could make him feel better.

At that point, he really was nauseous. Seemingly unrelated to his time down in the kitchen—before, it had been more of a nervous confusion but now... He truly felt ill. His cramps had escalated, from mild pain to "make it stop." He suppressed a whimper. Curled tighter and tighter, into a little ball with a cotton and stuffing center, all covered up with layers of the same, emblazoned with quilted pansies.

He dearly hoped Michael would somehow make his cramps go away, when he got home.

The power of love, or friendship, or kisses—something. The power of aspirin, preferably.

"Should have had them take my uterus out ten years ago." Chuck grumbled to himself. He sighed into Michael's pillow.

No, he'd kept his uterus—why? Why not get rid of it with everything else? It would've saved him some trouble. Perhaps because he hadn't wanted to take hormones for the rest of his life, or because he was terrified and top surgery was enough of a hospital visit to last him a lifetime, or because he secretly wanted to have a baby someday... not that he had much of a window left at this point. Thirty-eight wasn't old, but it sure wasn't young. And he didn't think he'd be able to take care of a kid, between his own nervous tendencies and Michael's constant work. No...

He decided the reason was fear.

And anyway, other than the whole thing with shedding his insides... Chuck had never really minded. Boobs were one thing. Visible and in the way, painful when hit—a slight breast cancer risk (despite no family history) added to the decision to get rid of them. But as far as what went on under his pants, well... It was just a part of his body, and by the time he was twenty he couldn't really imagine something different. It never got in the way except when he got particularly bad cramps (like today). Insides didn't affect him—he liked his insides. It was the outside. The presentation. His need to look how he thought he should look. (Like a very small lumberjack.) To talk in a voice that didn't sound quite so squeaky. (Still very squeaky, though...)

Chuck took a big breath, as he thought.

He was struck with a memory—smiled to himself. When he first met Michael, after they got to know each other enough to be considered friends... One day, he'd just blurted out "I'm trans!" in the middle of eating lunch, and Michael nodded and said, "And I'm gay." Somehow, just that casual statement—a mutual coming-out of sorts—had set Chuck at ease, and he'd laughed, and Michael had smiled at him in such a calm, affectionate way from his seat across the table... and Chuck had immediately stopped laughing because suddenly he was totally fucked. Because suddenly, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, he was in love with a twenty year old business student from New York he'd met three months earlier in a coffee shop in Portland.

"Wow." Chuck shifted a little in bed, pulling his face out of Michael's pillow so he could breathe better. "I'm a creepy loser." But he still smiled, at the memory.

A particularly unpleasant pang to the gut made Chuck curl up tight again, scrunching his face up. He whined—he wanted to complain, or cry to someone, or something. But all he had was himself. So he didn't complain out loud. Just thought about how much he hated cramps, and how maybe he should drink less coffee. Here and there, he would let out a little peep of discomfort. He spent a few minutes grumbling under his breath, toes curled so they must have been nearly white at the knuckles.

The cat interrupted his self-pity and displeasure by hopping onto the bed and laying down on top of him. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Couldn't even get up to go fetch the hot water bottle, because now Gertrude was using him as a bed and he didn't want to disturb her. The cardinal rule of cat ownership: don't move when your cat is using you as a bed.

He sighed.

They both ended up asleep, eventually.

Chuck only woke up when her weight left his hip and he felt a hand on his face. He frowned, and cracked his eyes open. No one there. Just the blankets covering him like a tent. So he'd imagined the hand on his face. Or... it was ghosts. Either way, he felt goosebumps raise all over his skin—up his arms, back and neck. He tossed the blankets off and shoved himself out of bed. The room was dark, so he flicked the light on, as he made his way to the bathroom.

He came back to that strange stillness from earlier, and that vaguely familiar buzz.

It sounded like music, he realized. He frowned. Walked over to the dirty laundry, and shoved at it until the sound got clearer, and Sinatra's voice came out between some pairs of socks and underwear. Chuck uncovered the radio, sitting right on the heater vent—which explained how he'd heard it downstairs as well as in the bedroom. That vent was directly above the arm chair in the living room. Still creeped him out, mostly due to the song, matching the one that had been on his instrumental playlist earlier. As some kind of extra precaution, he popped the batteries out of Michael's radio and put both on one of the bookshelves, at eye level.

When he turned around, he stood face-to-chest with someone tall and shadowed, thin and threatening.

"Fuck—" Chuck took a step back, and tripped over his own foot, falling against the bookshelf. "Christ." He couldn't bring himself to look up. Stared at the middle buttons of a stranger's shirt, willing his heart to stop hammering. Willing whoever it was to leave, to disappear or something.

But, no such luck.

The apparition—or whatever it was—just stood there. Barely a few inches from Chuck, looming, seemingly growing closer though he didn't move a single centimeter. No... he was growing, or at least that's what it felt like to Chuck.

Like the room was constricting and the strange man was getting bigger and bigger and Chuck was getting smaller and smaller and pressed harder against the shelves behind him.

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut, and this time his whimper wasn't from cramps.

Just to the side of his head, Sinatra crackled back to life with his smooth, "Heaven, I'm in Heaven..."

Too much.

Too much for Chuck. Eyes still shut tight, he all but fell in his attempt to duck away from the tall... thing in the bedroom. He nearly tripped more than a few times as he ran from the room—slammed the door shut behind him before bolting down the stairs, and ran through the living room, and out the front door, and this was just like that time he thought Michael had come home but... no. The sidewalk was only slightly damp and the sky was black but clear, with stars sparking like someone had tossed a handful of glitter over a pool of blue ink.

Chuck sank to his knees on the sidewalk, illuminated by the streetlamps and the growing glow of LED headlights.

"Chuck?!"

It was Michael, and the headlights must have been from the Mercedes. Chuck looked up, as Michael rushed from the car—he held his hands up to Michael, and Michael helped him stand up, wrapping his arms around him. Chuck tried not to cry. He really did. But it was all too much, out in the cold with Michael's warm arms around him and that house behind him. He couldn't help but half-sob into Michael's neck.

Michael picked him up, and sat down in the driver's seat with him on his lap. He let Chuck press his face against his neck, all damp cheeks and trembling hands.

They stayed in the car for a long time—Michael turned on the heater, and closed the door, while Chuck got snot all over the collar of his shirt.

Michael only spoke low, in a soft whisper as he rubbed his hand down Chuck's back. Just, "Shhh, I'm here. I'm here, now." Comfort, as he cradled Chuck. And some concern. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"I—" Chuck sniffled. Rubbed his face on his sleeve. "I'm not—no one's dead or anything." He shoved his face against Michael's neck a moment longer. Took a deep, shaking breath and let it out long. "Someone—the radio was playing without batteries and—I—someone. Someone in the room, and I don't know if it was real or not but it felt bad."

A short silence, and then, "Do you want to stay in the car?"

Chuck nodded, with a quiet little squeak of a "yes."

"Alright." Michael kept rubbing Chuck's back, palm warm through his robe and shirt. He stopped, after a little while. Pushed Chuck gently off of his lap—into the passenger seat—as he said, "I haven't eaten since lunch, so I will be right back. Alright? I've got frozen food in the trunk, too and I don't want it to melt."

Chuck nodded again, drawing his legs up underneath him. He wiped his face on his sleeves. Watched Michael leave the car, and held his breath when he opened the front door with groceries hanging from his arm. But nothing bad happened, and Michael was in and out again after just a few minutes. He came back to the car with a pre-packaged salad and some juice. He handed the juice to Chuck, as he sat down. For a moment, with the salad balanced on his knee, he dug around in his pocket—pulled out a packet of peanut butter crackers and gave those to Chuck too.

"One of my coworkers gave me these and I thought you might like them." He tore the sticker holding his salad closed. "At least, it's something to eat until I make something for dinner." He ripped the little plastic fork out of its wrapper and mixed his salad up. He dumped half the packet of vinaigrette over the lettuce.

When he looked up from what he was doing, Chuck had a mouthful of crackers and was attempting to open the bottle of purple-y blue juice to no avail. Michael laughed, and Chuck pouted at him.

"What?"

Chuck worked on chewing and swallowing before answering—"Don't laugh at me!" He took a moment to try and open the juice again, and ended up mostly in pain. He shoved the bottle into Michael's hands, with a quick mutter of, "My hand's tired."

"Oh, of course." Michael popped the cap up with next to no effort and handed the bottle back to Chuck. "I hope you like blueberries, blackberries, and vitamin B."

With a grimace, Chuck took a gulp. "Blueberries are so gross." But he drank a little more anyway, before screwing the lid back on so he could eat the rest of his crackers. He held the bottle between his legs. A few crumbs fell in his lap, but he ignored them.

Michael shook his head. "It's good for you. Vitamin B is supposed to help with PMS and all kinds of other things." He leaned across and kissed Chuck on the cheek. "I thought it might help you feel better."

"If only good intentions tasted better." Chuck washed down the last of his peanut butter crackers with more juice. He got a quiet laugh from Michael, and smiled himself. Only wrinkled his nose a little bit at the insistence of his cramping lower half.

Out in the car, with Michael, he felt a lot better. At least, he didn't feel like someone was watching him, he didn't feel as nauseous. Just a bit sore, a bit too warm for a few seconds and then too cold. He adjusted the heater every so often, when he overheated or under heated. Michael watched him with a trace of concern, but kept his worry to himself—Chuck appreciated that. He didn't feel great, but it wasn't anything to get worried about.

"You—" Chuck hesitated a moment. Fiddled with the cap of his juice. "You know, I'm okay. Okay?"

Michael gave him a slightly confused look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... I mean, I know I just cried all over you and all that stuff but, like, I'm okay. Mostly." Chuck leaned back in the passenger seat, letting his eyes drift half-shut. "Sure, I'm freaked out and I don't feel super good and I think I need to get out of the house for a while but... It's like... Like, I'm not gonna explode if you leave me alone."

The lines on Michael's face smoothed out a little, as he nodded. "I know that." He closed his mostly eaten salad and set the box on the dashboard, and reached for Chuck's hand. He turned Chuck's hand over, so he could trace his finger over the creases of his palm. "I still want to make you feel safe, though." He ducked his head—kissed Chuck's hand, fingers loose around his wrist.

Chuck, uncertain as to how he should respond, just held very still.

Michael eventually kissed his cheek, and the tip of his nose, urging him to lean closer. "This weekend, I want to give you a lot of love." He ran his fingertips up the side of Chuck's face—cupped his jaw with one hand and his waist with the other, twisting awkwardly to reach.

"You always do that, though." Chuck leaned into Michael's touch. "I mean, what are you gonna do? Shower me with gifts?" He scrunched his nose up. "I hope not."

He got another kiss from Michael, at that.

"Let's go inside."

Chuck shifted reluctantly where he sat. He met Michael's eyes, though, and gave a small nod. Michael took his hand, so he climbed over the center console and clambered out the driver's door after him. Stray gravel poked at the soles of his feet as Michael led him up the path. He almost tripped on the front step, distracted by the thought that they could be ambushed by a ghost at any second.

Luckily, that didn't happen. A chilled breath of air sighed against the back of his neck, making him shudder, but that was all. Just a little bit of unease and cold. But Michael's hand came up and covered the back of his neck, all dry and soft and hot, and Chuck felt easier. Calmer. He attached himself to Michael's side, down the hall and into the kitchen, and clung even as Michael set aside some ingredients for rice and beans.

"Michael, I wanna do something nice for you."

Michael spared Chuck a baffled glance, eyebrows raised and crinkled up, as he started on the rice. "What are you talking about?" He lifted his arm around Chuck's shoulders, hugging him close. "Just being around is something nice."

Rolling his eyes, Chuck let himself be squished against Michael's side. "But—" His voice was muffled against Michael's shoulder. "You're always buying me stuff and you keep making breakfast even though that's my job, and you pay literally all of the bills and I just stay at home all day being useless while you like buy me flowers and shit." He sighed. "I wanna be a nice husband too."

"You're being ridiculous." Michael turned away from the stove so he could pull Chuck completely into his arms. A strong, warm embrace. "It's not as if marriage is a competition. And you do nice things in your own way."

Chuck pouted into Michael's neck. "Like what? Cry?"

Michael thought. "Hm... You greet me with kisses." He kissed the top of Chuck's head, as if to punctuate his point. "You hold me when the lights go out, and you allow me to be vulnerable. I appreciate that a lot."

"Aw." Chuck wiggled in Michael's arms, trying to get even closer—not totally possible, but he still tried. He curled his fingers around the lapels of Michael's jacket. "You're sweet." He kissed Michael's neck, a few times.

"I thought you didn't feel good." Michael pulled back, just a few centimeters, with his hands on Chuck's shoulders. "You suddenly seem much better."

Chuck scoffed. "What are you talking about? I feel terrible." He clutched his stomach dramatically. "See? Cramps! They're killing me! Go on without me!" He laughed, and reached for Michael's hand as he grew quiet. Laced their fingers together and got up on his tiptoes to peck Michael on the cheek. "You know cramps never stop me from trying to get your pants off."

Michael snorted. "Evidently." But he let Chuck slip back into his personal space, so their chests touched and their knees brushed and Chuck's mouth was just a breath away from his ear. He draped his hands across Chuck's shoulders. "I'd like to remain fully clothed until after we've both eaten something substantial, however." He raised his eyebrows. "I'd rather you didn't faint in the middle of it, after all."

"The middle of what?" Chuck rolled his eyes. "You're such a dork. It's sex. Say it—S. E. X." He poked Michael's chest. Nipped at his ear.

"Fine." Michael slid his hands up underneath the back of Chuck's shirt. "I'd rather you didn't faint while I'm fucking you."

Taken aback, Chuck let out a bark of laughter. He snatched at Michael's wrists, in an attempt to get his hands out of his shirt. "You act serious but you're so immature. Mr. 'Don't Swear.'" He kissed Michael, up on his toes, and murmured, "Anyway, who says I'm gonna be on the receiving end?"

That got Michael to blush. His face turned pink, and he looked away. "You could still faint."

"Changing the subject!" Chuck grabbed Michael's face between his slim hands, to look him in the eye. "Which is it? Giving? Taking? Watching?"

"My answer is, 'You hate having sex when you're on your period.'" Michael paused. "So, none of the above."

Chuck looked up at the ceiling with a sigh. "You're right." He patted Michael's cheek. Stepped back, and leaned on the counter. "You can go back to making dinner, I guess." He watched Michael return to the stove, only leaning over a little to peek at his backside while he made sure the water didn't boil over.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "I can tell you're looking at my butt."

"What?" Chuck shrugged, grinning. "It's a nice butt."

Michael just shook his head, though he couldn't help but smile.

---

"Five in the goddamn morning..." Chuck grumbled to himself as he went into the kitchen, hair freshly washed and giving him goosebumps in the cold morning air. "I don't know what's worse, fainting all the time or waking up at the asscrack of dawn after three nightmares in a row." He hunched his shoulders, as he peered into the fridge. He could look on the positive side—he had plenty of time to make breakfast before Michael woke up—or he could complain to himself. He decided on the latter, though he still thought about what he wanted to make Michael. None of that toast and orange juice, no. Something better, like... toast with eggs and orange juice.

But for the moment, he got himself a half a bowl of cereal, just so he could eat something. Anything more, and he'd probably feel sick. Anything less and he'd definitely feel sick, later on. It was always that set of scales. Eat enough to not feel sickeningly hungry later on, while also eating little enough to not feel overwhelmed with food immediately after waking up.

Chuck sat at the table to eat his cereal.

By the time Michael came downstairs, fully dressed and only a little sleepy looking, Chuck was nearly done with breakfast. He just had to make sure the egg was all the way cooked before he could flip the toast out onto a plate for each of them.

"Eggs in a basket!" Chuck grinned, and held a plate out to Michael. "'Cause you like eggs, and you like toast, so I thought why not combine the two and I googled egg toast." He paused. "I guess french toast would have worked, too."

Michael couldn't help but smile at Chuck's enthusiasm. "Thank you." He kissed Chuck on the cheek before sitting down with his toast. Chuck sat beside him at the table, and they ate together in silence. Every few seconds, Chuck would lean against Michael, and then he would get embarrassed and sit up again, and then do the same. Eventually, Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck. Chuck stayed still after that, with his head on Michael's shoulder.

"You got all your stuff packed?" Michael stroked Chuck's hair, absentmindedly.

Chuck just about smacked himself in the face, as he realized he hadn't put any of his stuff into his suitcase. "Shit." He sighed. "I forgot. I had like two hours to do it, too."

Michael pretended like he wasn't completely amused and patted Chuck's shoulder. "That's alright. You can just do it now, while I finish getting ready for work." He stood up, taking both of their dirty plates, and left Chuck at the table while he rinsed them off.

With another small sigh, Chuck hauled himself to his feet. He made his way back upstairs. The whole time, he felt like an ant under a magnifying glass for no clear reason. So he ignored the creeping sensation on the back of his neck, crouching with his suitcase by the dresser as he went through the drawers., Underwear, more underwear, even more underwear just in case he got hit with a spell of bad luck and bled all over his clothes... The usual. He shoved it all, half-folded, into his suitcase along with his laptop and Abarat, plus a bar of chocolate he kept in his sock drawer. Which reminded him to pack socks.

Michael came into the room to find Chuck on the floor surrounded by socks.

"I can't chooooose." Chuck held up a pair of argyle socks and pair covered in cats. "Help me."

With a snort, Michael sat on the carpet beside Chuck and helped him sort through various pairs of mismatched socks until he had enough in his suitcase to last anyone a month and a half. "It's just the weekend, Chuck. Knowing you, I'm sure you'll spend most of the time in your pajamas watching TV."

Chuck huffed. "Whatever. I'll get dressed at some point. Probably."

"Maybe." Michael gave Chuck a quick peck on the lips. "I talked to Rufus yesterday before I left for work—while you were still asleep—and he'll make sure the cat's okay while we're gone." He stood, and held his hand out for Chuck.

Chuck used Michael's hand to pull himself to his feet. "Oh, good. I almost forgot about that. Don't want the kitty to be hungry or something."

"No." Michael grabbed Chuck's suitcase from the floor. His own sat on the bed, and he grabbed that as well, on his way toward the bedroom door. Chuck trailed behind him, down the hall and through the house. They both stopped in the living room to give Gertrude some kisses and say goodbye before taking the suitcases out to the car. Chuck waited in the passenger seat while Michael put their stuff in the backseat and locked the front door.

He perked up, when Michael got into the car. "You said you don't work as long today, right?"

"That's right." Michael leaned over for a small kiss, as he started the engine. "I'll be back from work at four instead of six."

Chuck smiled. "Okay." He huddled up in his seat as the heaters warmed up, and looked out the window. The frosty sidewalks and yards glittered in the mid-morning sunlight, and here and there lights blinked on the houses even though it was early January. Even with the morning traffic as they approached the busier part of town, it was strangely peaceful. Chuck leaned his head on the window and watched the cars and people they passed by.

The heater had just warmed up when they pulled into a parking lot.

"Motel 6." Chuck nodded. "Took my suggestion, I guess." He cracked a smile, eyes crinkling at the edges, and unbuckled his seat belt.

Michael rolled his eyes but he said, "I suppose I did."

He got out of the car and grabbed their suitcases, so Chuck followed him into the lobby. Michael left their suitcases with Chuck while he went to the front desk to talk to the woman there. Chuck sat with his hands folded in his lap, looking around the empty lobby. He swung his feet a little. An old man off in another chair waved at Chuck, so he gave him an awkward half-wave back. Attempted to smile but probably gave off the impression of being terrified more than friendly. The old man laughed, and Chuck felt himself flush. He looked down at his feet, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt.

"Hey, what's got you so embarrassed?" Michael sat down beside Chuck with a slight smirk.

"Nothing!" Chuck blushed even brighter, he was sure. At least, he felt all sweaty under his layers of warm clothes. "I just was... sitting here. That's all."

Michael nodded, raising his eyebrows. "Alright. Well," He handed Chuck a small plastic card attached to a piece of cardboard. "Here's your room key. It's not ready yet, but she'll tell you when the room's free and you can go then. I'll be back at four, like I said. Have fun without me." He kissed Chuck briefly. "I'm leaving now."

Chuck's mouth twisted into a frown. "Okay. Bye."

Michael gave Chuck one more kiss before he stood up and left.

Chuck continued to swing his legs, but now he fidgeted with his room key instead of his sweatshirt.

"Well, your boyfriend sure is pretty!"

Startled, and a bit confused, Chuck looked up from pondering his feet. The lady at the front desk smiled at him, so he smiled back as best he could. He cleared his throat. "Um. Thanks?" Was that even the right response? She'd complimented Michael, not him. He scrunched his face up. "He's—um. He's my husband, actually."

The lady laughed. "Where'd you find a guy like him, anyway?" She raised one eyebrow, still grinning mischievously. "I wanna know where to snag one of my own." She winked.

Chuck snorted. "I don't know. Oregon?" He scratched the back of his neck, crossing his ankles. "College campus coffee shops?"

"What, he can't be that young! I pegged him for at least thirty. He's so mature looking."

At that, Chuck laughed. "Well, he's twenty-five."

"Right. So what are you, then? Eighteen?"

Chuck pulled a face and shook his head. "Add another twenty years."

She whistled. "Thirty-eight? Really? That makes him, what, thirteen years younger than you?" He clicked her tongue. "I gotta know your secret, hon."

"Oh, I dunno." Chuck shrugged. "I mean, I really don't know. We just got along, I guess. And, you know, one thing led to another and now we're married." He shoved his room key into his pocket and sandwiched his hands between his thighs. "Relationships are funny that way."

She nodded. "I guess they are." She tapped her nails on the top of the desk, and for a while silence returned until she spoke up again with, "You want something to drink? Beer? I got some and I can't drink it all myself."

Chuck bit his lip. "I dunno..." He wiggled his feet a bit, and watched the far wall. "I don't drink alcohol. Messes with some... some stuff." He gestured vaguely at himself before squishing his hand back between his legs again. "So... no. I mean, thanks, but I'm sure you don't want a poisoned limp noodle in your lobby."

"Oh, no." She made a face. "Rather not call an ambulance today."

They trailed off into silence again, for a very long time. A still boredom—but Chuck much preferred it to the stagnant paranoia of his home. The janitor broke the silence once, on his way from one place to another, bucket's wheels loud on the linoleum floor. As he passed, the clock's hands ticked to eleven forty-five. Chuck kept his feet out of the way. Curious, he watched the janitor leave. He reminded him of Gabriel, kind of.

"Well!"

Chuck jumped, and looked over at the lady behind the desk.

"Your room should be good, I think. Almost noon, and Bill there seems to be done for the day."

"O—Oh." Chuck stood up, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. He picked up his and Michael's suitcases with some effort, and walked in the direction the lady pointed him in. Down a hall, past some doors. A few seconds of strained shuffling and he found their room at the end of the hall. He dropped the suitcases trying to get the key card out of his pocket, and opened the door.

Not the best hotel room on the planet, but certainly not the worst. It was cramped, and the walls were a weird shade of orange... But the bed looked large enough and the bathroom didn't smell bad when Chuck stuck his head through the door. He pushed the suitcases across the carpet, to the foot of the bed, and when he deemed their placement correct he left them on the floor and climbed into bed.

His stomach grumbled. He heaved a sigh and sat back up and leaned over the edge of the bed, unzipping Michael's bag to rummage through it. As expected, he found a plastic bag full of sesame sticks and a bag with some bagels. He grabbed a bagel and shoved it in his mouth, scooting back and leaning against the headboard. He grabbed the remote from the side table and turned the TV on. Flicked through channels, bored, while he ate his bagel.

Everything was infomercials and mid-day talk shows and dramatic court rooms.

Chuck let Judge Judy play, as he lay on the bed with all his limbs sprawled out like a starfish. He closed his eyes, and listened to the quiet drone of the television. Breathed in slow, and breathed out just as slow. He yawned.

Outside, a car honked.

He ignored it.

He woke up to a scream, and for a moment he didn't know what to think—disoriented, confused, not fully in control of his limbs. But then, as he sat up with a sharp inhale, he realized it was the television. Some cop show, and a character had presumably found a dead body or something. Chuck turned the TV off, rubbing his forehead with a grimace. He rolled onto his side, across the bed, so he could slide to the floor.

For a moment, he stayed crouching, a little dizzy and sore. But he made his way to the bathroom eventually, with a short detour to grab a pad instead of a tampon. (Thank God Michael hadn't forgotten to pack plenty, because—shockingly—Chuck had completely overlooked all of the necessary things like toothpaste and pads.)

He debated taking a bath, but decided against it.

As he climbed back into bed, he checked the clock on his phone. He'd been asleep for longer than he thought—almost four already, and he wasn't sure if he should be glad that he'd napped for four hours or if he should curse the fact. His sleep-induced headache was only beginning, after all. He groaned and plopped down on the sheets, face-down. He counted in his head. Up from one, waiting, wondering what number he would hit before Michael came back from work.

Chuck got to one hundred before the door clicked and Michael walked through the door.

"You look grumpy." Michael shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the TV. He loosened his tie as he asked, "Everything alright?"

In response, Chuck grunted.

"Oh, I see." Michael continued taking off his various layers of work clothes until he stood in his socks, briefs, and tank top. He bent over to look through his suitcase for his sweatpants. He pulled them on and climbed onto the bed, kneeling at Chuck's side. "What's wrong, hm?" He walked his fingers up Chuck's back. "Tired?"

Chuck grumbled but he said, "My head hurts. And my back. And my insides." He buried his face in the pillows.

Softly, Michael ran his hand back down Chuck's spine. "What you need is a massage and a hug." He backed away on his knees. "But first, I think you should put on something a little more comfortable than jeans."

"Fine." Chuck wiggled out of his pants, managing to move as little as possible. He pushed himself upright and crawled to the edge of the bed. Dangled off and searched for his pajamas. A few more minutes of awkward squirming and he was in flannel pants, shirtless and laying on his face once more.

Almost immediately, Chuck felt Michael's hands on his skin, and a light weight settled over his hips. He closed his eyes and focused on the press of Michael's fingertips against his lower back and spine—hoped his headache would go away if he ignored it. (Unlikely.) Still, he couldn't suppress a little shiver at Michael's warm, insistent touches. And he did feel a little bit better already. Less tense, less hard-edged, less wound up. Softer.

A few times, on tight muscles, Michael's fingers pressed too hard and Chuck scrunched his face up with a quiet grumble—but it wasn't a completely unpleasant sensation. Not as strictly painful as his cramped muscles.

"Maybe we should ask the doctor for muscle relaxers." Michael smirked as he worked at Chuck's back. "Turn you into a puddle." He dug his thumbs into Chuck's sides.

Chuck squeaked. "Ow—I don't wanna be a puddle." He buried his face in his arms.

Michael laughed, under his breath. "Might happen anyway, if you give me enough time."

"Shhh."

Gradually, Chuck found himself flinching less and relaxing more. When he sighed, it was with relief, and he breathed deeply. He even moaned, once—Michael laughed again and leaned down just for a second. Planted a kiss between his shoulder blades.

"You learn this in business school?"

Michael shook his head. He continued to kiss up Chuck's spine, to the back of his neck. Spoke quietly—"Learned this in the dorms." He moved to the side and lay down beside Chuck, letting his arm drape across Chuck's back. "Learned a lot of things in the dorms." He almost seemed to wink, as he smiled at Chuck. Somewhat flushed in the face, Chuck wiggled closer, shifting off of his stomach so he could cling to Michael and bury his face in his neck. Michael curled his arms around Chuck's waist.

Quieter, "If I wasn't bleeding and woozy, I would screw you right this very second."

Michael let out a surprised huff. He tightened his arms around Chuck, and tucked him close so his chin rested against Chuck's head. "Well, I know you're easily aroused on your period, but..." He closed his eyes, as Chuck stuck his nose against his throat. "I like this, right now."

"...me too."

Michael smiled.

"Still horny, though." Chuck grinned against Michael's neck—he liked the sound of Michael's startled little laugh. He snuggled closer. "Love you." He kissed Michael's throat.

"And I love you." Michael rubbed Chuck's back, absentminded.

They lay there without speaking for a long time.

Eventually, with the daylight gone and the city sounds dimmed, Michael fell asleep. Arm still slung across Chuck's waist, he breathed slower.

The bed squeaked when Chuck rolled away. Michael didn't even move—dead asleep, limp and calm. Chuck smiled to himself as he left him there. He brushed his teeth, in the bathroom. Downed his pills and put on a shirt before sneaking back out into the dark hotel room. More squeaking from the mattress and Michael only breathed deeper. Chuck climbed into his arms and Michael reflexively embraced him, but made no sound.

Chuck gave a pleased sigh.

---

Chuck woke feeling unpleasant, but not scared. Not sad or frightened from his dreams, only a little displeased. He'd dreamed he was young again. Of the days he was a girl scout and barely knew his left from his right. Sitting in the back of the car, while his grandparents argued back and forth. He'd kissed one of his fellow scouts on the cheek, and they just couldn't fathom the idea of their granddaughter being gay just like her father. He'd been quiet the whole time, hugging his knees and being confused because he just liked everyone and wanted to be friends with everyone and all of his friends were so cute and fun, whether they were girls or boys.

Then the dream had changed to him swimming in the ocean at his current age, trying to become a dolphin.

He brushed his sleep-heavy thoughts from his mind and blinked his eyes open. Michael was still asleep, so he poked him. "Michael? I'm hungry." Another poke, as his stomach gurgled.

Michael frowned. Mumbled something about playing with matches, and suddenly inhaled. He rolled onto his back with a grumble as Chuck continued to poke him. "I'm awake." He wrapped his fingers around Chuck's wrist and gave him a drowsy glare. "No more jabbing."

Chuck smiled innocently.

"What do you want, hm?" Without warning, Michael rolled onto Chuck, pinning him to the sheets. He fixed him with a clearer, but still sleepy, stare. "Stabbing me awake with your tiny, bony fingers. You must want something from me." He ducked his head, kissing Chuck's nose.

Chuck pretended to pout. "My fingers are normal sized!" He turned his face to the side, wrinkling his nose as Michael kissed a trail down his cheek. "I'm hungry. Is there a breakfast buffet thingy here?"

"Hmm..." Michael stopped kissing long enough to say, "There must be." And then he kept kissing—mouthed at Chuck's throat, even, until Chuck was pink in the face. He got his hands between Chuck's thighs before Chuck suddenly blurted out,

"I'm gonna pee my pants."

Michael sat up, eyebrows raised. "I'm not sure if that was a threat or a statement, but... Please don't wet yourself." He scooted off of Chuck, so he could roll away, and reclined against the headboard.

Chuck made his way to the bathroom. When he came back, he declared, "You are heavy and my bladder is weak." He paused. Grimaced. "I mean—not like old people 'weak,' but like, I'm bloated and everything is pushing on my bladder and you are not helping 'weak.'" He hopped onto the bed, laying down facing Michael. "Also I'm still hungry, so can the sexy stuff wait until after I shove some waffles in my face?"

Thoughtfully, Michael narrowed his eyes. His expression shifted to a subtle smile and he sat up all the way. "Sounds fine to me." He climbed out of bed and immediately took his pants off—sweatpants were fine for sleeping in, or lounging around the house, but he would never wear them in public. Michael Milton—Michael Shurley-Milton—would never be seen in public wearing anything so casual, unless he was at the gym.

Chuck, on the other hand, would gladly leave the room in nothing but pajamas.

But first, to admire the view. He waited for Michael to finish changing, and made no attempt to be discreet in his butt-watching. Michael gave him a pointed look, but he didn't say anything so Chuck just shrugged. But, as he knew, all good things end, and Michael was clothed enough to put on his running shoes and hold out a hand. Chuck grabbed his hand as he climbed out of bed and attached himself to Michael's side.

He went shoeless. Probably a bad idea, but he was comfy in his socks and flannel pants. He only stopped to put his sweatshirt on before Michael led him toward the lobby on their search for breakfast.

The lady at the front desk was gone, replaced by a bored young man. He pointed them in the right direction, and soon Chuck found himself enveloped in the smell of low-quality coffee and instant pancake-and-waffle mix.

"Reminds me of college." Michael kept his fingers twined with Chuck's in the nearly empty breakfast room.

Chuck snorted. He let go of Michael's hand and made a beeline for the waffle iron. "As long as nothing's rotten, it's good enough for me." He worked on pouring some waffle mix into the iron and stood by.

Coming over to join him, Michael said, "I know. You did insist, when we first met, that you could live off nothing but instant mashed potatoes and mac and cheese with no negative side effects." He leaned against the buffet, glancing through the selections. Various cups of yogurt and creamers, miniature plastic cups of jam and cream cheese. "This actually reminds me more of a bad diner than college." He picked up a nearly frozen cup of yogurt. Wrinkled his nose and put it back, wiping his hand on his jeans.

"Well, it's something. Better than an untoasted whole wheat bagel with nothing on it."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "What do you have against my whole wheat bagels?" The corner of his mouth turned up, though.

Chuck shrugged. "They're kinda gross." He was about to say something else, but the waffle iron beeped so loud he nearly jumped out of his skin. "Jesus—" He moved to flip the iron so he could open it up and shove the waffle onto a paper plate. "That's terrifying." He shook himself, and grabbed the syrup. Dumped a bunch over his waffle before going off the find a seat.

Michael didn't quite laugh, but smiled broadly in his amusement. He picked through the offerings of the buffet—settled on some watered-down orange juice and a plain cake donut.

"Look who's eating junk food for breakfast." Chuck poked Michael's ankle with his toe. He grinned. "Mr. Healthy is having a donut?"

"Hush. It's unfrosted." Michael pushed back on Chuck's foot. "Anyway, I exercise. Unlike some people I could name, who lay in bed all day."

Chuck frowned. He hunched his shoulders, poking at his waffle.

"Wait—" Michael sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, Chuck. I apologize." He reached out. Covered Chuck's hand with his own, and tried to catch his eye. "I really am sorry. I don't think you're lazy. I know you don't have a lot of energy and I know you do more than sleep, even when you're tired. The words came out wrong."

Leaning a bit towards Michael, Chuck rolled his eyes. He pulled his hand from Michael's so he could cut off a piece of his waffle and said, "I know." He shoved a bite in his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. "You don't have to fall all over yourself to apologize."

Michael sat as if he didn't know what to do with himself. "I'm sorry."

"God, just eat your donut." Chuck smiled, and shoved at Michael's hand. "You're such a puppy when you feel bad."

Michael did as told. He still watched Chuck with a trace of concern, and slightly flushed cheeks. Chuck poked at him, after a little bit of silence, and Michael grabbed at his fingers. "Is all this poking revenge for leaving you all alone in the lobby yesterday?" He kissed the tip of Chuck's middle finger.

As he finished his waffle, Chuck shrugged.

"I just like to poke you."

"Oh, I see." Michael ate the last little bit of his donut and downed his juice before standing. He grabbed Chuck's sticky paper plate, and his own cup and plate, and took them to the trash can. Chuck followed on his heels like an over-attached kitten. Michael turned and caught him in a hug, so he let out a small squeak of surprise. "Well, Sir Pokes-a-lot, shall we return to our room?"

With a scandalized expression, Chuck muttered, "Are you implying something inappropriate?" He walked backwards a few inches, before turning and tugging Michael along after him. "Because I sure hope so."

Michael allowed himself to be pulled through the lobby and down the hall. Once the door shut behind them, he lifted Chuck into his arms with a quiet grunt. Chuck held back a yelp, wrapping one arm around Michael's neck and flailing with the other. Michael hauled him over to the bed—dumped him onto the mattress with little grace, and almost tripped on Chuck's shoes trying to get onto the bed with him.

"Careful." Chuck shot Michael his most playful grin. "Don't hurt yourself." He sat back against the headboard and waited for Michael to join him.

But first, Michael had to take off his own shoes. He kicked them off, and climbed onto the bed, drawing himself level with Chuck before sitting at his feet, cross-legged. "You shouldn't leave your shoes where people can fall over them." He held his arms out to Chuck, and tugged him closer. Chuck went gladly, and even hopped up onto Michael's lap.

"That's less fun, though." Chuck pressed his lips to Michael's. "I think it's funny when you're clumsy." He was about to say something else about falling all over the place, but Michael distracted him by sliding his hands down the back of Chuck's pants. Chuck fell silent, other than the occasional sharp breath as Michael groped him.

It didn't take long before they were both half naked and tangled up in the sheets. Making out like college students, with their hands all over each other. Chuck tried to take his shirt off but ended up with it caught around his armpits. He sighed, and waited for Michael to help him. Soon enough, the shirt was on the floor and they were back to french kissing.

They stopped, once, because Chuck had to pee again and he wanted make sure he wasn't leaking blood onto his underwear. But after that he spent a solid thirty minutes with Michael's hand between his legs (outside of his pants) and their lips locked.

Chuck lay half on top of Michael, winding down, still stealing slow kisses here and there as he ran his hand across Michael's bare chest. He hugged him, and rested his head in the space between Michael's neck and shoulder. Michael lifted one hand so he could run his fingers through Chuck's curls. His other hand went to cover Chuck's, on his chest.

"Feeling me up?" He twined their fingers together. Smiled.

With a shrug, Chuck muttered something about nice pecs into Michael's shoulder.

Michael laughed.

---

"These chips taste like ass."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "And yet, you're still eating them."

With a dramatic sigh, Chuck sank down into the bed beside Michael. He leaned on his shoulder. "I'm hungry." He peeked at the computer screen, as Michael scrolled along. "What are you doing—Are you googling exorcists?"

"No—" Michael twisted his mouth. "Sort of."

Chuck swatted Michael lightly on the arm. Leaned closer to the screen as he muttered, "You really think it's ghosts, then?" He glanced at Michael. "'Cause, I mean... I'm the only one who's seen anything so far... So how do you know it's not just, I dunno, schizophrenia or something?" He leaned back against the headboard again, using Michael's shoulder as a pillow. "Or encephalitis."

Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck's waist, tugging him a little closer as he pored through the many links to priests in the area. He took a moment to kiss the top of Chuck's head and murmured, "I don't think schizophrenia suddenly manifests at the age of thirty-eight." He paused. "Sure, you've always had anxiety and depression and nightmares, but I think the whole thing starts when most people are younger. And it's not entirely uncommon to be both anxious and depressed, right?" He rubbed his thumb in a circle against Chuck's side. "I really do believe something is wrong with the house. I spoke with Rufus, when I asked him to check on the cat. He thinks it's the house, as well. A lot of owners have come and gone, with nervousness and unease. I myself often feel as if I'm being watched, when I'm alone. In the shower, or making dinner. It's unsettling."

"And there's too much Sinatra on the radio."

At that, Michael frowned. "What do you mean?"

Chuck wiggled his toes, as he gathered up his thoughts. "Um, well the radio—you know your little portable radio?" When Michael nodded, he continued. "When I took out the batteries and it started playing out of nowhere and there was that tall guy, it was playing a Frank Sinatra song." He paused. "And before that, one time when I was writing, the computer started playing that same song except the playlist I was on was all instrumental stuff. Which I thought was weird." He took a breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. Sighed out. "I think there were a couple times before when it played the same song too—the radio, I mean—but I didn't really notice that." He scratched his nose.

Michael raised one eyebrow, silent for a moment. He clicked on something and said, "So you think Frank Sinatra is haunting our house?"

"What—no!" Chuck made a face, nose all scrunched up as he grinned. "That's silly."

"Silly?" Michael shook his head. "I suppose." He returned his attention to the computer so he could read the page he was on. Continued to rub Chuck's side while he went through a list he'd found headed "Appointments." He realized it was just appointed priests and not a page to make appointments with priests, so he clicked around here and there until he decided the website was useless. "All I'm finding is old news about lawsuits and useless phone numbers."

Chuck hummed. "Maybe if you actually search for exorcisms, you'll find someone."

"Honestly, I should just go to the church and ask the confessor..." He looked down at the keyboard. "Except, I would feel the need to confess, and I would rather not do that." He frowned, and continued to pick through Google as he said, "I've been avoiding confession since I was nineteen, I'd rather continue to avoid it."

Chuck patted Michael's chest, in some attempt to comfort him. "Well, you've been avoiding the church for as long as I've known you, so..." He shrugged. "You pray sometimes. Isn't that good enough? I thought it was more about, like, faith and stuff... and not about the way you show it." He squinted. "Or maybe I'm thinking of something else."

Michael caught Chuck's hand in his, and kissed his fingertips. "You're not helping." He closed the laptop. "I try not to think of it. I pray every night. You just don't see, because it's in my head." He smiled. "Anyway, I will continue to avoid the church as I have done since I first started college." He moved the laptop off to the side, and tugged at Chuck until he climbed onto his lap. He kissed Chuck's jaw. "I only wanted to check the priests in the area just in case. Rufus actually has a friend he's called up. In fact, he should be getting into town today. He plans to stay a while until he fully understands the situation. From what Rufus has told me, it sounds like they both have some experience with the supernatural."

"Ooh, is he an exorcist?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "You're really stuck on the idea of an exorcist, aren't you?"

Chuck smiled, and tapped his fingers in a line down Michael's chest. "It helps to joke, a little." His expression sobered. He sighed. "I'd rather think about exorcists than being watched by tall shadowy things. Sounds weird, but, I dunno..."

"If it helps, it helps." Michael tightened his arms around Chuck.

Silence fell, and it wasn't strained so much as gloomy. But Chuck cuddled into Michael's embrace and thought about how nice and warm and firm he was. He slumped a little, so he could press his ear to Michael's chest. The sound of Michael's heartbeat comforted him, and his slow breathing helped him grow more calm and relaxed.

Unfortunately, their quiet snuggling was cut short by the hum of Michael's cell. Michael kept one arm around Chuck as he answered the phone. "Hello? Oh, Rufus—" He rubbed Chuck's back, gently. Listened to Rufus on the other end as he presumably spoke about the house. "No, I don't think we should burn the house down. There's no way to pass that off as anything other than arson, for one thing. Trust me, I know. Right. So? Do the two of you have any ideas?" He muffled a yawn, waiting for Rufus' response.

Chuck piped up with, "You'd think an ex-arsonist would want to burn a house down."

Michael put a finger to his lips, with a slight smirk. Chuck didn't quite know what to make of that, so he just narrowed his eyes suspiciously and laid his head back down on Michael's chest.

"I'm sure you know more about this than I do." Michael sighed as Rufus continued to speak. "Just don't set anything on fire inside of the house. Yes, the backyard is probably fine as long as you keep it contained. The fire extinguisher is in the pantry." Whatever Rufus said next made him laugh, and he said, "Alright. I will see you tomorrow afternoon. Your friend, Mr. Singer, can help himself to the snacks in the cupboard by the fridge so long as he doesn't break anything."

"What—" Chuck tried to interrupt but Michael shushed him again.

"Goodbye, Rufus." Michael hung up, and turned his attention to Chuck, finally. "I'm sure he's not going to eat all of your candy. And if he does, I'll buy you more. You're not a child, Chuck." He smiled. Smoothed down a stray hair on Chuck's head and kissed his forehead.

Chuck huffed, but he mumbled, "I guess," and let Michael pet him.

"Anyway, it's all stale gumdrops and half-melted candy canes."

"Yeah, but they're my stale gumdrops and half-melted candy canes." Chuck pouted.

Michael rolled his eyes.

---

It was cold in the car, but not as cold as it could have been. Between the thick cloud cover outside and the slowly warming heaters, Chuck was almost comfortable in the passenger seat. He still shivered a bit, but his coat and gloves kept him toastier than usual. Michael didn't take long in the lobby, and in just a few minutes they were on their way home.

The sidewalk was slick, and the gutters poured rainwater onto the lawn as Chuck followed Michael up the path into the house. The door was unlocked, and the spare key sat on the shoe rack inside the hall. He kicked his shoes off and grabbed the keys at Michael's request, ducking back out the door to stick them under the rock beside the step.

"Is the house better? Because it's really cold in here and I feel kind of weird already." He shed his winter coat (but kept his sweatshirt zipped up to the chin) and hung it up before going into the living room. Rufus was nowhere to be seen, but an older white man sat on the couch with a dirty baseball cap and a grizzled beard. A wheelchair sat right beside the couch.

Michael and the other man looked up as Chuck came into the room.

"I'm Bobby Singer." The bearded man held out his hand for Chuck to shake. His palm was very rough. "We haven't done anything to your house yet. But it is pretty damn cold in here. Where the hell's your thermostat?"

Chuck pointed vaguely toward the door he had just come through. "It's, uh, in the kitchen, for some reason." He backed away. "I'll just—mess with it." He scurried off into the kitchen, and headed straight for the thermostat. Right on fifty. Way too cold. He turned the heat up, and took a brief detour to check that his candy was safe. Satisfied that enough remained in the bag, he made his way back into the living room and sat in the arm chair. He fidgeted.

"Alright, so—" Bobby glared at him. "Boy, can you stop jiggling your leg like that?"

Chuck froze. "S—sorry." He crossed his ankles and folded his hands in his lap, chewing on his lip. From the couch, Michael gave him an apologetic glance. Chuck looked down at his lap and listened to the conversation.

"Rufus is in the restroom right now, but he thinks it's got to be ghosts and I'm inclined to agree. Between the temperature and the hallucinations, this screams 'specter' to me." He cleared his throat. "'Specially that radio stuff you mentioned just now. Ghosts can't do much in the world of the living but they can sure as hell mess with radios and televisions." He set a thick, old book on the coffee table with a thud. "Stronger ones do more'n that. Manifest visible or even physical forms, and the like. There's some stuff in this book if you feel like going through a bunch of archaic French." He crossed his arms, leaning back into the couch and sparing Chuck a surly glance. Chuck sank deeper into his chair, with a little flinch, and Bobby let out a sigh. "Ain't gonna bite you."

Chuck frowned. "Sure doesn't seem that way."

Bobby looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. "Anyway, I'm gonna go through some of the books I brought with me and see what I can find now that I'm able to actually see your house." He cleared his throat as he sat there. "On the other end of a phone, it's hard to tell much."

"Right." Michael leaned over to look at the cover of the book, flipping it open to peer at the old smudged words inside. He closed it after a moment, and turned to Bobby. "Well, if you'd like to stay here for a few days, I won't mind. I can't say the same for Chuck... Not to mention, the bath and guest room are both up a flight of stairs. But I'm willing." He looked over at Chuck. Raised an eyebrow.

Chuck sighed. "I don't mind. I mean, if he's gonna un-haunt the house..." He pulled at a loose thread on his sweatshirt, as a distraction. "Just don't eat me."

Bobby laughed and sat up straighter, grabbing his knee so he could stretch his leg out. "I won't eat you." He even smiled, just a bit. Went back to a more neutral scowl. "As for stairs, my own house has stairs. I'm used to it, so don't get all fussy and worried. It's annoying."

"Alright." Michael stood up and made his way around the coffee table. "Well, then, I'm going to start dinner. Don't get in a fight while I'm gone." He ruffled Chuck's hair on his way past, and disappeared into the kitchen, presumably off to make soup or something in an equally large pot.

Chuck stared down at his lap in the ensuing awkward silence. Occasionally, a clang broke through—Michael in the kitchen, washing pots and pans. Chuck bit his lip.

"Before you ask—yes."

"What?" Chuck looked up from his lap, going a little pink in the face ."I—I wasn't gonna say anything."

Bobby nodded, arms still crossed. "But I can tell you wanna know. So, I'm tellin' you now. Yes, I'm paralyzed. Shit happens."

Shifting in his chair, Chuck nodded. "Um—o...okay." He scratched the back of his neck. "I still wasn't gonna ask, I swear." He paused. "How long has Rufus been in the bathroom?"

Right on cue, Rufus came out of the bathroom. "Been in there since your car pulled up." He dried his hands on his jeans as he came out of the bathroom. He flopped onto the couch beside Chuck and said, "Might wanna stay out of there for a while." He raised his eyebrows.

Chuck wrinkled his nose. "I'll keep that in mind." He went quiet, and looked out the window as Rufus and Bobby discussed the French ghost book on the table, and made theories. It was cold and wet outside, but the heaters had creaked on and Chuck was starting to feel less chilly. Gertrude slunk into view, so he held his hand out. She came closer, sniffing at his fingers. Licked his hand a few times before hopping up into his lap. He smiled and stroked her soft fur. She blinked up at him with her one green eye, big and bright. He leaned down to kiss her nose.

"Chuck, I'm gonna interrupt your feline love-fest for a moment." Rufus cleared his throat, and waited for Chuck to look up. "Could you make a list of things that have seemed out of place in the past month?"

Chuck nodded. "Sure." He picked up the cat and carried her with him on his way to get paper. She gave him a kitty hug all the way up the stairs, and poked at his neck with her damp nose. He tried not to laugh, at the tickly sensation of her whiskers and nose. He stayed up in the bedroom to write his list. Crossed his legs, sitting on the bed with Gertrude curled up beside him as he scribbled down whatever popped into his mind. The constant chill, the weird thudding sounds, the occasional shadows. Just writing it down gave him goosebumps, but he found a small comfort in listing all of his ghostly ailments out. And the bedroom was nice and warm.

The cat purred, and butted against Chuck's arm as he tried to scrawl things down. He scratched at her ear a moment before writing "weird reflections" on his pad of paper.

He figured his list was good enough, and ripped the piece of paper from the legal pad. As an afterthought, he tucked the pad under his arm and brought it with him as he left the bedroom. He thought he felt Gertrude run between his legs at the top of the stairs, but she was nowhere in sight. He suppressed a shudder and used the banister to help him down the stairs. When he got into the living room, Rufus and Bobby were still talking on the couch. Chuck passed the pad of paper and his list to Rufus as he walked around the couch.

Michael, standing in the doorway to the hall, watched him closely. After a few seconds, he came over to Chuck's side and sat on the arm of the chair, draping his arm across Chuck's shoulders. His voice came out barely louder than a breath as he asked, "Is everything alright?"

Chuck shrugged, and leaned against Michael. He watched Rufus and Bobby debate the finer details of salt. He didn't quite understand the purpose of salt, but he kept quiet.

"Untreated rock salt is the way to go, that's what I think." Rufus shook his head. "'Course, that hunter kid always swore by refined table salt. I just don't think plain ol' cooking salt would do jack shit against a big ghost." He let out a huff, reaching for the duffle bag on the table to look through it. He pulled out a small book. Flipped through it.

Beside him, Bobby nodded. "Rock salt always worked best for me."

Finally, Chuck got up the courage to ask, "What does salt have to do with ghosts?"

Rufus chuckled to himself. "So new to the world of the paranormal."

"Fresh meat. Open-minded and easy to educate, so long as he's not a skeptic." Bobby snorted. He grabbed a box from his duffle. A tin, Chuck realized. He popped the lid off and tilted the mouth toward Chuck—it was full of chunky salt, with a slight gray tinge. He made sure Chuck saw before putting the lid back on and saying, "Salt hurts ghosts, and some other supernatural beings." He tossed the tin at his bag. "Shotgun rounds filled with salt, and the like. Can't cross salt lines, neither. I'd recommend being in a salt circle, except I know that can be impractical in day-to-day life, and surrounding the whole property in salt probably won't do much other than trap the ghost in the house... And judging from what little I've been told, it's already trapped in the house." He folded his hands on his stomach, thinking. "Basically, if worse comes to worst and you have no other options, get inside a circle of salt."

Chuck drew his legs up, still leaning against Michael's side. He curled his toes against the cushion. Tilted his head. "So, you can shoot ghosts with salt? What else—I mean, are there any other things to do?"

"Iron."

Rufus nodded beside Bobby. "If you got any iron, it might hurt a ghost." He paused. "Demons, too, and the fae. Unless they're strong. Should block witches' powers, too."

Startled, Chuck burst out with, "How do you know this? I thought you said you used to be a cop!" He wrapped his arms around his legs. "All this stuff about fairies and witches and—and demons? You said you weren't a vampire hunter." He chewed at his lip, digging his fingers into the fabric of his jeans.

"Ah, right." Rufus stretched his arms out along the back of the couch with an amused smirk. "I thought it was a good idea not to tell you the truth until I knew more about what was goin' on. Y'see," He shot Chuck this look—the kind of look that demands no interruptions. "Me and Singer here? We're what you call hunters. Not like game hunters. Monster hunters. And yeah, that includes vampires." He laughed. "'Course, I'm no Buffy Summers."

Chuck didn't quite know what to say. "Uh—" He reached for Michael's hand, across his lap. Grasped his fingers. "It's just a ghost here, right? Nothing... worse?"

Rufus shrugged. "Far as I can tell."

Chuck wilted. Rested his head in Michael's lap, as Michael stroked the back of his hand with his thumb. He sighed. "I should be relieved." He took off his glasses—they were digging into his face, and probably Michael's thigh. "I don't think I am, though."

"Yeah, well, I don't blame you." Bobby shook his head. "Ghosts aren't the worst, but they're a damn pain in the ass. Gotta find their bones and burn 'em, but sometimes that don't even work." He started to stack the books on the coffee table, into a squat tower. "A trinket might keep 'em here—Hell, sometimes ghosts stay in this world just 'cause they're pissed. Or don't even know they're dead." He flipped open the cover of one of the books, running his finger along the cracking glue inside the spine, and gave Chuck a curious glance. Shut the book and said, "Kid, I'm gonna keep an eye on you. I wanna see the effects of this thing before I go around ripping up floorboards."

Quietly, Michael broke in. "You're going to rip up the floorboards?"

Bobby leaned back into the cushions. "Might have to." He stared Michael down, until Michael narrowed his eyes and slipped off of the chair.

He left Chuck alone, as he went back into the kitchen to check his soup. Chuck let his arm hang over the side of the chair with a frown.

"You think there's something buried under the house that could be making it haunted?"

Rufus spoke up, as Bobby gave Chuck a curt nod. "Chances are, someone died here or else their anchor got moved into the house." He grabbed one of the books from Bobby's stack. Flipped through it absentmindedly. "I'm willing to bet there's something buried under the floor, or hidden away in some closet or nook. Bloody scarf, pile of bones, old baby doll."

Chuck grimaced. "Sounds creepy." He scratched his beard, looking down at the wood flooring, trying to see if there were cracks in the lacquer. He didn't think he'd seen or felt anything weird on the floors other than the occasional settling creak. And the closets had been empty when they moved in—except... "Oh." He sat up. "There was a—a thing." He held his hands up, wiggling his fingers. "A vase thing."

"And?"

He pulled himself to his feet. "A vase thing, and Michael's niece broke it over Christmas. I don't know if it got thrown out or not. There was a lot going on." He wobbled over to the hallway, into the kitchen. "Michael?" For a moment he paused to lean against the doorway, a little dizzy, but then he was fine again, and brushed off Michael's concerned look with a quiet, "I'm okay." He walked over to Michael, peeking around his shoulder at the soup.

"What do you need?" Michael put the lid on the pot.

Chuck leaned against him, and asked, "Did you ever get rid of that broken vase?"

For a moment Michael was silent. But then, he shook his head. "I got distracted and forgot about it. I think it's under the sink, in a bag."

Chuck hopped up on his tiptoes and gave Michael a quick peck on the lips before moving away from the stove to the sink. He bent over (didn't want to subject his knees to the hard tiles) and peered into the cabinet under the sink. Just as Michael had said, there was a plastic garbage bag bundled up underneath the curve of the pipe, filled with what was presumably broken glass. Chuck grabbed it and it definitely made sounds like glass scraping against glass as its weight pulled down on the bag. He hauled the garbage bag across the kitchen and into the living room and set it down on top of the coffee table.

"This it?"

With a nod, Chuck sat down. "I think so."

Rufus reached for the bag, opening it up so he could take out a shard of golden glass. He turned it around in his hands. The inside of the glass glittered a little, and seemed latticed with some kind of wire or metal. Rufus squinted. "This is salt."

"What?"

"Salt." Rufus handed the piece in his hand off to Bobby, and grabbed another. He handed one to Chuck too. "See that?" He pointed to the inside edge of the glass in his hand. "Caked with salt. Almost looks baked on. Probably stuck on with water, and then the humidity kept it sticking. Like how sugar clumps up if you leave it alone in the box." He scratched a bit off with his nail. Tasted it, and made a face. "Definitely salt." He trailed the tip of his thumb down one of the wire lattices. "This is iron, here. I'd bet the screw in my knee."

Chuck squinted at his piece of glass. It was blurry—he snatched his glasses up and put them on so he could see better. The wires were coated with a thin layer of rust, and were extremely thin in places. No wonder the vase had been able to break, despite the metal lining. The iron wire was brittle and weakened enough it had probably snapped when the vase shattered. Here and there, a few small pieces held on, but not much. "Weird." Chuck picked at one wire. He was able to peel it from the glass with a little bit of effort. "Was it glued on, or what?"

"Must've been." Bobby frowned, turning his chunk of the vase around in his hands. "No other way I can imagine it sticking without being near impossible to remove." He took his cap off, so he could get a better look at the glass without the bill of his hat blocking the light. "Judging by the salt and iron, I'd guess this vase was used to hold a ghost. It broke, the ghost got free, but it's still being kept in the house by the remains of the trap."

Rufus coughed, quietly, and set his piece back into the bag. "What do you think? Start up a nice little bonfire?" He smirked.

Bobby shot him a slow smile. "Well, I don't know. You got any matches?"

Of course, Michael came into the room right then. He crossed his arms with a frown. "I thought I said no fire in the house." He walked over to the table. Grabbed a shard himself, holding it up to the light. "I still don't know what kind of glass this is. Gold glass?"

"Well, it's glass... and it's gold colored."

Michael huffed. "No, I mean, there's a type of glass called 'gold glass,' and it's... I think it's gold leaf between two layers of clear glass, or something like that." He paused. "Except, that's a lot of gold leaf. I can't imagine it was cheap to make." He knelt down by the table, picking through the shards of glass in the bag. He held two pieces together, edge to edge. "Unless it's brass, or a cheaper leaf. But... I don't know. I'm no expert, obviously, but it really seems to be gold."

Rufus let out a low whistle. "That's a lotta gold for one vase."

"Yeah—that thing was bigger than my head." Chuck reached out, and handed his little shard to Michael. "I wonder who made it."

With a slight shrug, Michael poked at the glass. "Why is there salt on the inside?"

He got laughter as an answer, before Rufus said, "To trap the ghost."

"But there was a hole in the top. Vases have holes in them." Michael laid out a few pieces on the table, like a puzzle of broken glass and wires. "How would salt walls and an open roof keep a ghost trapped, when it can presumably fly up."

A brief silence fell, broken once by the sound of Gertrude in her litterbox. Eventually, Rufus spoke up again. "Extra safety precaution." He frowned deeply, and with some difficulty he slid off of the couch and crouched on the floor across from Michael. He helped him set out more shards of various sizes. "I've seen this kind of thing before, once. Not a vase. A shallow bowl, made of silver with iron inlays in the shape of a sigil. It was covered with this nasty salt paste, too." He shook his head. "Witch used it to trap a disembodied demon. The sigil held it there, I guess, and the salt paste just kept it weak. Along with the materials used to make the bowl."

Chuck folded his hands between his thighs, watching as they rearranged the chunks of glass. "So..." He leaned forward. "Does that mean there's a bottom to this vase?"

"I'd sure hope so." Bobby snorted from the couch. "The hell kinda vase wouldn't have a bottom?"

Chuck frowned. "It could be for decoration." He returned his attention to Michael and Rufus, and Bobby just shook his head. Chuck hopped down onto the floor and reached for the bag, to see what else was in it. Lots of little chips of glass and wire, and quite a bit of salt. He went through it, careful not to cut his fingers, while Michael and Rufus continued to puzzle their pieces together.

A few seconds of careful picking, pulling out a large shard here and there, and Chuck found something like an ashtray. He nicked his thumb taking it out—the edge was ragged where it had disconnected from the rest of the vase. He put the base onto the table and stuck his thumb in his mouth. The salt residue stung.

Michael leaned over to him, worried, and Chuck showed him the little cut on his finger. Once Michael was sure it wasn't bleeding too much he gave Chuck's thumb a kiss and turned to the bottom of the vase. He held it up, careful not to cut himself like Chuck had.

"There's not even a crack." He frowned. "I don't see any sigils, though. It's just clear glass with some salt stuck to it."

Rufus tapped his arm. "Look. It doesn't need a sigil on the base. It was inside."

He was right. With all the shards laid out in a kind of radiating circle—as if the vase had been deconstructed and flattened—the four of them could clearly see a kind of pattern taking shape, made from the deteriorating iron wires. Myriad rings and stars (with symbols Chuck didn't recognize) made a repeating cascade of pentacles all over the inner surface of the glass.

"Never seen anything like this." Bobby leaned forward with his elbows against his knees. He held his hat in one hand, as he looked over the remnants of the vase. "Buncha tiny devil's traps, that's what that is. All hooked together—Whoever made this thing was one crafty motherfucker."

Chuck looked up, curious. "What do you mean? What's a devil's trap?"

Pointing, Bobby said, "You see that? The circle with the star inside, and those squiggly lines? That's a devil's trap. It's used to... well, to trap devils. Demons. No matter how powerful, if a demon walks into the area a trap affects, they can't get out." He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "It's like a light. You know, there's the backside of the light that doesn't do shit, but the bulb faces out and sends a beam so you can see." He slipped his baseball cap back on as he spoke. "The face of the devil's trap points a certain way, putting out something like a paranormal beam that traps the demon. Fades out over a certain distance, obviously. Out of sight, out of mind. Some people make double-sided traps, hang 'em in the air, but I've never seen someone think to make a cage like this."

"So you mean—" Chuck frowned. "So, it's like pointing a bunch of flashlights so they make a big chunk of light?"

"Exactly." Bobby crossed his arms, sitting back against the cushions again. "Not fool-proof, obviously, but even with the hole up top and the blank bottom, it still makes a pretty tricky latticework of traps that'd be damn near impossible for a demon to get loose from, once they got in. Wonder why they didn't think to use more of that gold stuff to make a trap in the base. Would have been a quick addition, compared to all this other crap."

Michael hummed, tapping his finger on the tabletop. "What I want to know is how the demon would get in, in the first place."

Rufus's forehead creased. "Smoke form, I'm guessing. I'd say it traps their soul, except demons don't have souls. But you can consider it something like that. Disembodied, sentient smoke." He picked at some of the loose wire glued to the glass. "Though, I'm not sure if a trap can confine smoke or not. I would think so, but you can never really tell with demons."

There was some more silence, as everyone looked at the broken vase on the table.

Finally, Chuck worked up the courage to ask, "Does that mean I'm being stalked by a demon?"

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves." Bobby slapped his thigh, and Chuck flinched at the noise. "Could be a vase that never got put to use. Hell, maybe it don't even work right. We could just be dealing with some angry spirit—maybe the person who made the vase died in this house and that's what's keepin' it here, pestering you. We just don't know yet."

Chuck sighed. "I'm gonna go get myself a band-aid." He stood up, a little wobbly after crouching—his knees hurt. He went off to the bathroom near the stairs, to look through the medicine cabinet for a bandage. He found one with teeny strawberries printed on it, wondered where it was from. Decided Gabriel must have forgotten it over Christmas, and put it on his thumb. It was, admittedly, cute.

When he came out of the bathroom, Michael was gone again. Probably in the kitchen. Rufus still sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, staring intently at the pieces of broken vase. Bobby had gotten into his wheelchair, in the few seconds it took for Chuck to find a band-aid, and he rolled over to Chuck with a tip of his hat.

"I'm gonna be watchin' you real close 'til we figure out exactly what's goin' on, so don't you worry your little head about it."

Chuck nodded. "...Okay." He cleared his throat and inched around Bobby, still nervous to be in his space. "I'll—I'll keep that in mind." He darted away, to the couch. Plopped down near Rufus, so he could watch the old man piece everything together.

---

"Boy, you gotta stop flinchin' when you see me!"

Chuck shied away from Bobby, looking down at the floorboards between them. "Sorry..." He didn't really know what else to say. He waited for Bobby to keep moving, but he got a bemused stare instead—almost a glare. He looked up, a bit. "I'm sorry, I'm just jumpy."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Right, and I'm Santa Claus."

"Fine—" Chuck sighed, hugging himself. (Cold, like always.) He looked back down at his feet. "I'm scared of you. I'm a wimp, okay? Rufus on his own is fine, but two surly old men makes me worried." He could feel the wall against his back. Must have backed into it without thinking.

For a few seconds, Bobby didn't say anything. He watched Chuck, eyes barely narrowed. Eventually he shook his head with a quiet sigh and muttered, "Ain't gonna hurt you. Whoever I'm makin' you think of, I'm not him." He backed off. Wheeled himself away, toward the kitchen.

Chuck resisted the urge to sit down right where he was, and instead he kept going on his way, to the stairs. Pulled himself up them, a small bit of throbbing in the back of his head making it hard for him to keep his balance. Once he got into his bedroom, he stripped out of his shirt. Stopped a moment to kiss Gertrude, as she stretched a paw out from the edge of the bed. He resumed undressing, and grabbed some clean clothes before leaving the room again (mostly nude). Straight across the hall into the bathroom, where he sat on the striped bathmat as he waited for the tub to fill. He hesitated, but grabbed his crème brûlée bubble bath and poured a capful into the bathtub. Why not relax a little? Anyway, if he never used that bubble bath more than once a year, Luke would probably get annoyed.

But it was so expensive...

But it smelled so delicious. Chuck climbed into the bath, splashing the water around to help some of the bubbles along. He held his fingers under the faucet. He liked the soft pressure of the running water against his skin. If he could put his whole body under a weak jet of water, he would. Like a waterfall, or something, but warm. He wanted to be doused. He supposed there was probably a shower hook-up for that, but for the moment he just cupped his hands under the faucet and watched the water fill with bubbles around him.

Belly-button height was probably good enough, so when the water rose to his tummy, he turned it off and lay back. Lounged in the honey-scented bubbles, eyes closed and knees just above the foam. He thought he could lay there forever.

Or at least for twenty minutes.

Chuck relaxed his knees. Pressed the soles of his feet against the end up the bathtub, tilting his head back against the wall. The shelf above blocked some light from his eyes, which he appreciated. (As long as nothing slid off and nailed him in the face. He didn't need more blood coming from his body.)Trying not to think about the possible catastrophe of a falling shelf, he let himself sink further into the water, bending his knees slightly as he breathed in the sweet smell of the bubbles.

With the bathroom fan off, he could just barely hear Bobby talking to someone. Probably Rufus, though he hadn't been in the house before. He must have showed up while Chuck was running his bath. Chuck shrugged to himself. He stuck his hand into a mound of bubbles. Wiggled his foamy fingers and closed his eyes again.

The voice responding to Bobby's definitely belonged to Rufus. Two old men arguing through the floor vent. Chuck laughed under his breath.

Beneath the muted sound of Rufus and Bobby's bickering, Chuck heard something else. A light whispering, that sent chills across his bare skin—or maybe that was from the unexpected gust of cool air across his face. He closed his eyes tighter, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders. He sank into the water so it touched his chin, and only his knees (and head, of course) stuck out of the bubbles, coated in suds.

The air was silent, a moment, and Chuck couldn't even hear Bobby or Rufus. His ears felt strangely muffled, and closed in. Like he was wearing earplugs, or headphones without music. A few seconds of holding his breath in the eerie silence, and he cracked one eye open. Nothing in sight, so he sat up. Moved away from the wall with the shelf, and turned himself around. He curled up at the other end of the tub, hugging his knees to his chest, and listened.

Nothing, still. Not even the sound of birds, or the creak of settling wood.

Chuck reached for the plug, and managed to wiggle it out of the drain without too much struggling. He stood up, supporting himself on the side of the tub as he stepped out. He shivered, looking around. No towel.

"Fuck." He shook some water from his arms and feet, and checked all the places a towel ought to be. Not on the rack. The cabinet was empty except for toilet paper, tampons and nighttime pads. No towels on the floor. Not on the sink or the toilet. (Why would a towel be there, anyway?) Chuck covered his face with his hands and tried to think.

If the towels weren't in the cupboard or the bathroom, that meant they were either in the dirty laundry in the bedroom, or else they had been washed already and they were in the dryer, which was in the pantry. Downstairs. He let out a frustrated puff of air, and decided he could at least check the bedroom for a dirty towel. Better than waiting for the cold air to dry him off, or asking Rufus to bring him a towel through the vents.

He shook the stray drops off as best he could, so he wouldn't drip water everywhere (blood was another story) and inched over to the door. Opened it just a crack, peeking out into the hallway to make sure it was empty. It seemed empty. He opened the door the rest of the way and ran to the bedroom as discreetly as possible, thankful the doors were almost directly across from each other.

There was a towel on the bed.

"Seriously?" Chuck grabbed the towel and wrapped it around himself before heading back to the bathroom so he could dry off and get dressed without worrying about someone walking in on him. (Namely Rufus. Bobby could get up the stairs without too much effort, and was actually using the guest room, but he tried to stay downstairs during the day.) Chuck shook his head and pulled his shirt on. Checked his thumb, and put a new band-aid over the cut. He wished he could have stayed in the bath longer, but oh well. Some things end too soon. He draped the towel over the shower curtain and left, flicking the light off behind him. The switch crackled.

Briefly, he paused in the doorway. Leaned his head against the wood frame with a grumble, and decided that he would deal with it later. He didn't feel like calling the electrician again just to have her tighten screws she had already tightened.

He went off down the hallway, ignoring the pressure on his ears until he took a step down the stairs and they popped. He gave his head a quick jerk, swallowing so his ears popped again, and went the rest of the way down the stairs. He felt clearer now, at least. Less like someone had shoved cotton balls into his ears. It was still too silent, in the house. The silence didn't go away. Chuck wondered how it was so quiet.

Part of his answer lay in the fact that Rufus and Bobby were outside. He could see them through the living room window—Bobby held a book on his lap, and seemed to be reading from it while Rufus sprinkled salt over the dead grass in the front yard. Chuck settled on the couch and watched them, curious.

Of course, their presence outside didn't quite explain the utter absence of sound inside.

And the fact that he hadn't even heard the door open or close. Maybe he'd been distracted by the bubbles. Maybe they just barely made any noise, getting out of the house.

Chuck dragged himself to his feet again. He felt a little wobbly, and thought his bath might have been too hot. He trailed his fingers along the wall as reassurance, and went across the hallway, into the kitchen.

And turned right back into the hall, stopping only to shove his shoes on before he shoved himself out the front door. He nearly tripped on the little ledge, but caught himself at the last minute and slammed the door shut. Stood there, hands trembling, while Bobby and Rufus turned their attention to him with puzzled stares.

Rufus spoke up first. "You look like you've seen a monster."

"Uh-huh." Chuck let himself sit down on the cold sidewalk, waiting for his heart to slow to a reasonable pace. He rubbed his face with weak hands and muttered, "I saw something. Don't know if it's a monster, though."

Bobby snapped his book shut. "What'd you see? This ain't a game show."

Chuck drew his legs up. Rested his chin on his knees and ran a hand through his hair. "It—it's stupid." He covered his face with his free hand. "Stupid. I'm just—it's a phobia."

"Lord." Bobby rolled himself over, close enough so he could lean down and take Chuck's hand from his face. "Speak up, and tell us what you're scared of, boy." He seemed on the verge of patting Chuck's head.

"Dogs." Chuck covered his face up again, with both his arms. His voice came out muffled, but not too hard to understand. "I'm scared of dogs and I saw a dog, and I don't—I don't know. I ran. I don't even know if it was really a dog, it just—it—it looked like one and—"

"Slow down." Bobby flicked the top of Chuck's head, gently. "You saw a dog inside the house. It scared you. That's all I needed to know." He maneuvered his way around Chuck, to get to the front door. It opened without any trouble, so that seemed like a good sign. Bobby popped a mini-wheelie over the threshold to get inside, and left Chuck and Rufus out on the sidewalk.

Chuck continued to shiver in a little bundle on the pathway.

It didn't take long for Bobby to show up in the doorway again. "There's nothing in there anymore. Least, not downstairs." He backed away, and disappeared into the dim hall again, grumbling about ghosts.

Chuck took a moment to compose himself, but he managed to get upright without falling over, and convinced himself to go inside after only a few seconds of mental pep talking. The air wasn't so thick, and he heard the insistent buzzing of the fridge. He peered into the kitchen before going inside. Empty, and clean, and warm. He went for the fridge and grabbed the box of miniature cucumbers in the crisper. He was hungry, but he felt icky after that scare, so he bit the ends off the cucumber and stuck it on a plate with some ranch dressing. Not the most elegant of snacks, but something to stop his stomach from twisting up.

He fought the urge to sit down right there on the floor, and got to the table before his knees buckled for the second time that day. He dipped the cucumber in the salad dressing and bit off a chunk. It didn't taste very good.

Chuck sighed. "Could be worse."

---

Michael stood in the doorway, watching Rufus and Bobby.

Bobby was pouring a small amount of kerosene over the shards of the broken vase (arranged in a fan over the frozen ground.) Rufus stood beside him with a book of matches in one hand. Chuck, of course, was far away from them both, under Michael's arm. For his safety. He nestled into Michael's warm side and watched as Bobby backed away and Rufus lit the matches. A short drop and a hurried retreat, and the vase was aflame.

Or at least, the kerosene was aflame.

Michael rolled his eyes, above Chuck, and Chuck frowned. He craned his head back to ask, "What, you don't think it'll work?"

"Not if they plan on melting the glass." Michael shook his head, extricating himself from Chuck so he could go into the pantry. He came out with a fire extinguisher, and left Chuck in the doorway, striding out into the cold air. "You can't just toss some glass and kerosene on the ground and expect it to liquefy!" He pointed the hose at the fire—the base, of course—and started to extinguish it. Lot of smoke, white foam and cursing from the old men.

Bobby's immediate reaction was, "The hell are you doin', boy?" Rufus' was along the same lines.

Michel waited until he'd gotten the fire put out before he turned to them. He planted his hands on his hips, extinguisher dangling from one hand. "If you're gonna light a fire, do it right. Preferably not in my backyard, now that I've thought about it." He turned away, and over his shoulder he added, "Once that glass cools off enough to touch, we're taking it somewhere it can actually melt."

Begrudgingly, Bobby and Rufus followed him inside, leaving the dark yard behind them. Bobby moved over to the table, with Rufus not far behind, and asked, "Where do you plan on taking this, then?"

"Well," Michael shut the door, and locked it for good measure. He set the fire extinguisher on the counter. "I was thinking either somewhere with a kiln or, at the very least, a place that isn't in the middle of a residential neighborhood. A big concrete area would be a nice backup location, with little flammable material nearby." He leaned on the door. Seemed almost thoughtful, to Chuck, as he continued. " I've got new charcoal and two year old split logs in the shed. Lighter fluid, too."

Chuck poked his side. "Don't burn your face off."

"Don't worry. As you know, I've had my near brushes in the past." Michael dropped a kiss on the top of Chuck's head. "You can rest safe with the knowledge that I spent the better part of my teenage years setting things on fire without hurting myself too much."

Narrowing his eyes, Chuck leaned into Michael. "And your college years. And last year, when you burned the Christmas tree in your dad's backyard."

Michael grinned.

From the table, Rufus spoke up, eyebrows raised. "Are you telling me your Disney prince is an arsonist?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Well, color me surprised."

"I wouldn't say 'arsonist.'" Michael walked over to the refrigerator, opening it so he could look for the makings of a meal. "More like... 'casual pyromaniac.'"

"That sounds even worse!" Chuck got close enough that he could cling to Michael's back. "Why can't you say something like... Fire enthusiast?"

Michael laughed to himself, as he pulled a package of raw chicken breasts out of the fridge. He dislodged Chuck before heading to the stove. Murmured, "It doesn't sound right, to me. I wouldn't call my love of all things hot 'enthusiasm.' You remember that camping trip? July, the year we met—Would you say that was me being enthusiastic, or me being absolutely terrifying?" He smirked over his shoulder. Stabbed the chicken packaging and slit it open with a knife.

"Uh." Chuck inched away. "I guess you did kinda throw stuff on the campfire for fun until something exploded..."

"The only time I act like the other buff boys." Michael winked.

From the table, Rufus snapped, "Who are you?" He shook his head. "Here I thought you were a gentle frat boy turned businessman. Turns out you're an arsonist!"

Chuck and Michael both laughed, and Rufus scowled. Bobby, meanwhile, just muttered to himself, still a stranger to the ways of the Shurley-Milton household.

When Michael had finished seasoning the chicken and put it into the heated up pans, Gertrude appeared—seemingly out of thin air, drawn out by the smell of sizzling poultry. She rubbed up around both Michael and Chuck's legs, purring. Meowed, a few times. Got up on her hind legs until Chuck dug a bag of cat treats from the cupboard and tossed one to the floor. She sniffed it. Ate it up in one bite and, momentarily satisfied, moved her begging elsewhere.

She got begrudging head-pats from Bobby, and some chin scratches from Rufus.

It wasn't until after the four of them had eaten (and Gertrude, too) that they finally got around to collecting the glass. Michael was delegated to the task, because he had leather gloves in the shed and experience in glassblowing from a class in Salem. (Around the time Chuck first moved in with him.) He gathered the glass up in a metal bucket, carrying it inside. He brought in the bag of charcoal, as well, and some seasoned wood wrapped up in a blue tarp. He set it all on the floor while he locked the back door and asked, "Whose car are we taking, and who's coming?"

"I'm going home." Rufus was already halfway to the front hall. "I'm beat, and I don't wanna go burning shit with you. I'm no hooligan." He shook his head.

Bobby, on the other hand, said, "We'll take my truck."

For a moment, Chuck almost asked to come. But he thought it must take a lot of heat to melt glass, and he didn't really like the thought of either being near a fire so hot or of staying in the car to watch... He butted his head against Michael's shoulder with a quiet, "I'm gonna stay home. I could work on my book."

"Good idea." Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck. "The manuscript is due next month, isn't it?"

Chuck nodded.

Michael pecked his cheek, slipping away. As he grabbed the wood and charcoal in one hand, and the bucket in the other, he said, "Call me if anything happens, and I'll be back home as soon as possible. Alright?"

Chuck gave him another nod, and a whispered, "Okay," so Michael left him there with one more quick kiss.

It didn't take long before Chuck heard the truck's engine roar to life, and then slowly grow quieter. He stood in the middle of the kitchen—it felt so much more muted, now that everyone had gone. Everyone but him and the cat. She was asleep under the table. Chuck pulled his sleeves over his hands, on his way out of the kitchen. He turned out most of the lights as he made his way upstairs. Left the hallway lights on, of course, and a lamp in the living room.

For once, he didn't immediately change into his pajamas. He kept all his clothes on, socks and all, and sat down at Michael's desk with his laptop. He thought he might get more work done, if he pretended to be professional and serious. He pulled up his document and began to write. Wiggled his toes against the wheels of the chair.

Despite the desk and the swiveling chair (maybe partially because of the chair), Chuck kept getting sidetracked. He turned the chair back and forth, and ended up scrolling through Facebook and Twitter, and eventually found himself trapped in a chat with Luke.

He barely noticed the time passing, as they sent messages back and forth, debating the merits of dark chocolate versus black licorice. (Chuck believed licorice was an abomination and Luke hated dark chocolate more than he hated spicy candy.)

He was only drawn from their heated argument when he heard a quiet little noise, in the edge of his thoughts.

It sounded like... whistling.

Low, muffled whistling. At first, musical, then it grew into something more like a catcall or something used to call a stray pet.

The hairs on the back of Chuck's neck and along his arms prickled up with goosebumps. He pulled his sweatshirt tighter around himself, shivering in the computer chair. He glanced around the bedroom, eyes wider than normal. He felt like one of the whistles led to a growl, but it was as if he was hearing it through the vents, or the walls.

But the noise came again, and it was definitely a snarl—canine, and predatory.

Chuck decided the bedroom wasn't safe—the shadows in the closet and the doors opening onto the porch made him nervous. He got to his feet as quickly and quietly as possible, and opened the bedroom door just a crack. A shape stood at the top of the stairs, wolf-like and large. Very large. But the bathroom door was ajar, and just across from him...

He bolted out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, and got the door slammed shut behind him just as a heavy weight thudded against the wood. He locked the door with shaking hands and nearly tripped over his own feet backing away.

He climbed into the empty bathtub.

Sure, the bathroom wasn't the cleverest or bravest of hiding places, but it didn't have any strange nooks or crannies. It was just a square room with a sink and a toilet and a tub. Secure, hopefully.

Despite his probable safety, Chuck couldn't help but tremble, surrounded by cold ceramic and tiles. Outside the door, the creature growled again, loud and deep. Chuck pulled the shower curtain around the tub, sitting with his knees against his chin. More growling, and a vicious bark, and Chuck hid his face in his knees.

The noise only seemed to escalate. Whatever it was—hound, wolf, demon—it scratched at the door and yelped and snarled. Chuck could have sworn he even heard the sound of teeth snapping. All the while, underneath that, was the mild-mannered whistling that had given him goosebumps in the first place.

"Now, Chuck... Why won't you come out? Doggy wants to play with you so bad."

A voice Chuck couldn't place. Not Michael. Certainly not Rufus, or Bobby, or anyone else he knew. Drawling and sickly-sweet. Too calm, and encouraging in exactly the wrong way.

Chuck covered his ears. It didn't shut out the low, coaxing tones of whoever stood outside the door, and it certainly didn't shut out the continuously louder barking and growling. All it did, really, was make Chuck feel like he heard it all through water. Still loud, but not as clear. Just as threatening.

The only thing that cut through it was his ringing phone.

Not in his pocket, though. From the bedroom, where he'd left it on the desk. He could just make out the buzz, and the faint tinkling as someone called him. The voice and the dog were silent, the whole time it rang. Eventually, it stopped ringing, and they remained quiet for a few long minutes.

Chuck took a deep breath. Let it out in an unsteady sigh.

And then, of course, the dog growled again.

Chuck suppressed a whimper. The whistling returned, clear and to the tune of that song that had been following Chuck. That Sinatra song, "Cheek to Cheek." Chuck curled his toes and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend it was all a bad dream. Pretended the click of sharp teeth and the relentless scratching of claws on wood was some pretend figment of his imagination, and that he would wake up to a dark morning at any second.

Too bad that didn't happen.

Not that it surprised him. Inevitable that, the one time he most desperately wished to wake up, he was already awake.

It felt like Chuck spent forever cowering in the bath tub—at least hours of shivering while some spectral beast attempted to break the door down with various thuds and scrapes and yelps. But, as the thuds only grew louder and heavier, Chuck checked his watch with a nervous glance, and barely twenty minutes had passed since he left the bedroom. Maybe a little bit longer. He couldn't quite remember if he had checked the time before fleeing.

A particularly loud bang made him flinch, and for a minute he feared the door would snap, but then it devolved into hard knocking. Chuck realized he couldn't hear any scraping or growling anymore. No more whistling. No more murmuring. The bathroom felt warm, and the furious knocking was accompanied by, "Chuck! Unlock the door!" His name, repeated multiple times, rushed and tight.

"Oh—" Chuck, in his hurry to get out of the bathtub, almost fell onto his face. He pushed the shower curtains aside, and stumbled to the door. Took just a second to turn the lock and almost fell back again when the door swung open.

It was Michael, uncharacteristically distraught.

Chuck wasted no time in grabbing onto him. Buried his face in Michael's neck, and dug his fingers into his back. Michael hugged him close, arms almost painfully tight around his shoulders. They both stood like that for a long stretch of seconds, until Chuck couldn't stand to be squeezed so tightly anymore. He tapped Michael's side and mumbled, "You're hurting me."

Michael loosened his grip, though his kept his arms around Chuck. He kissed the top of Chuck's head. Let out a sigh and slouched, pressing their foreheads together. "I was worried." He raised his hands to Chuck's jaw—cupped his face in his palms. "When you didn't answer your phone, I was a little concerned. But I thought you might be showering, or eating, or something." He paused. Closed his eyes. "When I got home, I just felt like something was wrong, and when I knocked on the door and you didn't answer I just... feared you hurt yourself."

"Michael..." Chuck grabbed onto Michael's wrists. He didn't push him away, or draw back. He turned his face into Michael's warm hand, and kissed his palm. "I'm okay, Michael. Promise."

Gently, Michael kissed Chuck again. (On the lips, this time.) He let his hands drift down, and took Chuck by the hips, and walked backwards, pulling Chuck after him until his back hit the wall beside the bedroom door. Finally, he let go. Brushed his fingertips over Chuck's jaw, and smiled the tiniest bit.

Chuck took his hand. "Come on." He tugged Michael into the bedroom. "Let's talk. Okay?"

"Sure." Michael let himself be pulled over to the bed. Climbed up onto the blankets, and leaned against the headboard as Chuck snuggled up against him. "What do you want to talk about?"

For a second, Chuck didn't say anything. He leaned his head on Michael's chest and gathered up his thoughts. Twined their fingers together, and closed his eyes. It was only then that he finally spoke. Nothing condemning, nothing bad. Just, "Did you hear a dog, when you got home?"

His question made Michael frown. But then, he nodded. "I did. I thought it might have been from one of the houses down the street. When I opened the front door, it got a little louder, but it still seemed distant." He paused. Frowned deeper. "Though... I did think it was strange, that I could still hear it just as loudly outside the bathroom door. I was more concerned with finding you, though. Making sure you were safe."

Chuck nodded. "I was hiding."

"From the... dog?"

Another nod. Chuck let go of Michael's hand and trailed his pointer finger down Michael's chest, from his collar to the bottom of his rib cage. He shifted. His mouth twisted, and he peeked through one eye, up at Michael. "I was hiding in the bathtub. When you called, and when you got home, and a little bit before that. Like... half an hour." He sighed and flattened his fingers over Michael's ribs—over his heart. "I heard some noises... I ran to the bathroom... Dog tried to break the door down but then eventually it turned into you knocking, and I don't know how that happened, but... it happened. And I'm fine, so you don't have to worry."

"Well..." Michael put his own hand over Chuck's. "I was terrified I might find something bad."

"You were afraid I was dead."

Michael nodded.

Chuck leaned over enough to kiss Michael's knuckles. He settled half on top of him, with his head in the crook of his neck. "I'm not gonna die, Michael. I promise. Not until I'm all old and wrinkly." He smiled. "When I have to breathe with a machine and can't move around at all and can't remember my own name. Right? That's when I'll go. In my sleep when I'm... a hundred years old." He planted a bunch of light kisses on the delicate skin of Michael's neck. "Not any sooner. I wanna be around you for a long, long time. Okay? Unless I somehow end up in a freak accident, I won't die."

"You'll jinx yourself." Michael tilted his head back, baring his neck to more soft kisses. "You're being too certain, and God is going to cut you down because you mentioned freak accidents. Just wait." He almost smiled. "You'll get run over by a clown car and die of a broken ankle."

With a snort, Chuck muttered, "Okay, Johnny Cash." He pressed his open mouth against Michael's throat.

Michael went a gradual, pale pink, at Chuck's touch. Chuck bit his ear, and he almost jumped—definitely shivered. Blushed brighter and grabbed Chuck by the shoulders. He sat up, pushing Chuck upright with him, and said, "That's embarrassing."

"Aw, sorry." Chuck grinned and let Michael move him to the side. "I forgot it makes you shy when I touch your ears." He raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not shy." Michael crossed his arms. "And that's not touching, that's eating."

Chuck laughed to himself. He draped himself across Michael's lap, like a cat, and made a quiet little noise in the back of his throat—a tired peep. Michael stroked his hair back from his face with warm fingers. Faded to a less vibrant shade of pink and messed with the unruly curls at the base of Chuck's neck and at his temples. Chuck really did feel like a cat, then—Hell, he wished he could purr just so he could let Michael know he liked to be pet, without using words.

"I can tell you're thinking something weird."

Chuck scoffed and swatted at Michael's hand. "Whatever."

---

"What's that ring made of?"

Michael looked up from the book he was reading with a curious frown. "Hm?"

"That." Bobby pointed at his left hand. "Your wedding rings."

"Oh," Michael closed his book and straightened up, looking down at his hand. He twisted the wider, metal band around. "Well, this is steel. And silver—the thinner band down the middle is silver." He turned his hand so both rings caught the light. The clear one sparkled a little. "My engagement ring is crystal quartz."

Chuck butted in with, "The jeweler said it's rock crystal. Like the gem on mine."

"They're the same thing, Chuck."

Briefly, Chuck considered arguing, but he decided it was a ridiculous thing to argue over so instead he muttered, "I'm just trying to call it what she called it." He nestled up beside Michael, on the couch. Michael kissed his temple with an indulgent smile.

Off to the side, Bobby narrowed his eyes. "Shame it's not all silver. I was about to say you should punch the ghost in the face with your wedding rings. Power of love and all that." He snorted to himself.

"No thank you." Michael wrapped his arm around Chuck as he spoke. "Humans are one thing, but ghosts? I'd prefer not to get tangled up boxing a spirit."

Chuck poked at him. "Aw, come on." He gave Michael his best imitation of a puppy dog. "You really wouldn't punch a ghost in the face for me?"

"Hm... maybe."

Chuck grinned. Then his expression grew more somber. He reached for Michael's hand, pulling it into his lap so he could play with his rings. "But... you won't need to, right?" He glanced up at Michael. Back down, to the wood grain steel of his wedding band. "We can get rid of it... and it won't..." He floundered for words.

"Won't hurt you?"

He nodded, at Bobby's interjection. "I'm... I'm scared. I'm really scared, actually."

Bobby sighed. He tugged on the brim of his cap, leaning back in his chair. "I know you're scared, kid, but you gotta trust me." He frowned. "I'll think of something."

"But... what?" Chuck set his hand on top of Michael's, so their matching bands clinked together. "You can't even see it, so it's not like you can trap it. And—and you burned that vase and it just made it mad and now it's probably all the way free or something. I mean, it was gonna break down the door!" He wound his fingers with Michael's. "I feel hunted. It stalks, snaps at me, waits a few days, and then tries all over again. I don't get it. Am I a game for this thing?"

"Maybe just 'game.'" Bobby folded his hands over his stomach.

Chuck sighed. "Great. Cool." He let go of Michael's hand. Took his glasses off and set them on his lap so he could push his face into his hands. "I'll just sit here and wait to get eaten."

"Chuck," Michael pried Chuck's hands from his face, touch light. "You'll be alright. I'll keep you safe, I swear."

Chuck shook his head. "I don't wanna be here, anymore." He rubbed at his eye, as it threatened to water up. "I wanna go... somewhere else. I wanna go home. But this is home, and it's trying to scare me and I'm tired."

Silence descended, for a short while, broken only by the occasional stubborn sniffle as Chuck fought his stressed body's urge to cry. Eventually, Michael broke the quiet, voice low. He asked Chuck, with his hand on his side, "Do you want to go home?"

"What—" Chuck shot him a watery glare. "I just said this is home. Are you listening?"

Michael shook his head. "I mean home, with my family." He ran his hand up Chuck's side. "We can go. Alright? We can go home, and stay with them. It's just Raphael and Luke. Dad's still in Europe so there's plenty of space, and no ghosts. I promise there are no ghosts." He smiled. Used his thumb to wipe a tear from the edge of Chuck's eyelid.

Chuck swallowed back the urge to just shout "Yes!" and instead mumbled, "That's so far."

"Oh, I know it's far." Michael cupped the side of Chuck's face in his hand. "We can ship our stuff... fly with Gertrude. It's colder there, but we have a fireplace, and a lot of heaters and blankets. Not to mention, you wouldn't have to be alone all the time." He ran his thumb across Chuck's cheekbone.

Chuck nodded. It took him some time to get out the words, "I wanna go home." But he got them out, and leaned against Michael, shoving his face into his chest.

Michael hugged him close.

Bobby cleared his throat and waited for Chuck to finish sniffling before he interrupted them.

"Well, I'm glad you two got this sorted out but I'm still sittin' here wondering what the hell is haunting this place."

Michael shook his head. "I have no idea and in all honesty, I don't care anymore." He pushed at Chuck, gently, until he slid off of him. Pulling Chuck up with him, he stood. "I just want to put Chuck in bed and start packing my life up so I can stop worrying that I'll come home to a corpse. I suggest you get some sleep as well." He gave Bobby a curt smile, and ushered Chuck away from the couch, toward the stairs. With his back to Bobby, he switched to a gentler tone and asked Chuck if he'd taken his medications.

Unsurprisingly, Chuck rolled his eyes.

Bobby sat, silent. Nodded to himself. Waited for Michael and Chuck's footsteps to fade before rolling over to the half bathroom near the staircase so he could get ready for bed as well. Michael had a point. It was late, everyone was stressed, and Bobby couldn't blame Michael for being annoyed. He decided he might take his advice and get some rest.

Upstairs, once Chuck had gotten his pills down, Michael helped him to bed. His hands were very warm on Chuck's back and arms, and Chuck leaned into him any chance he got. Even when Michael coaxed him under the covers, Chuck leaned up for a long kiss, soft and relieved. With the knowledge that they could leave once their stuff was packed, Chuck felt... less heavy. Less afraid to lie down. There was no nagging thought in the back of his brain that if he closed his eyes, a ghost would wrap its arms around him. He could watch Michael leave the room without feeling an immediate pang of worry that, once alone, something would stare out at him from the shadows of the closet or the porch or the bookshelves.

He could find it in himself to think that maybe the gusts of air that occasionally brushed his face were just gusts of air and not invisible fingers.

There was still that vague wiggle in the back of his skull that set his teeth on edge... but less insistent.

Less terrifying.

He woke up in Michael's arms, sweating from their shared body heat. He craned his neck to look over at the clock—eight in the morning. Not too bad. And he'd only had one bad dream all night. (A very unpleasant bad dream, involving pure blackness and the sound of many dogs growling.) He squirmed around until he was facing Michael, noting as he did so that a few cardboard boxes sat beside the bookcases, half-filled with books. He poked at Michael until he got a grumpy scowl.

"Good morning." Chuck kept poking.

Finally, Michael opened his eyes and grabbed Chuck's fingers. He stared at Chuck. "You're evil." But he pulled Chuck into a hug and amended his statement under his breath. "You're evil, but I love you. Even though you poke me awake when I want to sleep in."

Chuck made his most serious face. "You can't sleep in on a Tuesday!"

Michael raised his eyebrows, as he pulled back from Chuck. "I beg to differ." He propped himself up on his elbows. "I emailed my boss last night asking if I could meet with her... Asked for today off, so I could get some papers ready." He sighed. "I guess I should get up now, anyway. I need to think of what exactly I'm going to tell her. After all, this certainly won't count as two weeks' notice, and I've barely worked there for a month. Not to mention the amount of time I've taken off. I'll have to explain to her that this is an immediate, unpreventable decision, beneficial for mental health and all of that... How do you explain to someone that your husband is being terrorized by ghosts, or possibly demons, without actually mentioning the supernatural?" He sat up all the way, straightening his tank top.

"Um..." Chuck stayed on his side, watching Michael's back. "You could tell them that my mental health is being affected by your long hours and my complete lack of a social life?" He glanced at Michael's butt, as Michael stood. "Or... that... I'm sick and I need to be in a supportive environment and that your long hours are preventing me from getting better."

With a quiet laugh, Michael said, "I get it. You hate that I'm never home." He grabbed his jeans from the day before and pulled them on—he'd only worn them for the few hours after work he'd spent melting glass. "My schedule is normal, though. It's the commute that adds three hours."

Chuck frowned. "Well, nine to five with an hour and a half tacked on both ends is too long."

"I know." Michael leaned down to kiss Chuck. "I'm sorry. It seemed like a good job."

"Yeah, well..." Chuck sighed. "You have smelly breath."

Michael snorted. "Harsh."

Chuck cracked a smile and rolled out of bed as Michael finished getting dressed. He wobbled a bit. Supported himself with the edge of the mattress on his way to the door. When he got to the doorway, Michael was already on the floor, packing more books. Chuck watched him for just a few seconds, before heading to the bathroom.

When he came back, Michael was still putting books in neat little rows, so Chuck shooed him from the bedroom, pushing clothes into his arms. "Go get ready to talk to your boss!"

Michael went with just the slightest resistance.

The morning proved lazy but nervous, as Chuck made breakfast for everyone. Just eggs and toast, but Michael barely ate anything. He kept bouncing his leg until Bobby snapped at him to hold still. Chuck wanted to feel bad for Michael, but he tittered to himself anyway. Michael's sulky frown didn't do much to make him stop.

Eventually, despite Michael's reluctance, Chuck and Bobby were alone in the house. (With the cat, too, of course.) Bobby made sure all of his things were consolidated, unsure how much longer he would be staying, and sat on the couch to see if he could glean any further information from his stack of old, yellowing books.

Chuck went upstairs. He sat on the floor, right where Michael had been, and started where he left off—books into a medium sized cardboard box.

He spent a long time packing up what remained on the bookshelves, and got the records on the dresser all sorted as well. Even went so far as to start a load of laundry, right as the Mercedes pulled up to the curb. He made sure the washing machine was set right, and hurried to the door. He got it open before Michael was up the path.

"Hey," Chuck straightened Michael's tie, as he came through the door. "How'd it go? She's not mad?"

Michael took Chuck's hand. Shook his head, with a small smile. "I explained to her, in the vaguest way possible, that there's a family emergency and I need to go back to New York." He edged his way around Chuck toward the kitchen as he spoke. "I told her I can come in to work if I'm truly needed, but that it's crucial I pack the house as soon as possible. She understands, and she's not too annoyed." He took his jacket off, on the way to the fridge. Leaned down to look inside, hungry but not sure what he wanted. "I'm surprised, honestly." He grabbed a cucumber. Pointed at Chuck. "I feel like taking the week off for Christmas was a bad idea, even though I know it was fine. I just feel bad when I take any kind of time off, whether it's for a good reason or not."

Chuck sat down, eyebrows raised. He leaned back in his chair. "You worry too much. Everyone gets Christmas off, anyway."

"I know." Michael gnawed on his cucumber, apparently not bothered by the little bump where the stem used to be. He leaned on the door of the refrigerator, loosening his tie with his free hand. He tapped his toe on the floor, seemingly deep in thought. Just kept silent, continuously tapped his foot, and bit off chunks of the mini cucumber in his hand.

Eventually, Chuck piped up with, "I packed the rest of the books."

Michael smiled at him. "Thank you." He pushed away from the fridge and sat near Chuck, at the table. "Now I don't have to. I can start on the record collection."

"Oh!" Chuck clapped his hands together. "I did that, too!"

"Really?" Michael leaned back in his chair. He tilted his head. "Someone's having a productive day." His smile persisted, and he crossed his ankles under the table, leaning his head on a fist.

Chuck shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I was bored. And... maybe procrastinating on my book... Just a little bit." His face scrunched up, but his grin didn't falter much. He fiddled with his rings. (He'd gotten used to the weight of both rings, in the past month.) "And I was thinking of getting the uh... the towels into a box—except for a couple of them. Those and whatever's in the bathroom that we won't need in the next few days." He shrugged again. "Spare toothbrushes and weird lotions, and stuff." He wrinkled his nose and leaned his elbows on the table.

"Ahh." Michael nodded. "Well, leave out the cleaning supplies. This house may be haunted, but I'd like to clean the bathrooms once we've packed."

With a quick little nod, Chuck stood up. He hugged himself, and lingered by Michael's chair a moment. "Um..." He scratched the back of his neck. "When do we need to be packed by? Like, how is this working? New York is a lot farther than Oregon."

Michael stood as well. Pecked Chuck on the lips before saying, "While I was out, I called a moving company. They will be here tomorrow afternoon because I am paying them a ridiculous amount of money, so I'd like to pack as much as possible today and tonight." He kissed Chuck again, quickly. "I called Raphael and let him know the plans, and I'm going to buy plane tickets tonight, for whatever exorbitant price I can find."

"Oh, okay." Chuck kind of wanted to smooch Michael right back, but he restrained himself and skirted around him instead, heading toward the living room. "I'll try to get all my crap packed, at least." He cracked a smile over his shoulder. "Good thing we kept all those boxes from when we moved in."

With a snort, Michael muttered, "I suppose we have some luck."

Chuck made a face, and skittered off to get to work in the bathroom.

---

"Okay. Come on, Gertrude." Chuck rattled an open can of tuna fish, and stuck it inside the cat carrier. "We've gotta get you used to being in the carrier for a little bit before we leave. Right? Come on, kitten."

Bobby watched from the couch as Gertrude sniffed the can from outside of the carrier. She nibbled at the fish, whiskers twitching, and backed away again. Tilted her head, ears flicking as if she heard something from the kitchen. She spent a few seconds watching some speck of dust, then nibbled again. Chuck reached past her and scooted the can further into the carrier. Surprisingly, she followed. Chuck kept the door open, cooing about how good she was.

"I don't understand cats."

Chuck glanced up from stroking Gertrude's hips and tail. He squinted. "There's not really—I mean, I don't think anyone understands cats." He turned his attention back to Gertrude, to make sure she wasn't eating too fast. "They just exist and if they like you they might not barf in your shoes."

That got a chuckle out of Bobby, and Chuck grinned.

"You've been in a good mood today."

Chuck tilted his head, almost in the same way as Gertrude. "Yeah?" He leaned against the cat carrier, crossing his arms along the top as he sat on the floor. "I guess I'm just relieved, or something." He rested his chin on his folded arms. Looked off into space and muttered, "Excited to get away from this weird house."

Bobby nodded. "I can sympathize."

"Have you ever been haunted?" Chuck looked up at Bobby, wide-eyed and curious.

With a thoughtful hum, Bobby narrowed his eyes. Shrugged, and straightened his cap. "Can't say I have, yet. Got my share of nasty dreams, though. Dead wife, vampires, you name it." He let out a noisy breath and shook his head. "World's full of bad shit."

Chuck nodded. "Sure is."

"Think of it this way, though." Bobby cleared his throat, as he adjusted the way he sat. "You got yourself a ghost, or a demon, or something bad on your ass. Trying to scare you, hurt you, whatever. Meds and paranoia. But you also got yourself a caring husband with the looks of a gay porn star, cleaning the bathroom upstairs." He shrugged. "I'd say he makes up for... at least ten percent of the bad shit."

Quietly, Chuck muttered, "He does look like a porn star..." He huffed. "I mean, I guess you kind of have a point. He's hot, he's nice, he cooks yummy food and cleans the house, and he kisses me a lot. So... ten percent, at least. Maybe twenty? Makes up for the nightmares and the vertigo."

"There you go." Bobby patted the arm of the couch. "Not too shabby."

Chuck nodded. "Right. Now I just need eight more perfect husbands to make up for the other eighty percent of bad shit, like... everything about this demon ghost thingy, and the headaches and nausea, and the partial insomnia... anxiety... et cetera." Chuck smiled, almost mocking himself.

Bobby nodded. "Pepto?"

"Right. Some gross pink stuff will solve all my problems and is totally guaranteed not to interfere with my medications." Chuck wrinkled his nose. "I can't really get that kind of stuff down anyway. The smell of cough syrup makes me wanna barf, so I don't think Pepto-Bismol would be any different."

"You got a point, there."

Chuck laughed. "Here, take this medicine for your nausea—except the smell alone will make you literally gag."

Bobby snorted, taking his baseball cap off to twirl it between his hands.

"What's all this about gagging?" Michael frowned, as he came down the stairs. "No one's sick, I hope."

Chuck waved his hand, from the floor. "No, no." He pushed himself upright with the help of the carrier (Gertrude hardly noticed.) "We were just talking about how gross medicine is."

"Ah." Michael approached the couch, a damp rag in one hand. He adjusted his rolled up sleeves as he asked, "How's Gertrude?"

"She's fine." Chuck nodded toward the cat carrier next to the coffee table. "Eating tuna."

Michael kissed Chuck on the cheek as he passed. "Good, good." He went straight for the hallway, probably heading for the pantry so he could throw his dirty washcloth in with the laundry. Over his shoulder, he said, "Bathroom's empty and clean, so don't mess it up. I left some toilet paper on the counter."

"Okay!" Chuck went the opposite direction, struck with the sudden realization that he actually really needed to pee. He stopped to use the bathroom by the stairs, then hurried up to the second floor so he could see what needed to be done. The main bathroom was, as Michael said, empty and clean. Practically spotless, and reeking of bleach even more than the one downstairs. Chuck covered his mouth, as he checked the windows above the tub. Locked. He left as soon as he could.

He checked the guest room, and found it empty as well—except for the boxes they had already packed.

Heading into the main bedroom, Chuck glanced at the clock. Past six, already. Half the room was boxed up and the other half was a mess. He sighed, and tried to figure out what he should do. Sheets? No, he didn't want to sleep on a bare mattress. Closet? Yes. Closet. Chuck walked over and peeked in—knelt down and started pulling Michael's various pairs of nice shoes from the rack.

Chuck lost track of how much time passed, as he packed up the clothes in the closet. (All things they wouldn't be needing during the move, such as wool blazers and leather dress shoes.) When he finally stood up, he had to lean against the sliding closet door. It wiggled from his weight, hung only by its hinges. He bypassed the bathrooms—both smelled of bleach and Drano since Michael had attacked them with cleaners—and made his very wobbly way downstairs to get a drink of water from the kitchen sink. The water was freezing, to the point of being painful. After he dried his hands, Chuck stuck them into his back pockets with the hope that the body heat from his butt would make his fingers warm up faster.

Outside, visible through the window above the sink, Bobby was talking to Michael. Neither seemed dressed very well for the damp, near-freezing weather so Chuck assumed they'd only been out there for a minute or so, and didn't plan to stay there long. He watched them, curious.

Unfortunately, they didn't seem to be doing much of anything interesting. Except Michael had an unlit cigarette in his mouth—the closest he'd come to smoking in the past three years. Chuck shook his head. Had to be stress. Just being a stay-at-home cat owner was stressful enough, with a ghost added. Working all day and coming home to a haunted husband couldn't be good on the nerves.

Chuck went to the kitchen table and sat down. Fidgeted. Twisted his wedding band around and around, though he left the engagement ring alone. Had he really gotten into the habit of wearing both, daily? Apparently.

"Ugh." He slumped over until his forehead bumped against the tabletop.

It was just then that the back door opened, and Chuck turned his head enough to look over at Michael and Bobby as they came inside. He raised his hand in a little wave, and got a worried look in response.

"Are you alright?" Michael seemed to be at Chuck's side in a matter of milliseconds, pocketing his unlit cigarette so he could put his hand on Chuck's shoulder.

Chuck rolled his eyes. But he appreciated the concern. "I'm fine, silly." He straightened up, taking Michael's hand from his shoulder. "Just worn out, is all. Still, uh..." He glanced over at Bobby a moment before saying, "Still cramping in my, uh... leg." He raised his eyebrows.

Michael frowned. "Your leg? Oh—right." He ducked down, and kissed Chuck on the top of his head. "Hopefully your leg will stop hurting soon." He rubbed Chuck's back.

"I hope so." Chuck tilted his head back for another kiss.

Off to the side, Bobby grunted about young folks and their PDA. He crossed his arms.

"You two lovebirds oughta get back to packing, if you wanna get it done on time."

With a sigh, Michael straightened up. "You're right. However, I'm going to make dinner before we resume." He left Chuck at the table, heading over to the cupboards above the stove.

---

"Careful!" Chuck resisted the urge to help right a box, as one of the men from the moving company picked up a box full of plates and bowls. (The box was well padded, inside, but he still didn't want their dishes to break.)

The guy gave him a look. Shook his head, and said, "Don't you worry, Mouse. I'll be careful." He took the box out to the truck and left Chuck feeling a little lost.

"I'm not a mouse..." Chuck frowned to himself, and went to sit on the windowsill as the movers steadily emptied the house of boxes and furniture. Michael helped them. Probably good, because while the one who'd called Chuck a mouse was fairly big, the other guy was closer to Chuck's size. Michael had to take his place, moving the couch. He seemed to be able to lift pretty well, though.

Not like Chuck.

Chuck was useless.

Bobby was out there carrying small boxes back and forth in his lap, Michael was helping the big guy (Benny Lafitte, he'd called himself) move the beds and tables, and the smaller man (who'd introduced himself as Aaron) carried a lot of boxes regardless of size. And then there was Chuck. Sitting by the window, watching everyone else. Even Rufus came over to help later on, despite his bad knee.

It wasn't until all of the larger items had been packed into the truck that Chuck got a chance to feel useful. He got to carry a few small boxes and cushions outside so the movers could stick them in with everything else. He stood a moment—uncertain, lightheaded and cold. He hunched his shoulders as the movers closed everything up, and watched them talk with Michael for a moment. They settled something or other, confirming exactly where they were meant to ship the boxes. ("New York?!" "New York.") And then, they were gone. Down the street, taking ninety percent of Michael and Chuck's worldly belongings.

It was quiet, once the truck's engine faded.

Michael stood beside his car. It looked like it had just been washed, overly slick and reflective of the gray clouds in the sky. He watched Chuck. Eventually asked, "Are you alright?"

Chuck nodded. He didn't say anything, just sniffed in the chilled air and pulled his sweatshirt sleeves down to cover his knuckles. He rubbed his nose. Waited for Michael to push off from the side of the car and join him. Michael took his arm, hands warm, and led Chuck inside.

"Most of our stuff is in the trunk. You've still got a suitcase upstairs, don't you?" Michael briefly gripped Chuck's elbow. "Why don't you go get that. I'll be right at the bottom of the stairs."

Another nod, and Chuck pulled away so he could make it to the stairs, up to the bedroom.

Cold, cold, cold. He almost expected his breath to turn to fog in the air, but of course it didn't do that. He still shuddered, as he walked into the bare bedroom. Empty walls, empty floor. Just the window blinds filtering the midday light, and Chuck's little suitcase he'd had since college. Ugly floral, and a gift from a distant relative who seemed to have been under the impression that suitcases should be upholstered.

Chuck ignored the static just at the edges of his vision and grabbed the suitcase off the floor. With his clothes and a book and his computer, it weighed more than he expected. But not too much. He held the handle with both hands, and tried to walk without his knees constantly banging into tan and green paisley floral and teal plastic. Easier said than done. He shuffled to the top of the staircase, and Michael stood below just as he had said. He seemed so calm and collected. It didn't match the buzzing in the background of Chuck's hearing.

Just that soft crackle that sounded when the bathroom light switch was flipped.

Chuck shut it out. He didn't want to think of the implications that accompanied strange noises and cold air. He hopped awkwardly down the stairs, instead, hitting his leg on the base of his suitcase just above the knee. It hurt, just a little. He scrunched his face up.

When he got to the bottom few steps, he held out his suitcase. Michael took it from him, gently, with a quiet murmur that Chuck didn't quite catch but that comforted him no less. He reached for Michael, just to use him as a handhold to stabilize his swimming head and suddenly half-numb body. Michael gave him a careful smile and moved to help him, but then he grew still. Just as Chuck got onto the bottom step, just before the wood floors. Chuck frowned, with a tiny questioning noise. Michael looked just past him, eyebrows drawing together. Chuck couldn't help but focus on his eyes—on the way the silvery-green of his iris shifted as his pupils dilated.

Though he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that Michael had dropped his suitcase, the sound never seemed to reach his ears.

All he heard was a buzz, as his ears felt pressed in upon by the air. Michael's arms were around his waist—his hands pulled at Chuck, drew him up, urged Chuck to wrap his legs around his waist. Chuck clung to Michael, unsure of why he felt so detached and unable to name the fear he felt in the place just below his ribs. But he dug his fingers into Michael's back and crossed his ankles and for a moment, he buried his face in Michael's neck.

Some little whiff of citrus made his nose itch, and cleared some of the haze from his thoughts.

They were halfway across the living room already. Michael was running, and Chuck could look up and see the matted gray fur and yellow-white eyes making him flee.

Blistered skin and ragged teeth—Chuck hid his face again as Michael carried him away from the wild dog. Wolf, husky, hybrid. Something. Big and heavy, heaving. Its growl broke through the barrier of over-pressurized air muffling Chuck from the rest of the world. The same growl from the bathroom, vicious and awful.

It all rushed in—the click of Michael's shoes on the wooden floorboards, the snarl of the wolf-dog on his heels. Michael's hitched breath and Chuck's own heartbeat in his neck and his fingertips and the backs of his thighs. The noise of the front door swinging open hard against the side of the house and the sudden grind of bone on bone and rending denim and wool, and the urge to make some kind of noise. (To laugh? To sob? Both?)

A snap, or two.

The dog tugged on his leg and Chuck saw whiteness and roses against the insides of his eyelids, as he tightened his fingers in Michael's coat and tried not to make a peep, as his knee unbent and his leg extended until he feared the joint would pop out.

And then it stopped. Not gradually—a sudden disappearance of pressure and it felt like not a second passed before Michael's face came into view, pale and tight and wide-eyed. And Chuck was sitting in the passenger seat of that shiny black car, staining the interior red. Bleeding. He was bleeding. Chuck swallowed a breath, feeling his own eyes widen to the point he thought they might fall out.

"It's alright, Chuck. It's okay."

Chuck stared at Michael. He knew he needed to do something—he was breathing too fast, he felt like. Or maybe he that was his heartbeat. Maybe both. Maybe it was someone else. It felt like someone else. But it hurt in both an immediate and distant way. He could feel the searing of his left leg, points of sharpness in the back of his knee and his shin, and in his ankle or at least somewhere nearby.

"It's okay."

Well, that was obviously a lie.

But Chuck didn't have the heart to tell Michael he was wrong. Not with those wide pupils and trembling fingers. He just made a small noise and let Michael adjust him so that all of his limbs were in the car, and then the door shut, and Michael sat in the driver's seat. The combination of the magnetic stench of blood and the too-warm heater blowing on his face sent Chuck into a soft blur where the pain kind of drifted off into the edges of sensation.

Probably a lot of things happened.

The main thing that stuck out to him was Michael, with Chuck's blood down the side of his leg, darkening his jeans to nearly black, from mid-thigh downward. Stark on his palms, too.

Maybe Chuck fell asleep. He wasn't sure. He had some brief notion of a traffic light slowly changing from red, to gold, to green. More blurriness, and Michael carrying him into a tall building with lots of windows and wide glass doors.

And then this long expanse of whiteness and uncertainty.

And then a ceiling, pocked and speckled, probably made of Styrofoam that shouldn't reasonably be able to hold up that dangling fluorescent light fixture. At least the lights were off, Chuck thought. At least he was warm, with blankets covering him and a pillow between his neck and the hardness of the bed.

But his legs were both numb, for some reason, and his stomach hurt. His face felt weird, as well. Stiff and dried out. He raised one hand—it pulled an IV along with it so he dropped it to the sheets and raised his other hand and ignored the thing clipped to his finger, and rubbed at his eyes. His eyelashes felt caked in salt, presumably from tears, unless someone had decided to baptize him in the ocean. He ran his fingers all over his skin, only stopped by the mask covering the lower part of his face, and scrunched his face up until he felt like he could make an expression without flaking apart everywhere. He sighed.

He wasn't sure if the beeping in the background was irritating or relieving. He tried to ignore it and turned his head just enough to look to the side. Michael was beside him, technically sitting in a chair despite the fact that half of his body was leaning on Chuck's bed. Asleep or praying, slumped over with his fingers laced over the nape of his neck and his face against the blankets.

Chuck reached out, and settled his hand on top of Michael's head. He tried to say his name, but his voice was so hoarse it barely came out. He cleared his throat a few times, weakly. His eyes drifted, as he played with Michael's hair. He looked all over. White walls, and white floor, and white ceiling, and white light filtering vaguely through the white curtains. But black shadows, and that almost green splash of floral fabric sitting all alone, pushed up against the wall.

"Suitcase..." Chuck's voice came out squeaky, and even cracked. Just like when he was twenty-five, but more muffled, because of the oxygen mask. Like talking into a plastic cup.

Michael shifted under his touch. Groaned. Eventually seemed to fully awaken, and sat up with a sharp breath that merged into a yawn, pushing his jaw wide. His eyes snapped to Chuck and he let out a breath. He grasped for Chuck's hand, sandwiching it between slightly sweaty palms with just that cold point of metal from his rings against Chuck's knuckles.

"Hi." Chuck sort of smiled. Made a face, and tried to sound a little less like a fourteen year old boy talking through a water bottle. "Morning."

With a soft sigh and a slight smirk, Michael muttered, "It's three in the... Good morning."

Chuck nodded solemnly. "Hello."

"I told them not to use Vicodin." Michael apparently found it easier to look down at his and Chuck's hands, as he spoke. As he rubbed his fingertips over Chuck's knuckles and nails.

Chuck frowned. "Hm?"

Michael shook his head. "Because it makes you sick. Remember? When you got your wisdom teeth out, however many years late, and they gave you Vicodin. And you got sick."

"Oh." Chuck looked up at the ceiling. He remembered sleeping on Michael's bathroom floor, all day, trying to push down the constant urge to vomit with his mouth full of saliva. Not a fun time.

"Yeah..." Michael continued to stroke Chuck's hand, from his wrist to the tips of his fingers, and the creases of his palm.

Chuck was pretty sure he fell asleep again at some point, as Michael held his hand. Maybe he was just hazy from painkillers and whatever else was in the IV. (Probably someone else's blood to replace some of what he had lost in the car and on the sidewalk.)

He woke to very bright light. Both pale daylight and harsh white light from the ceiling.

"Michael?"

The room was empty, but when Chuck turned his head he could just see the doorway, and Michael's side. Part of a clipboard too, so there was probably a doctor out there.

Just as Chuck thought that, the door opened wider and Michael came into the room after the doctor. Or nurse. Someone in scrubs the color of dark chocolate. Chuck raised his hand in a little wave and said, "If I'm gonna die, I wanna know now."

"That's not funny." Michael frowned, arms crossed. He shifted on his feet.

The doctor or nurse laughed under her breath. "You're not dying." She checked his IV, and the thing on his thumb, and the equipment all around him before eventually saying, "You lost a decent amount of blood, but you should be just fine. Might need to stay here for another day, though. Your leg was torn up pretty bad. I'll be honest—any worse and you probably would have needed an amputation. It'll take a while for you to heal properly. A few months, at the very least. Probably longer. There are a few fractures in your tibia and fibula. We've set those with screws, and your wounds have been sterilized and bandaged. We'll give you an air cast tomorrow. It would be best not to confine an open wound or even minor stitches to a plaster cast. Don't want an infection, after all." Her mouth twisted, thoughtfully. "Just try not to move your leg, once the localized anesthesia wears off. We'll consider the options."

Chuck squinted. "Um... okay." He looked down at his hand, with the IV in it. "So... okay. Did Michael ask about—I mean, we're technically kind of supposed to be moving across the country right now?"

"Oh, yes." She nodded. "Well, as long as we can get your information sent properly, it should be fine. I'd prefer for you to wait two weeks, mostly so we can complete a full rabies vaccination, considering this was an animal attack involving a possibly feral dog. Judging from your husband's description, it might have even been a wolf hybrid. Anyway, whatever hospital needs the information, we can send it. Like I said, I'd prefer if you stayed here for as long as possible but I understand there are limitations when you've only got a suitcase to live out of." She sat in a wheeled office chair, nearby. Scooted closer. "I should mention, also, that your husband here gave consent in your stead, so we could set your bones, give you an emergency tetanus booster, et cetera. I'll talk more with you about that later, just so you're fully informed of everything that's going on, but for now I'll leave you be. You've got a catheter by the way, so don't try getting up to pee. Some discomfort is to be expected, but if you feel any excess discomfort or pain, in either your leg or where the catheter is inserted, please don't hesitate to call for a nurse. Same goes for if you're having trouble breathing. That button there on the table will alert the nursing staff." She pointed. "A nurse will check the catheter on a regular basis, as well, and I'll be back to check your wound later on today."

Chuck grimaced, and wrinkled his nose. "'Kay." He sniffed. "What if I need to poop?"

Off to the side, Michael snorted. The doctor grinned, but she gave Chuck a more serious look before answering. "Don't worry about it. You won't have a catheter for much longer, because you should be able to leave your bed within forty-eight hours."

"Oh, okay." Chuck leaned his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes. "Long as I don't shit the bed, I'm fine."

That got him some quiet laughter, and he smiled to himself.

The doctor leaned back in her chair. "A few other things—try not to twist around too much. You 're hooked up to the heartrate monitor, obviously, and the wires are stuck onto your chest. Don't want to create false alarm by detaching." She paused. "And the clip on your finger has a button, if you start hurting and need more painkillers. If you're too sleepy to push it, you have enough, so don't try to get more. It's controlled by a computer so you can't overdose. Got it?"

"What about the mask?" Chuck tilted his head.

"Oh, we'll be checking your oxygen levels pretty regularly, comparing the mask off and on. You'll probably have it off by tomorrow." She patted the bedside. "Anyway, I ought to be off. A nurse will be in later to give you the first two of four rabies shots. If you can think of any questions, write them down or try to remember them so you can ask me."

Chuck gave her a nod, very serious, and waved as she left the room. He waved at Michael, too, but of course Michael wasn't leaving. He sat on the edge of the bed at Chuck's side and took his hand, careful not to squeeze too hard or to lean on Chuck. He kissed his forehead, though.

A little moment of silence and Chuck asked, "Am I gonna be alone?"

Michael frowned. "What do you mean?"

"At night." Chuck adjusted his oxygen mask with a twist of his mouth. "I don't wanna be alone here."

Michael shook his head and pushed Chuck's hair back—straightened a little stray curl. "Don't worry. I'll stay with you. I'll sleep on the floor, or in this chair if I have to." He gestured to the squat, ugly chair to the right of Chuck's bed. "I promise you won't be alone. Especially at night." He smiled. "I'll even hold your hand when they give you your shots."

Chuck scrunched his face up, but then he smiled, and reached for Michael's hand. "Thanks." He scooted a little closer to Michael, careful not to tug on any wires or tubes, and leaned his head on Michael's arm.

Michael squeezed his hand. "I'll keep you safe."

Chuck nodded.

---

The little pricks on both of Chuck's arms stung a little. But he felt like the band-aid Michael had found in his pocket made up for it a little. Who doesn't love having a red band-aid with watermelon seeds on it, after all? Better than boring old brown. Anyway, the painkillers would surely make the tiny pinprick of pain disappear very quickly. Chuck fiddled with the clip on his finger, and vaguely listened to everything the nurse told him about coming back for future rabies shots and about the TDAP booster he'd gotten, and how often to take his painkillers once he left the hospital.

Chuck trusted Michael to remember the more important things, like whether he was allowed to take his antidepressants or not and when he would be allowed to pee in a toilet instead of a bag. (Soon.)

After the nurse had left, and Chuck was alone with Michael again, Michael set aside his little notebook (where he'd been scribbling pertinent notes from the nurse) and he sat in the chair beside Chuck's bed. He faced him. Seemed thoughtful, serious. Very still, as he watched Chuck. Eventually, he reached out and brushed a tiny stray hair from Chuck's face and murmured, "You need another haircut."

Chuck shrugged halfheartedly. He was tired, and Michael was probably right, but he had the ending song from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood stuck in his head for some reason and he wanted to take a nap. Or stare at Michael's eyes. That seemed nice. They were such a hard-to-place color. Concrete? Slate? Green? Gray? Chuck had no idea but he liked it. He stretched his fingers out to take Michael's hand and smiled.

Michael smiled back.

Chuck spent a lot of time drifting in and out through the evening, occasionally making odd little observations about the hospital room or Michael's clothes. Or how tired Michael looked, in his uncharacteristically rumpled clothes. Michael just smiled, gently, and held his hand. But Chuck was pretty sure he caught Michael sniffling a little, once, in the middle of the night. He pretended not to notice, but he made a mental note to give Michael a nice hug later. Chuck had the benefit of not being totally cognizant of his surroundings and situation, after all. Michael, on the other hand, had slept in a chair in a hospital room, while also worrying about Chuck's health and about the insurance coverage.

At least he had access to a shower.

Maybe Chuck could write him a nice little note on the laptop, for him to find while Chuck was inevitably sleeping, later on.

Whenever he got around to it.

Maybe after they left, the next day...

The doctor checked on him again in the morning, and the nurse showed him how to put on his air cast, and take it back off. Befuddled, he tried to follow her lead, but didn't do very well. He would just have Michael do it. She showed him how to use crutches, too, now that he was no longer hooked up to an IV drip, or the oxygen mask. Chuck was glad, as he wobbled around the room at the nurse's direction. Crutches meant he could pee in a toilet. No more catheter attached to his bladder, or whatever.

It took some getting used to, but with Michael's hand on his back, Chuck felt confident that he could get around at least well enough to do important things like eat and use the bathroom.

Still, they pushed him to the entrance in a wheelchair, with instructions to come back on certain dates for the rest of his rabies injections, and to come back regularly to get his wounds checked.

Michael carried him to the car.

They went to the same hotel they had stayed at most recently. The little one, with the lady behind the front desk. She gave them their room keys, with no inkling of recognition (surely she met a lot of new people every day) and waved. Michael helped Chuck to the room and went back for their suitcases and the bag of groceries he'd picked up on the way to the hotel.

"I love you."

Michael looked up from where he crouched in front of the small refrigerator in the corner, bottle of juice in his hand. He sort of smiled, and looked all touched and loving—Chuck rolled his eyes, from the bed. Grinned and waggled his fingers at Michael in a little wave. Michael let out a little puff, but he smiled wider and said, "I love you too." He put the juice in the door of the mini-fridge.

Throughout the week, Chuck often woke up before Michael, long enough to take some pain medication, hobble to the continental breakfast area, struggle with the food, eat, and then go back to the room so he could fall back asleep and wake up again, later, to see Michael writing something down or using the computer, or eating a bagel. Sometimes Chuck woke up, and Michael was holding his hand. Sometimes he was in the bathroom.

After the first week, around when they gave him the third rabies shot, they told Chuck he was doing much better and could slowly start taking less pain medication each day. He still needed the fourth rabies injection, but they gave him something weaker than morphine (not hydrocodone, certainly).

Chuck was tired of laying around in the hotel, though. Michael was usually with him, sure, but he still wanted to go somewhere less... hotel-like. He didn't enjoy waking up at three in the morning to the sound of a random neighbor having sex. But the doctors probably wouldn't appreciate it if they moved across the country before Chuck could get the last of his shots. He wanted to see New York, and he wanted to see Raphael (and even Luke) again, and he wanted to eat real food instead of leftover burgers and microwaveable pad Thai. And he missed Gertrude. He wished she was with him, instead of at Rufus' house.

"Can't we just ask the doctor if we can go home?" Chuck turned down the volume on the TV, and looked over at Michael, who sat on the couch reading. He waited for Michael to look up before continuing. "Like, can't she just give us some paperwork or something? And we can get the last shot at a hospital or a doctor's office in New York... Plus then I can snuggle with the kitty."

Michael let out a thoughtful sigh. He closed his book and set it on the couch, pushing himself to his feet so he could come sit on the bed beside Chuck.

"I can ask. You have a point—we can get your final shot somewhere else."

Nodding, Chuck held his arm out. He cuddled up to Michael and said, "I want to eat Raphael's lavender lemon bars."

Michael laughed. "They are very good."

"Seriously, is everyone in your family an amazing chef? Is it genetic?" Chuck took Michael's hand and leaned his head on Michael's shoulder.

"Hm..." Michael kissed the top of Chuck's head. "I don't know. Gabriel caught his kitchen on fire last year trying to make a Baked Alaska, so I don't think so. And Luke is afraid of the oven."

Chuck snorted and tried not to laugh too much. "I guess it's not genetic, then."

"Well," Michael shrugged. "We're all adopted anyway."

"Oh yeah."

Michael smirked to himself, wrapping his arm around Chuck's shoulder. He closed his eyes, and rested his head against Chuck's—cheek to hair, gentle and relaxed. Chuck drooped against him further, and they sat together wordlessly, with the quiet sound of the Food Network playing in the background.