Well, guys, I'm back again. Nearly two full years later, I'm back. I half-wonder if any of the old fans will be back to read, but I'm giving it a good old college try and hoping for the best.

Thank you, so, so much to all those who reviewed. Honestly, what brought me back... I came to read a few fanfictions, then go do my laundry. That led to me favoriting a story, which required me to log in. Which led me to look at the only story I'd ever published. Which led to reading the reviews. Which led to the tearful realization that, despite the load I've carried for years, I still have some creativity left, and I missed this story.

I'll make it happen.

And with any luck, I'll have another one posted VERY soon. Like, maybe in a few hours. A couple days at the latest. I owe you several chapters.

DISCLAIMER: blah blah blah you know the drill.

The rest of the drive home had been in a slightly chilling, though not hard to swallow by any means. Wave after wave of goosebumps had risen under the fabric of Greg's clothing as it sank in again and again.

He really does care. He doesn't mind that I'm a wreck...or at least, he's willing to deal with it. He really does want to help...

This was such a novel concept, something so foreign in its lack of malignancy, that Greg's lips kept twitching up ever so slightly into a fraction of a smile despite the dense silence that swirled about the truck's cab.

They had arrived back at Nick's at an obscenely wee hour of the morning. Sanders, under orders from his dark-haired angel, had been in a trance-like state as he quickly tapped out an email to his landlord, explaining that he'd be vacating the premises shortly, that he would send her a check for the last month's rent, but that he would not be able to continue living there, that he had fallen on hard times. She'd always been an agreeable enough sort of woman, a rotund lady bordering on the spry side of elderly, with sterling hair and bright, twinkling chocolate eyes that were at once warm and stern. The two men had agreed over bottles of seasonally-themed beer that it would be worth canceling his rent. In his exhaustedly content state, the full course of implications of this action, this suggestion, didn't quite occur to him. It wasn't until he was dancing on the edge of blissful, warm sleep that the thought pressed into his consciousness with an almost belligerent clarity.

If I'm canceling, that means I'm not paying next month's rent. But I haven't found another place, can't move in mid-month in most places, and...

Just before his mind sank back into a more beautiful place, he realized with a strange, dim satisfaction that this implied he would be staying with Nick for a month.

At least, he thought with a twitch-hint of a smile, and he was asleep.

They were all staring at him. He was being marched around the lab, something sharp and biting jabbing him in the back, prodding him forward, like

some sick cattle some freak show side show come look at him ladies and gentlemen

a prisoner, and he shuffled, his eyes brimming with tears that, blessedly, were not felt, though he vaguely thought they ought to be burning, hissing like boiling water through his eyes, into his tear ducts, down his face in rivulets, fresh hot magma burning tracks he knew everyone would see

everyone's looking Greggie lookit everyone stare

down his cheeks. All their faces... He knew them all, all people he loved indeed in his own way, and they were judging. Their gazes were horrifyingly hateful, and all at once the faces swam together like mannequin blanks, a sea of faceless bodies sitting at desks, standing at tables, all facing him, noq indistinguishable, and he was being pushed faster, faster, faster, now running, and still that jabbing hurried him faster still, and he was sobbing, heaving, braying out wild, angry, hurt cries, and he knew why they were judging. They knew. They knew every problem,

( THE GAY THE GAY THE G)

and they hated him for it.

He rushed along down the corridor, and now it wasn't the lab at all. It was just a hallway that seemed absolutely endless, and yet the door at the end, glowing light spilling from around the frame, rushed at him as though it, too, was being pushed, and he tried to slow down, because he knew what was behind that door. He knew what would happen: he would get so close, and it would open, and he would see behind it something that would shatter his mind, because he knew that door, and he knew who was behind it, and he knew, he knew he knew heknewheknewhe

woke up. Greg Sanders woke up. He sat bolt upright, almost sending himself tumbling off the couch in Nick's apartment. Looking behind him, he saw the jabbing pain had been from an errant zipper pull sticking up from a dislodged cushion. But still, that door... And with the dream fresh in his mind, he pulled himself to his feet, his body trembling such that he felt like he was made of glass. He was so sure that, had someone struck him right then, he would have shattered like delicate glass. Lower lip quivering, he padded in nothing but flannel pajama pants across the living room. Down the hallway he went, and there it was. That door. He stared at it, his feet sinking into the thick, lovely carpet, his body shaking and shivering, his eyes wide and overbright and watery, and he whimpered softly. The tears came, and that same feeling of sick dread flooded him, and he was suddenly sure that he was going to implode, his own body sucking back in to a point just behind and slightly below his sternum, until he was nothing. One foot, almost of its own accord, lifted rom the carpet and replaced itself delicately about a foot in front of the other. Hardly believing he was moving, Greg continued toward the door, his pace so agonizingly slow and deliberate, he was almost aware of every muscle fiber that moved. After a small eternity, his fingers, like those of some disembodied hand in a movie, brushed against the metal knob, and an achingly cool burst tore its way up the nerves of his arm. He shivered again, grasped the cold metal, and turned. The door slid open soundlessly, and there he was. Lying on his side, the visible part of his face betraying a beautifully serene expression, he looked like perhaps the most perfect thing in the entire world. Greg's breath caught in his chest, hitched in his throat, and he had to force himself to breathe normally, pulling in shaky trails of air, one after another, in a laborious pattern. After an indeterminate amount of time that could have been a minute or an hour, Nick stirred slightly. Greg hiccuped, swallowing a little gasp, and Nick's eyes blearily opened. "G...reg?" he questioned.

"I... bad... d.. d.. dr..."

Nick just smiled softly and slowly sat up, patting the bed beside him. "Y-y-yaaaah," he yawned, and smiled some more. "You keep having bad dreams, huh, man?"

Greg felt as if he was floating his way to the bed. In bed. With Nick. Close to him. His warmth... The thought alone brought a ferocious chill up his spine and he shivered again, then sat down. The bed was, as expected, warm with the heat of Nick's body. The notion that the apple of his eye, his secret beloved, had given off the warmth that now soothed him... He scooted a little closer, tucked his knees up to his chin, and nodded.
"Bad dreams," he repeated, not daring to look into those deep brown eyes. He was almost ashamed at having come in here, having woken him up for his own insecurities, and deep inside, his own wants.

They sat in silence for a little while, and Nick gently placed a hand on the blond's shoulder, squeezing a wordless reassurance. He only spoke after a long, heavy, pregnant pause. "If it's bad enough to be giving you dreams like this, Greg," he murmured, his voice low and soft, "it's probably best not to bottle it up." Nothing else needed to be said, because the other man so thoroughly understood his tone, his inflection. After another long silence, Greg responded. "I know... I know you want to help, Nick." Biting his lower lip to prevent its inevitably quiver, he looked up and sideways, his light brown eyes catching the darker ones focused on him. "And... just... Just the fact that you do want to help does help," he added. "The fact that you want to help means so, so much..." His voice softened and then trailed off as he spoke. The emphasis on 'you' was so soft and subtle, he almost didn't realize he'd used it, but something in the glint of Nick's eye, something in the slight change of his expression told Greg that he had, in fact, heard it. This caused a twist of anxiety to well up in his gut, and he hoped somewhat frantically that Nick only imagined he meant it in a 'you're my hero' kind of way.

Nick studied him carefully for a moment, and then his arms were around him, the man's hand on the back of his head, pulling him close. "Whatever you've been through," he murmured into the side of Greg's neck, "it must be hell. Whatever you're going through. I'm just glad I can help you, Greg. I just wish I could do more." His voice was even lower, gruffer, hoarser. He almost sounded... God, he almost sounded on the verge of tears. Greg just held him fiercely, holding back shaking sobs.

You could kiss me, Nick, he thought. That would help. Lying with you would help. If you would call me yours, I would never cry again, I think. I think I think I think. I think too much, he mused, and let himself melt into his consciousness, into the here and now where he shivered in the grasp of his favorite person in the world. For how long had they been friends? And as far back as he could remember, there had been at least some sort of adoration that, in the past few months, had accumulated and fermented, stronger now than ever, into a power that wasn't quite describable, that always evaded words. For now, though, Greg was content to sit here in his arms for a while, secure in the knowledge that Nick at least cared, and caring meant sharing.

With a shuddering sigh, Greg began to speak into Nick's neck and shoulder, his voice soft and wavering, carrying the hurt of the past and present in his words.