He doesn't want to go out. He does, but he doesn't. It's the feeling he usually gets when he's about to go out; like he's being wound too thin, like there's a copper wire wrapped around him so tight he can't breathe, and now it's slowly cutting into his skin, and the only way to loosen it is to be with another person. But he can't just be with someone, so he drinks, to soften the edges. All the while that tension is building, every moment until he just has to let someone else take his body away from him for a few hours, so he can float in the space between being awake and dreaming; disembodied, blank, unthinking, unfeeling. But he doesn't want to go out.

And it's all Jensen's fault.

He gets up, walks around. Paces his apartment. Wrings his hands, makes himself stop, starts it again. He feels like he's going to fly apart. His heart is too loud, too strong. It's going to burst if he doesn't go out. But he can't. Because they're in a relationship. Or, at least, he thinks they are. He's pretty sure having the key to someone else's apartment and having them take care of you when you're sick counts as being in a relationship. But they haven't talked about it, so maybe he's wrong. He strokes back his hair, stops at the window, paces again.

Can he just go over? The implication was there that he could. But he never has. At least, not when he was sober. If he goes over now, he has no excuse. Will Adam ask him for a reason? Anyone would. Anyone would want to know why their coworker/maybe-boyfriend was showing up unannounced at their apartment past midnight. And he'll have to tell him, won't he? Because he'll ask, and it wouldn't be fair not to say anything. He could call someone. A friend to come over, or to meet at a bar. But then he'd get drunk, and go to Jensen's, and he didn't exactly have friends, did he? Colleagues, admirers, acquaintances; he had those, but not friends. No one he wanted to talk about this with. But then, he didn't really want to talk about it at all.

He should. He knows he should. Especially if this almost relationship with Jensen was going to go anywhere. He needed to talk, to explain… this. He sighed, looking at the clock. Almost one in the morning. Would he be asleep? Would he be getting home from waiting to see if Francis would show up at the bar? Maybe. Possibly. He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, lets it out. He needs to talk. He needs to be with someone. And if he can't go out, he'll have to go see ihim/i. He paces again, then grabs his keys, deciding.

They'll talk. Well, he'll try. He'll try.

Francis stood outside of Adam's door, rose his hand to knock, stopped, put his hand down. He took out the key, the one Adam had given him. Should he knock? Should he use the key? Should he just stare hopefully at the door and send telepathic messages for Adam to let him in? Alright, that last one wasn't going to work, but he was still willing to try. But should he really be here? Was he ready for this? He sighed, looked at the door, and slipped the key back in his pocket. No, no, he'd come back some other day. Another day.

Of course, that was when Adam rounded the corner of the hallway.

The augmented man raised a brow at the sight of him, and Francis swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. Oh god, he couldn't just leave now. It was like the universe was telling him that he needed to talk to this man. And he did; he did need to talk, but at the same time, he was terrified. He tried not to let it show as Adam walked up to him, casually leaning against the wall. Something in Jensen's face told him he wasn't doing a very good job.

"A little high strung, Francis?" the man rumbled, unlocking the door and waving him in. Frank entered cautiously, feeling suddenly like he didn't belong. Like he was invading Adam's space, and he should leave. But that was silly; he'd been here before plenty of times. And besides, the man himself had let him in. He wouldn't have done that if he were uncomfortable with the idea.

"I'm fine," he snipped, without meaning to. Adam raised a brow, retracting his shades and taking off his coat. Frank stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands clenching and unclenching with the effort to stay at his sides.

"You look like you want to bolt," Adam replied, facing him from across the room. Frank looked away, then back, then forced himself to walk over to the couch and sit. The movement was stiff, and he sat at the barest edge. He clutched his hands together, twiddling his thumbs.

"I'm just… a bit… wired," he said, trying to explain it. Adam nodded, coming over to sit next to him.

"I'd say that much was obvious," he said. "Turn the other way."

"Why?" Francis asked, but did so anyways. The reason became apparent when he felt hands on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there. He shot up, straight as a poker, but Adam kept at it. The motions forced him to relax, and Adam moved down his back, stroking and kneading. It felt fantastic. It felt wonderful. Frank sighed, letting the feeling take over for a minute; sinking into it, letting it overrule his anxiety. He couldn't quite give in, not yet, but he could let himself untense. Adam hadn't asked him yet. Why he was there. Sober. He was relieved. He wasn't sure if his explanation would make much sense.

And then Adam's fingers brushed the skin between his shirt and his pants, and he tensed up again.

"Something wrong?" the man asked, pulling his hands back. Frank took a breath, wanting to leave it be but knowing he couldn't. So, before he lost his nerve again, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

"I… I j-joined the army, out of hight school," he said. He hadn't heard a reaction from Adam; no sharp intake of breath or grunt of surprise. He didn't know what that meant. "I did a tour in Afghanistan. My first. We were supposed to be out of the action but… there was an attack. They took us by surprise. It took ten days for them to get to us. Somewhere in that time, a bomb went off, and I… I got hit by a piece of shrapnel. That's why… that's how I got it. The scar. That's… "

Adam looked at it. It was big; it started on the man's neck and got wider as it went down his back, almost parallel to his spine. It tapered off near the small of his back. And it made sense. The turtlenecks. Leaving his hair down when he wore low collared shirts. It was why Adam had never seen it before. Gently, he traced it, hand ghosting over the scar tissue. Frank took a sudden breath but stilled. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"Well, it's not like you were much to look at before," Adam said, resuming his ministrations over the bare back in front of him. Frank let out the breath he'd been holding, then laughed. It was a weak, shakey sound, but it was sincere.

"Thanks, I'm… flattered," he said. But mostly he was relieved. He could handle a lot of things. Disgust, that was one of the common reactions. Pity was the most common, and he hated it. He didn't need pity, didn't know what to do with it. Sometimes he felt like he was about to break into a million pieces, and the only thing that held him together was what was left of his pride. If everyone around him knew, about the scar, the tension, the nightmares… they'd start treating him like he was about to break. And then it wouldn't matter anymore. Because there was no point in hiding how fragile he was if everyone could see it.

"PTSD?" Adam asked. Frank swallowed, then nodded.

"It's… manageable. I went to therapy for a while but it… never seemed to stick. I just get… wired. Tense. Like…"

"Like you're waiting for something to go horribly wrong," Adam said. Frank groaned as the man hit a particularly tense muscle, then nodded.

"Yes, that, that exactly," he said, although he'd never been able to put it into words himself. "Do you-"

"No, but I've seen it," Adam replied. "In SWAT. Why did you join the army?"

"To get away from my parents," Francis replied.

"That bad?"

"No, I just… wanted to get out on my own."

"I see," Adam said. "Any siblings?"

"Two, a brother and a sister," Frank said.

"Do they know?"

"… no," he said, looking at a point on the floor. "I… I asked my parents not to tell them."

"Do you have a nightmares?" Adam asked. His voice was steadying; calm and stable, perfunctory. Almost like a nurse or a doctor. It was somehow comforting.

"Sometimes," Frank said. "When I'm most tense, usually, or under a lot of stress."

"Like with Panchaea?"

Pritchard closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out. Yes, that had been a stressful time. He'd barely ate or slept, and things got particularly bad when Adam had gone off the grid. The man's hands went back to his shoulders, keeping him in the present. A reminder.

"Yes, like then," he said, voice softer than he'd meant it to be. Adam shifted, moved to sit between Frank and the couch, turning him to make the position more comfortable. He wrapped his arms around Frank's waist, and the tech leaned back against him.

"Let me know if it starts happening again," Adam said, just resting. "You can always come here."

"Thanks," Frank said, putting his arms over the ones around him. "Thank you."

Adam made a noncommital sound, resting his head against the back of the couch. It was a long time before they moved.