5:40 am, the stars were out, and Shane sat in Marnie's parked pickup with headlights flaring yellow tunnels into the darkness. He stared at the bushes they illuminated, the glossy dark leaves outlined in harsh shadow. The engine was off and he was hyperaware of every sensation. The vinyl steering wheel slipped under sweaty palms. His hair was damp, his head cold, and when he scratched the stubble under his chin the scritch-scritch echoed in the silent cab.

He'd woken to awful hangovers as far back as he could remember. What he couldn't remember was a day like today: turning away from his red-eyed reflection, and walking out the door without caving to the cure in his sock drawer.

He hadn't driven to the farm since his first day. That was the one time he'd arrived sober, and even then he'd brought a pint to sneak shots throughout the morning.

Today, there would be no booze.

Shane was terrified of returning to work, where yesterday's threat had been delivered in ice and backed by hardened blue eyes. William wasn't supposed to run cold. He was temper and violence. He was headlocks and fists. He was thick arms, soft lips, and warmth, like the glow of a fireside. Yet last time they spoke, he'd had the chill of a man who'd cut someone straight from his life without looking back. Even with Shane arriving sober—as per the ultimatum—firing wasn't off the table. This screw-up could be irreparable.

Shane's trembling fingers kneaded the slippery wheel. Sick with nerves, he took a deep breath and twisted the key in the ignition, revving the engine to life.

The farm was eerily quiet when he arrived. He stepped out into still air, not a whisper of a breeze; it was as if the coldness of the previous day had put a frost over the land. He felt it in his bones as he stared at the open barn door.

No music playing.

Shit.

Whatever mysterious courage was pushing his feet forward, Shane wished it wouldn't. He wanted to do what the Shane two months ago would've done: bolt. It'd been over eight hours since his last drop of alcohol, and he desperately needed some if he was going to survive this without puking.

Pulse thumping through his whole body, he stepped inside. William was hard at work attaching hoses to the pumps and didn't notice his entrance.

Shane took one look at his careless appearance and realized something was very wrong. He was used to William starting the day impeccably groomed, before the sweat and grime of hard labor painted him rugged. Today his hair was damp, thrown into a hasty top-knot with flyaways. His boots—which had never looked anything less than pristine during the first milking—were caked in yesterday's mud. He wore a pair of thick gloves, unnecessary for the task, and when he reached for the hose his movements were like that of an old man.

Shane took another step and William turned at the sound. His eyes were flinty, his face a rock.

"Finish up," he said, and without another word, limped to the door and left the barn.

Shane stared for a long time after he was gone.

He'd expected to feel a lot of shitty things today. Regret. Mortification. Self-loathing. A desperate need for William to accept him back. What he hadn't counted on was the sharp guilt that cut the moment he saw William's face, searing through all those other selfish emotions.

Shane hooked up the first cow, listening to the shuffle of hay under hooves. He hooked up the second, irritated by a few errant crickets pestering the morning silence. After the third, he couldn't take it anymore and stalked over to turn the radio on. It gave a crackle, then soft classic rock settled through the speaker—like any normal morning in the barn.

Two cows later, he walked back over and flipped it off.

Stupid radio.

If William had been ice yesterday, today he was a glacier. That should've terrified Shane, but instead it kindled determination. He was back to his usual efficiency, finishing the cows early and going double-speed on the chicken coop. The whole time, he tried to make sense of why. Why wasn't he terrified anymore?

This morning, he'd showered, cleaned, and shaved. Had given himself a fucking pep talk in the bedroom mirror, while his whiskey lay like a siren's call in the drawer. He'd watched the wave of liquid shift from one side to the other when he pulled out a pair of socks, but William had made it clear: come in sober, or they were done. And with a willpower he'd never known before, he'd closed the drawer, then shown up sober and anxious as fuck—until now.

Shane was hardly aware of his own emotions anymore. It was like William's cold had slowed them with a freeze spell.

After powering through the rest of his chores, he headed straight for the equipment barn. The first thing he noticed was the unusually akimbo four-wheeler, its trailer stacked with dead posts for the burn pile. Parked next to it was the tractor, where William was struggling to hook up his tiller.

Shane frowned, watching the labored movements in silence. With a grunt and wince William snapped one of the connectors into place, then caught Shane's face in the tractor mirror.

"Got fresh posts there," he said, pointing to one side of the barn with a gloved finger. "Unload. Reload. Fix the fence."

Shane expected those short, tense commands. What he hadn't expected was the way William moved like his joints were crusted rubber bands. Following where the finger pointed, his eyes narrowed.

He'd been trashed yesterday, but not so much that he'd forgotten the lay of the land—when they'd stopped working the fence, there'd been hundreds of posts left to do. Today, the stack was a quarter what it'd been.

"Right," said Shane.

William needing him to load them in the first place was another red flag, when every other day they'd been stacked and ready to go. Methodically Shane began the transfer of dead wood, trying to avoid the limping figure in the corner of his eye. When the task was done he paused with his hands on the side of the cart, staring at the new posts inside.

"What'd you do?" he asked.

William finished hooking the tiller. He hoisted himself on the tractor's step, clearly in pain. "I fucked off."

Shane's fingers twisted around the side of the cart. "Your body is jacked."

"Fence, Daniels." William sat with a wince, leaning against the backrest. "You want this to be about work? Then we work."

Before Shane could respond he turned on the tractor, the engine roaring between them as he let the big-wheeled machine roll out of the barn toward the pumpkin patch.

Shane waited until the tractor was but a hum in the distance before climbing onto the ATV. The four-wheeler cranked along the property, and when he reached the section of fence they'd left off on, he slowed then sputtered to a standstill. The exhaust kicked up fume clouds behind.

In his gut, he'd known from the moment he saw the stack in the barn that William had gone crazy, but part of his brain had tried to rationalize that maybe he'd just moved them to store somewhere else. Yet there was no denying the row of gleaming posts, which stretched so far in the distance they disappeared from sight before disappearing from the ground.

He gave the bike more gas, following the line all the way to its new end.

William had worked like a fucking madman through hundreds of posts; a pace that would be insane even with two people. Shane parked and began to unload, but froze when he got within a few feet of the fence.

Dark brownish-red stains, painting the last dozen tops. Blood.

He grabbed the shovel and jammed it into the base of the next rotten one, heart hammering.

Shane busted his ass.

It was a sunny autumn day, the temperature growing to a boil as the morning progressed. Shane sweat harder than he had all summer. William was way the fuck off in the fields—the tractor's purr inaudible—and for the first time since working here, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. The sweat rolled in beads down his back. Whenever he grew fatigued he paused to look at the measly number he'd put in compared to William, then turned back to the shovel with angry determination.

At 11:00 he wiped his forehead, staring at what was left. There was still a lot to do, but he needed water and food and had to admit defeat before collapsing.

His eyes drifted back to the bloody posts.

He tugged his shirt on over his damp body, then unhooked the cart from the back of the four-wheeler. Leaving it unceremoniously behind, he kicked the vehicle into gear.

William knew how to work when he was tired. After all, if the army had taught him anything it was how to dig ditches, work a double patrol, and turn in correct reports on minimum rest. His body being worn to shit? Nostalgic.

The part of his brain that was alert enough to give a fuck noted that he'd been wrong yesterday. Shane had come back. If he'd had any energy left, he'd have been shocked. Instead it was more puzzling static in the buzz of his emotional hangover. Dehydration made his head pound and he couldn't follow his thoughts. All the neat boxes of his mind were in a jumbled pile. All the spaces of an orderly system were an uncomfortable blur of angry squiggles.

Spaces. Like the spaces between the rows he was tilling. The long furrows in the field next to his pumpkin patches; the even, perfectly spaced furrows that would lay fallow over the season, nutrients replenished as they rested.

Hunger was a dull ache against his ribs, but he couldn't eat until finishing. He watched the tiller blades cut into loamy soil, the brown earth breaking open, black flesh revealed with shining moisture. His shirt stuck to his back, but the fuck if he'd be caught dead today stripping it off.

God forbid he get accused of reaching. The very sight of his bare chest would fuck with Shane's head, and they couldn't have that. Might be a fight.

Though with the shape he was in, Shane would win.

He re-focused on even lines, on the neat rows. The wheel of his tractor vibrated under sore hands, each throb another reminder of his solo battle against the rotting fence. He got to the end of the row and rotated the tractor, only to see Shane barreling towards the field. The untilled dirt kicked up a small hill when he hit the brakes, and William was forced to switch off his engine with the ATV blocking his path.

What the hell is his issue?

Whatever the problem was, William hoped it wasn't complicated. No pump malfunctions or bovine emergencies. Nothing that would create more work today.

Shane dismounted and stalked towards him, sweat patches on his shirt. At least he'd gotten something done today, instead of bitching out early to drink.

He slapped the fender of the tractor, startling William.

"The fuck you even doing?" he asked, green eyes glaring up with a barely-contained fury.

Had Shane gone blind? Probably should stop jacking off so much. Priests warned about that kind of shit.

"What does it fucking look like?" William said. "Finishing up the field."

The world gave a gentle spin. He focused on the solid seat underneath him and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his face and leaving a grimy smear on the fabric. "You finish that fence?"

"Me?" Shane asked. "What about you? You stay out there 'til dawn or something? Pound 'em in with your bare fucking hands?"

Pounding? The hell?

Whatever. Looking at the angry fucker was making him even dizzier.

"What are you on about, Daniels?"

When Shane only glared, William decided this was a conversation best had on the same footing. If he kept staring down, he was going to fall. He carefully shuffled off the big machine, body protesting, while Shane waited.

"You go for a dive in a shallow pool? What the hell is going on, William?"

"Fuck off," William retorted, his feet hitting the ground. Immediately his lumbar spasmed and he lurched forward, hands flat on the metallic side, stomach churning.

He could use this as a quick break. Not for long...only to catch his breath. How much did he have to do today? The field was almost done. Still had to finish pickling for the winter orders, but he could sit for that.

"I'm breaking for lunch," he said, pushing off of the machine and herding his legs into the appropriate movements. The world tilted but he caught his balance, determined to stay strong in the face of Shane's untrustworthy concern.

"Let me drive you up."

"I can fucking walk," William said, taking another limping step.

Shane sighed. "Well, congratulations. Now get on the fucking four-wheeler."

"Bossy little shit for someone who can't do this anymore," William bit out, ignoring that the ATV was the same direction as his porch.

Shane stepped in front of him. "This isn't about me right now. This is about you and your jacked-to-shit body. Don't be stupid."

God, that's the pot calling the kettle black.

"Oh, what? And break my streak?" William said. "What bullshit you talking now?"

He gauged the distance between field and porch, then gave in, getting on the vehicle. Gripping the seat was like plunging his palms into fire. Tears bloomed behind his lids, but he was so sweaty he was sure it wouldn't be noticed.

Breathe in and suck it up.

"Like it matters what bullshit I'm talking," Shane muttered as he started the engine. "I'm always talking bullshit."

William wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he was too focused on staying upright—and not touching Shane for the duration of the trip—to care. When they parked, he felt like Pops, hobbling towards the house. At least Shane didn't try to assist. That would have been worse than being driven home.

Shane walked up the porch with no effort, like a fucking showoff, and crossed his arms at the top.

"So, you plan on going back out there after lunch? 'Cause I can call Harvey now or later, doesn't matter to me."

"Unless you're planning on needing someone for when I kick your ass," William growled, "no fucking doctors."

He leaned against the rail, climbing the three steps. His eyes locked on his house like he was approaching the pearly gates for a hot date with St. Peter.

"Didn't answer the question," Shane said. "You going back out there? Your call."

William gave him the middle finger.

Once inside, he sank back onto the couch and crossed an arm over his eyes. Under the darkness of closed lids he heard the distinct rattle of his silverware drawer, the crinkle of plastic deli bags, the tapping of half-full condiments on the counter. Shane had never been bold enough to prepare food in his kitchen before.

"Since when did you grow a goddamned spine, shithead?" he groaned.

Shane clicked the toaster on. "Found the one you broke doing those fence posts."

More like broke it when the bombs dropped.

"Shocked you could manage it," William said. "Being as yesterday was too hard."

Why the fuck was Shane doing this? What was his freaking angle? Yesterday he'd been stinking drunk, going off about how he didn't want or couldn't want, or whatever his goddamned mysterious excuse was for rejecting him.

Instead of the expected explosion and retreat, Shane ignored his insult. William listened to the soft noises he made maneuvering around. The scrape of a butterknife being laid in the sink. The seal squeaking closed from the fridge. Footsteps into the living room.

Something ceramic pushed against his hand.

He raised his arm to see Shane holding a plate with a turkey and cheese sandwich. He was steady, eyes focused. It was too reminiscent of that moment in the spa…the one where he'd felt that Shane understood him. Confusion burned against mistrust.

"Why?"

Shane flushed. "Because you were gonna pass out on the tractor."

The words were factual, if not what William meant. Grudgingly, he took the plate and placed it next to Shane on his coffee table. Just like Shane had set aside his offering of java yesterday.

See how he liked it.

William laid back, covering his face again. "Wouldn't be the first time I passed out. You made it pretty clear to me yesterday that you don't consider me your business."

"Shouldn't have shown up drunk," Shane mumbled.

William grunted an acquiescence to that bit of obviousness.

"Why did you come back?" he asked, face still hidden. "Was it to turn in a two weeks? Was it to work? What?"

Silence greeted his questions, and William found it comforting proof that he was at least dealing with the real Shane and not one replaced by body snatchers.

"To say sorry," Shane finally said. There was another pause, then he whispered, "Don't want to be fired. Still want to work for you."

William slowly pulled his arm off of his face. Shane was dirty from work, his eyes fixed on the floor. He was absently picking a corner of the bread, a pile of crumbs forming on the plate next to him.

That wasn't endearing, damn it.

William closed his eyes again, taking stock. His back was well and truly fucked. Only sleep, a massage, a hot soak, and some babying would ease the overexertion. His hands were disasters with fingers. His stomach grumbled that it wanted something other than coffee and rage for sustenance.

"Fine," he said, rolling on his side and pushing up. He groaned again, leaning against the back of the couch.

Shane looked at William's hands.

"Can take your gloves," he offered quietly.

William grimaced but pulled his hands free. His palms were raw, and two of the bigger blisters had popped into angry welts of red, weeping skin. Small white strips hung from the edges.

"Might need to wash them off before I eat," he said.

Horror warred with concern on Shane's face.

"Fuck, William. Did you clean them at all?"

"Took a shower this morning. Stung like a bitch." William pulled a white string of skin away from the wound. "Meant to cover them, but..."

But he'd forgotten, because he hadn't given two shits or a damn.

"I'll go with you," Shane said.

William pushed up from the cushions and swayed to his feet. He felt exhausted. Hungry. And...lighter. Because Shane had come back, and he was trying.

But trying for what? Was this only about the job?

Shane didn't attempt to steady him but walked close, a silent assurance that if he fell he'd be caught.

"Do I remind you of that dog you had to put down?" William asked dryly. "Too stupid to know what to do with himself?"

"Dog wasn't stupid," Shane said. "He got hit."

"I dunno. I'm good at running into traffic." William pushed into his bedroom and fumbled for the light switch, slapping the reached over to flick it on. William grunted his thanks, then made it to his bed and collapsed.

"You remember where the first-aid box is?"

Shane nodded. After retrieving the massive case from the bathroom cabinet he placed it on William's bed.

"Just…one sec," he said, and disappeared into the hall.

While he was out, William turned on a lamp and fished a stool from behind the bed.

Waiting for Shane while his damp shirt clung to his skin made him twitchy, but the situation between them was too delicate to strip. Laying down, he entertained himself by picturing Shane's flushing and stuttering if he gave into that urge, but before he could follow the fantasy his back spasmed again.

It's your farmhand. Helping you clean your hands. Nothing weird. Not like you've seen and fantasized about his dick. Not like anything special is between you idiots at all.

Shane returned with a bowl of water and lingered at the foot of the bed, hesitating before taking a seat. William tried to sit up.

"Here, I got this," he said.

Only to fall back against the pillows with a huff.

Galvanized, Shane snagged a washcloth and soaked it in the soapy water. He wrung it out then set the bowl aside, taking William's hand.

"I didn't mean it," he said, gingerly wiping a blister. The soap stung sharp across raw skin. William stared at him.

"Mean what?"

"That I wanted you to fuck off, okay?"

William didn't trust himself to say anything about the fight. Shane was a frightened bird. One wrong move and he'd ruin it. God, he was tired of ruining things.

"Okay," he said.

Shane focused on his careful strokes, wiping dirt from the creases of William's broken skin. "It's just, you know…there's a lot of fucked up shit in my head."

"I don't know what's going on in your head unless you let me in, Shane."

The quiet stretched, Shane meticulously cleaning. It was surreal submitting to this, his touch softer than any William could remember. He worked the cloth around the raw, open blisters, getting off the top layer of sweat and grime.

William took in the face of someone who was trying. A man who'd hurt him, sure…but trusted him too. Trust had to be returned, no matter how scary.

"You know what I was thinking about two days ago?" he asked.

Shane dunked the cloth back in the water and rang it out. "No," he said, beginning the same motions on the other hand.

"Was thinking about how much I'd rather have been hanging out with you. And how pissed I figured you were at me. And how you deserved at least half of that award I won. Because even though we have our moments, I can't do this shit alone." He looked down at his clean wound. "Because trying to puts me in states like this."

The cloth slowed.

"Wasn't pissed at you," Shane said, dropping the rag in the water. "Almost never pissed at you."

"You don't have to bullshit me," said William, no heat to the words. "You're fucked up because of me. Said so yesterday."

Shane sighed. He sank down on the edge of the bed, elbows to knees, and massaged his scalp as if trying to soothe something inside.

Then, like nothing had happened, he straightened.

"I'm fucked up," he said, opening the first-aid kit and pulling out the alcohol, "because of a lot of shit that has nothing to do with you. You didn't do this. And you didn't ask for all this bullshit when you hired me."

"Let me let you in on something," William said. "I don't have a history of connecting with a lot of motherfuckers, you got me? It's not like I've got a harem of buddies ready to come hang. And, regardless of whatever the fuck is going on in your head, I don't like when we aren't cool."

Shane uncapped the bottle, dabbing it onto clean gauze. "I fucking hate it," he whispered, eyes on the pad.

William took a deep breath.

"Then don't run from me. Don't run from this. Whatever this is." He gripped Shane's wrist; it hurt, but holding onto Shane was a pain he took on willingly. "Don't tell me you're not able to be here, then turn around and drag my stupid ass home and make me a fucking sandwich and wipe my blisters."

He realized he was speaking too fast. He forced himself to let go of Shane, palm throbbing.

"If," he said softly, "you just want friendship, I can do that. What I can't do is deal with the thought that I ruined the first friendship I might have had in five years."

Shane rubbed the wrist William had released.

"And what's the alternative," he asked, voice raw, "to friendship?"

The alternative? William's heart stuttered and he licked his lips.

"What do you want that to be?"

Shane got up, setting the supplies on the stool. He paced across the room, like moving his feet would push the words out.

"This shit," he blurted. "Like…doing shit, just because. I can't, okay? Maybe that makes me fucking stupid, but I can't do it. I'm not like that."

William watched him pace. He tried, but his tired brain couldn't translate Shane's babble into normal-people words. He rolled on his side and snagged a roll of gauze from the kit to wrap his hands.

"Not gay? Not interested in me? Not...?" He made a frustrated growl. "I'm trying to follow you here, babe, but you're making it tough."

"Like that!" Shane exploded. "BABE. What the fuck is that? And of course I'm fucking interested, of course I'm fucking gay. Christ..."

William froze, then pulled his hand to his mouth, ripping the gauze off with his teeth before tucking it closed. Understanding filtered into his pounding head.

"Okay," he said. "We're having that conversation."

He reached for the alcohol, soaking a cotton pad for his other hand.

"I like you," William said. "You're deep. You listen. You pay attention to details. You're attractive, and being with you makes my dick hard." He wiped the hand then began to wrap it, meeting Shane's eyes. "But you keep running from me. It's giving me mixed signals. You're confused? Hell, I'm confused because from where I'm sitting, as much as you claim to feel the same, you balk at any type of mutually beneficial sex." He tied off the bandage and sank back in the bed.

Shane drug his hand down his cheek, pulling on the skin under his eye.

"That's what this is, then?" he asked.

Why wouldn't he just spit it out? Why did they have to do this right fucking now when William's head felt like a throbbing march of rattling rocks, his hands hurt like fire, and his back was twisted like a pretzel? He wanted a drink. He wanted some fucking weed. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted a nice syringe full of H. Something to pull him off this exhausted pain fest and to lock into what was clearly an important mine field to travel through.

Head on.

"Shane," he said slowly, picking each word as though they were seeds. "You said you were interested. I've heard that from guys before. But you're also not out. So whatever I might want? That has to be held against the reality of whatever you're going to give me. It feels like every time I reach for something beyond casual, you freak the fuck out. So I don't know what you want me to say."

He shifted on the bed, trying to get as comfortable as his back would allow.

"The other day on the porch, you said you weren't scared," Shane said, staring at the floor. "Well, I fucking am, okay?"

William closed his eyes. That day on the porch? Yeah. He wasn't scared of Shane's passion. He'd enjoyed kissing him, no matter what horrible things had happened to him in the past. Because without what he'd gone through, he wouldn't be who he was. And who he was deserved to be cared for.

"There are a lot of things to be scared of," William said. "What if I fuck it up? What if you fuck it up? What if we try to be more and it all goes to shit?"

He opened his eyes. "But what if it doesn't? And you let that fear and the people who hurt you before decide what you're going to do? We can't control other people, but we can control ourselves. You came here today, sober, because you're not done. Well, I'm not done either. It's okay to be scared. It's not okay to let being scared hold you back from what you want."

He let the words hang between them, waiting Shane out. He was rewarded when Shane cautiously stepped closer. William patted the side next to him.

"Shane, first step on a road is the hardest one. C'mere and lay down with me."

Shane had two choices. He could bolt, like he'd been mentally preparing to do during his whole impassioned outburst. Or he could stay and lay down.

He'd thought this morning was the make-or-break moment for them: his decision to be sober, William's decision to fire him or not. But it wasn't. The moment was now, when Shane would either give in to what he wanted or give in to his fear.

And if he kept giving into fear, there would be a time when William stopped trying.

Not long ago he'd been in this room in very different circumstances, and even with a week to brood on it Shane couldn't understand how—in what felt like seconds—they'd gone from kissing on the porch to William getting in his pants. But today there was no drunken whirlwind to blow him here; he'd somehow ended up on this bed of his own sober accord.

Spine as stiff as a 2x4, Shane laid beside William and fixed his eyes to the ceiling. He was trembling, and not just from nerves. It was a different, familiar set of shakes, his body making him pay for going so long without alcohol. All day he'd had other things to focus on, from the anxiety of showing up, to the heavy labor at the fence, to the meticulous cleaning of William's cuts. Now they were here in silence, nothing to distract Shane from every uncomfortable flutter.

It felt like ages before William spoke.

"I liked you the first day we worked together, Shane. I like the way you think, how you notice things. You make me crazy, because some days I want to choke you 'til your eyes pop. Then you fold my damn shirt and leave it on the porch. You remember where I put my shit. You step into the messy-ass problems without flinching. When you've got my back? When you don't leave me hanging? Things are good. I can't get you out of my head."

One of William's blistered, bandaged hands reached over and squeezed his.

"So here is what I think. Let's be together for a week. We can keep it private. Get to know each other better. Spend time together as lovers, not playing these bullshit casual games. Then, if after that week, you still can't? We call it off, no hard feelings. I'll accept my rejection and we'll go back to working like nothing happened."

Taut silence followed and William held his breath, putting the whole room at pause. Shane stared at the broad, white ceiling as his pulse picked up speed, the words tumbling through him.

He wasn't an easy person. How could William know what he was taking on, when he'd only seen a small portion of Shane's crazy? His freakouts, numerous as they'd been, were only the tip of the fucked-up iceberg. When William popped the hood to get a real look at him, the likelihood of him noping the fuck out was high.

Besides—despite his talk of reaching beyond casual—he'd spoken about 'mutually beneficial sex' in the same breath.

William had always felt too good to be true. Larger than life. Their first night had been cataclysmic, shooting Shane's world into motion after years of treading air. The job offer that followed had been a ticket out of the endless apathy of his Joja days. Ever since, William had shown he understood things about Shane no one else did. Not even Garrett.

"Can't do casual," Shane whispered, pulse hammering. "At all."

William's bandages were soft, his hand calloused. Both tightened over Shane's fist.

"So is that a yes?" he asked. "Because if it is, I can erase casual from my fucking vocabulary."

If a deity really had created the world, it was like they'd made Shane, promptly forgotten about him, and three decades later tossed down William Bauer as compensation.

Certain he was in a dream, Shane turned to his fallen angel.

"Yes."

William intertwined their fingers. "Consider casual a four-letter word, then."

A long time ago, probably back in elementary school, Shane had had a science lesson. Magnets. A simple enough concept, but at the time his young brain had been fascinated by the demonstration when his teacher held one over a dish of metal shavings. Shane had watched in awe as they shivered and snapped into place like an iron swarm.

That's what it felt like now: the wild, scattered feelings within him, pooling into the touch between their hands.

"Still got that field to do," William said, closing his eyes. "But for this? It's worth the wait."

Shane was afraid to move; afraid to disturb the careful, clear assembly of those shards. William rubbed the top of his knuckles with his thumb, going back and forth several times before his stomach let out an indelicate growl.

William sighed. "Why am I such an idiot?"

"Because I'm a big enough idiot that it's probably contagious," Shane said, still scared to move.

"You're right. It's all your fault I decided to super-soldier the fence. And to not take breaks. And to ignore my war injury in the face of mindlessly destroying posts." William gave a tired snort. "Or, you know. If I were less of an idiot, then you'd have a better example. So, guess that's a factor."

War injury?

Shane had wondered. The way William always struggled with back pain during work…for a man so physically fit and strong, it made sense there was an explicit cause. But right now William was worn the fuck out, and it was dawning on Shane that he'd picked a really fucking bad time for this conversation. William could barely keep his eyes open, and looked like he had the energy of a sack of feed.

Maybe if Shane quit his stupid habit of running, he'd be allowed to know about the injury. One day.

He didn't want to get up. Breaking a moment like this was a curse between them, a risk of going several steps back. But much as Shane wanted to stay—to hold and kiss him, to have William whisper reassurances that he meant everything he'd just said—it'd have to wait until he wasn't a broken mess of a man.

"I'll bring your food in here," Shane said quietly, "then go finish the field."

William rolled his head to face him.

"Maybe when you get done…" He hesitated. "You come hang out for a bit?"

This time, Shane was pretty sure he didn't mean, come have a beer as a bro.

"Yeah," he said, self conscious. "I will."

William nodded, closed his eyes, and let go of his hand. When Shane returned a minute later with his sandwich, he was already fast asleep.