Somehow, miraculously, he doesn't dream of the convoy. For the first time in a long time, memories aren't the only things that compose his nightmares. He dreams about the first nights of basic training, the first time he felt like drowning in loneliness, an orphan headed off to war, and the eyes of people he's killed, the roar of helicopters and the scream of air strikes. But then he stands alone, winds slapping sand into his face, swirling viciously, distorting vision, and ahead he can just make out the figures of two people walking away, unbothered by the sand. Jay, Erin. He shouts, but the sound is choked by the storm. Clumsily, he charges after them, and then echoes of gunshots break through the wind, screaming, and explosions, and still Jay and Erin walk unflinchingly on ahead, and he follows, skin burning from the lashing of the dust.

He stumbles, and when he looks up, shadows loom in front of him. Jay and Erin stand before him, faces contorted with rage, features sharpened. Whatever they shout doesn't make it to Mouse's ears, but they throw barbed words at each other, and then hands shoot out; a slap, a clawing scratch, a shove, a kick. Mouse lunges between them, and they turn their voiceless shrieks on him, shoving him into the dirt, kicking him down, and as he spits sand out of his mouth they stalk off, in opposite directions, Mouse shouting hoarsely after them, until they vanish into the sand.

He opens his eyes and cringes from the faint light stabbing in through his window. His head feels stuffed with cotton, his tongue and throat painfully dry, like he'd really swallowed sand. The dream from the night before begins to slip away, and he clutches at it bewilderedly – Jay and Erin in a sandstorm…? He sighs, clambering stiffly out of bed to the bathroom where he gulps cold water from the tap and then slips into the shower, standing under the warm spray until the ache in his limbs quiets. The hollowness in his chest though, that stays.

The weather is appropriately grey when he walks outside, chilly and damp. He tugs the collar of his jacket closer around his throat on the way to his car. He doesn't bother turning on the heat as he drives; by the time it kicks in enough to actually start blowing warm air he'll have arrived at the station.

When he pulls in and glances at his watch, he's dully surprised to find that, while not late by any means, he's not early, even though he woke at his regularly early hour. Somehow the time slipped away without his noticing, and he can't piece together where it went. He clambers out into a now misting rain and begins trudging to the district.

"Mouse!" He's almost at the door when Erin's voice registers faintly, and he turns to see her hurrying towards him, shoulders hunched up against the rain. "Hey," she says slightly breathlessly as she catches up and joins Mouse on the way into the building. Inside, she shakes herself out, twitching the gathered water droplets off her jacket. Mouse runs a hand absently through his hair; it comes away wet, and he flicks the water to the floor where the tiny drops disappear into the abstract pattern of slightly muddied footprints. He sets off towards the stairs to Intelligence, only to notice from the corner of his eye an absence where he expected the flash of Erin's figure. He stops, turning to see her still standing several steps behind, inspecting him. She studies him for a second longer and then takes several long strides to come up beside him. "Are you okay?" she asks gently. Mouse blinks, and swallows, though in no way should this question surprise him.

"I'm fine." He makes to continue up the stairs, stopped by Erin's hand, gently but firmly grasping his arm.

"Mouse."

Some quiet part of his mind is cataloguing how unusual this action is. Tactility between them is the exception, not the norm. Keyes, panic attack, impromptu guitar lesson. Especially standing as they are, in the middle of the district. Here, even with Jay and Voight, Erin seems to limit touches like this.

"I'm fine, Erin," he says again, tugging a smile onto his lips. She doesn't look convinced, but lets her hand slip back to her side as he leads the way up the stairs and through the gate. Voight is already ensconced in his office, and Alvin is tucked away at his desk. Mouse drops into his chair. Erin hesitates beside him, only for a moment, just a hitch in the pattern of her footsteps before she continues on to her own desk.

He pulls up the log from the past night and starts reading. Robbery in Canaryville, murder downtown, armed robbery, carjacking, warrant for arrest, BOLO, missing person… A crinkling thump makes him look up. Jay stands over his desk, having just dropped a cup of coffee and a bag in front of him. Jay and Erin came separately?

"Eat," Jay commands, looking pointedly at the bag, and Mouse realizes that in the haze of the morning he had forgotten to have breakfast. Mouse reaches to pull the bag over, but before he can, Jay closes his fingers around Mouse's hand, squeezing once gently, holding Mouse's gaze intently. Then he lets go and walks away, leaving Mouse staring at his fingers. He blinks, then stretches out his hand and tugs the bag towards him.

The day passes uneventfully in the office. Sometimes if nothing big gets sent up the unit will troll for possible cases in other units or districts, and other days they'll partner off and patrol around, backing up squads on calls. Today though, probably because they wrapped up a pretty big case yesterday, Voight is content to let any work come to them and otherwise catch up on paperwork or help out with backlog from the rest of the district. Days like this can be boring, but they make for a nice break, and now and then it's nice to clock out like regular people at the end of shift.

The end of the day sneaks up on Mouse; he checks his clock absentmindedly only to be surprised that its 5 minutes to quitting time. He packs up his things quietly, and slips out the door. He'll be gone by the time Erin and Jay look up. The district entrance is bustling, a stark change from the drifting quiet of the Intelligence floor. Mouse skirts the edge of the clusters of people and steps out into the drizzling rain. The door clacks shut behind him, cutting off the sound of the people, replaced by the hiss of passing traffic on wet streets, rumbling engines and intermittent horns muffled by the moisture in the air.

At his apartment, he tugs off his work clothes - slightly damp from the rain, which had grown heavier by the time he had to make the walk from his car to the apartment building – and pulls on worn old sweatpants, a soft t-shirt, and a baggy MIT sweater. The sweater was his father's, rescued along with a few other boxes of family things by Jay when Mouse was evicted from his apartment and disappeared into the streets for the next two years.

He sinks into the couch, tugging blankets around himself and clicking on the TV. Not for the first time, he wonders why he even pays for cable, other than the fact that for his whole life it's always just been something that was done. A matter for another day, he thinks wearily. For now, he clicks through the channels, going all the way around twice without really paying any attention. He settles on a channel playing gameshows – Wipeout is on right now, and later will come Wheel of Fortune and then Jeopardy – and drops the remote, retreating further into his blankets.

The problem with this kind of… episode? attack? (and this is part of the problem too, the nameless grey haze of it, without definition, without true beginning or end), but the problem is that he doesn't know how to fight it. No, that's not right; the problem is that he doesn't know how to want to fight it. It swallows him, not just his happiness, but his determination, his willpower, his stubbornness, sucked dry. He's not sad. He's empty.

Wipeout has bled into Wheel of Fortune when he distantly hears a key click in the lock, and then the creaking groan of his door swinging open. The light from the hallway spills and seeps invasively into his apartment, dark with the lights off and the shades drawn and evening having crept in. He can hear them bustling in the entrance way, but he doesn't move. He hears footsteps, rustling bags, a clunk of something being put on the counter. He still doesn't move. He hears muffled voices, not quite whispers, but quiet mutters. More footsteps. The only sign that he is aware of their presence is a slight increase in his heartbeat, invisible to the casual observer.

"Hey, Mouse." Erin steps into the room, voice muted but striving for casualness. She doesn't get there. Mouse says nothing. Trying to seem un-phased, she continues to stride slowly towards him, and in one fluid motion, she lifts his feet from the couch, sits down, and replaces his blanketed feet in her lap. Mouse's fingers twitch, tightening around the blanket, hidden from view. He says nothing. More footsteps. Jay strides into view. He doesn't say anything, just levers Mouse's shoulders up, slides onto the couch, and props Mouse against himself. Mouse's shoulders tense, pulse picking up a notch. He says nothing. Jay and Erin glance at each other over Mouse's head – he feels Jay's head turn, sees Erin's turn to meet him in peripheral vision. Then they turn and pretend to watch the TV.

Erin's hands rest gently over Mouse's ankles and Jay's thumb rubs soft circles on his shoulder. Mouse's pulse races. Ants crawls across his skin. A snake curls round his throat and constricts slowly, infinitesimally. Mouse keeps still and silent and his eyes on the TV as the senseless anxiety rises like floodwater through one commercial break, then another, all the while willing his pulse to slow. It doesn't. Stop it, this isn't right, why is this… stop it, just breathe, relax, why can't I just –

Something breaks. Some threshold passed, and he can't stand another second, body jerking into motion, scrambling off the couch, blankets shucked to the floor, fleeing.

"Mouse!?" He hears Jay call after him in alarm. He just keeps moving until he gets to the bathroom – not because he's going to be sick, not this time, but because it's the one room in the apartment with a lock on the door. He knocks the door shut behind him, fumbling fingers twisting the lock, then stumbles backwards until he hits the wall, sliding to the floor. He curls his knees to his chest, hands rising to press at his temples, run through his hair. His breath is loud and harsh in his ears. His skin prickles, throat tight, but his eyes stay dry.

Time stretches out and compresses, and then there's a soft knock on the door. The doorknob jiggles slightly, and Mouse's pulse jumps.

"Mouse?" He wasn't expecting it to be her. "Mouse, can you please let me in?" She pleads, voice strained. "Mouse, Jay… he's really worried; he's trying not to show it, because he doesn't want to scare me, but…" he hears her pause and take a breath, and when she continues it's only just louder than a whisper. "But I am scared, Mouse. I'm scared for you. Please let me in. Please."

And the thing is, he wants to. He wants to open the door so she'll stop being afraid. But his body doesn't want to cooperate. It's a silent invisible struggle. He wins, though, just enough to stretch out a hand and click the lock. He hears her let out a rush of breath, and the door snicks open slowly. She opens it wide enough to slip inside, and swings it back so it rests against the doorframe, not quiet closed. She steps over beside him and slides down the wall, leaving a foot of space between them. His pulse jumps as he waits for her to speak, but she doesn't. She just crosses her arm over her stomach and leans her head back against the wall.

Slowly, gradually, the ghost sensation of her body sitting next to his stops feeling like lightning, and starts feeling like a hearth, emanating warmth. He closes his eyes, waiting.

It's 15 minutes before Mouse's pulse and breathing even out to a regular rhythm, the pressure in his throat loosening. He leans his head back, arms slipping to rest his hands on the floor. He sees Erin move out of the corner of his eye, and looks over. Her hand is hovering near his own, and she watches him, asking permission. He nods slightly, and her fingers twine through his. They sit quietly a moment longer before Erin breaks the silence.

"Ready?"

Mouse nods again, and Erin stands, then helps tug Mouse to his feet too, and they walk back to the living room. The lights are on now, and the shades open. Jay stands by the window, looking out and facing away from them, shoulders drawn up in a tense line. He turns as Mouse and Erin walk into the room. He's pale, eyebrows drawn together, eyes intensely blue with worry. Erin releases Mouse's hand gently, and stops partway through the room, but Mouse keeps walking. He strides purposefully up to Jay and slips his arms around him.

Jay sucks in a sharp breath of relief and wraps his arms around Mouse, pulling him in closer. Finally, Mouse's muscles start to relax, and he rests his head on Jay's shoulder, closing his eyes. He feels Jay's hand grasping tightly at the back of his sweater, Jay's breath shuddering slightly across the back of his neck, the drop of a tear.

"Not your fault," Mouse whispers into Jay's skin, "not even a little." He feels Jay shaking his head. "C'mon." Mouse swivels, still holding Jay, Jay still holding him, and they stumble to the couch where Erin is curled, watching them with soft eyes. They sit, Mouse in the middle, and Erin scoots a little closer so her knee rests over Mouse's leg.

"Should've known better," Jay mumbles.

"Jay," Erin says quietly.

"Selfish, asking you to play that."

"Jay," Mouse whispers. "It's not- It wasn't about- I wanted to play it. And it wasn't just-" Mouse huffs in frustration, struggling to find words that make sense. He shifts so his left hand is holding Jay's, and runs his free hand through his hair, letting it flop to his lap. He worries his lip, staring at the wall. He feels Erin's hand sneak over and entwine with his, and looks over where she gives him a small patient smile.

"It was just… like a catalyst. But it would've happened sooner or later no matter what, I think. It's just… these past months, it's the most content I've been in… a really long time. And it's like, happiness can't be trusted to stay, like the happier you are the more likely it is that something terrible is going to happen, and the farther there is to fall, you know?" The words seem to be coming from somewhere else, like he's hearing them and just then realizing that they're true. "And it's not a conscious thing, but I was just… waiting for the other shoe to drop, and eventually… just crashed. And it was too much to be around the people that make me happy, too much to feel anything… so I just… stopped."

He runs out of words, and silence drops down on them. He stares down at his hands, paler and colder than both of those with which they're entwined. With trepidation, he glances over to Jay. His face is pale, eyes wide and pained and lost. Mouse swallows the rising lump in his throat and turns instead to Erin. She's staring down at their hands at first, but raises her eyes to meet his. She's teary, but the thing that makes his breath catch is the look of recognisant epiphany, the understanding, the flicker of fear.

"So where do we go from here?" Erin asks quietly. Mouse shrugs.

"Forward? On, like always?"

"Just… please don't shut me out like that Mouse," Jay says hoarsely. "I thought… I thought you were slipping away again."

"I'm not leaving, not again. I promise."

They stay entangled on the couch a while longer, sitting with their silence. The volume on the TV gets turned back on, partway through Jeopardy. Mouse is the first to toss out an answer for a clue, and soon they're all throwing out answers, laughing when they're wrong. When the episode ends, they migrate to the kitchen where they make dinner, chicken broccoli alfredo with the ingredients Jay and Erin brought.

They go back to the living room with their bowls and watch an episode of Doctor Who, Erin in the middle, leaning back against Jay, Mouse's legs entwined with hers as he leans back against the other arm of the couch. They watch another episode, and one more…

He wakes up in the morning, easily shedding the lingering feeling of a nightmare, legs still tangled with Erin's, Jay's arm around her middle. He blinks blearily, muscles protesting as he shifts. Erin groans, Jay winces as he raises his head.

"M'ning," Erin mumbles.

They struggle up to standing, bodies stiff and muscles aching. Mouse rubs at a crick in his neck and stretches his limbs, wincing as they resist the movement, but for all that his body hurts, standing in the pale sunlight, the morning traffic sounds already creeping in through the windows, Mouse feels wonderfully light and whole.


AN: You know the drill, reviews make my day!