Linka stared down into her tea. She had tried picking it up, but her hands had trembled so badly the cup had rattled against the saucer, spooking her. It steamed gently in front of her, growing cooler.

She had long since run out of tears, though she was still filled with despair.

I cannot do this.

She watched pigeons gather on the sidewalk outside, impatiently scurrying between the tables filled with people breakfasting on such a lovely Sunday morning.

She rubbed her forehead. She had a headache – stress and tiredness forming into one rotten combination and settling across her brow and the backs of her eyes.

She had no idea what her next move should be. She knew Wheeler was hurting – and when he was hurting he tended to shut himself away. It wasn't that he hated her, or wanted to hurt her – he was desperate and broken and he wanted to deal with it alone because it was hard having other people watch. The alcohol, as far as she could tell, was just a way to block everything out. He had watched his father do it, and in his intense moment of grief, had reached for the same solution.

She sighed and toyed with the ends of her hair, coiling it around her fingers and tugging gently as she thought. It wasn't a conscious gesture – just one that came to her often, and now that she was nervous and alone she found herself indulging in the soothing pattern of stroking each ringlet against her fingers, letting her hair bounce back to its former position as though each strand contained gentle springs.

What do I do now?

She wasn't really asking anyone in particular, but she smiled when Ma-Ti's voice came floating back to her, warm and gentle.

Stay with him, Linka. It will be okay.

She pushed her untouched tea away and got tiredly to her feet. "Da, Ma-Ti," she whispered to herself, stepping out onto the sidewalk again. "I will stay with him."

She used the spare key she still had in her pocket, and entered his apartment quietly. He was gone, and her heart sank.

I should not have left him.

She busied herself by stripping his bed and running his sheets through the laundry. She aired the room out – the unmistakable smell of sticky alcohol and sick gradually leaving to be replaced by the clean smell of the breeze and the slight, bitter smell of traffic fumes. She rummaged through the kitchen and poured out any remaining alcohol she could find, washing it down the sink and taking the bottles out to the recycling. She found his ring on the floor and placed it carefully on his bedside table.

She remade his bed, and was just smoothing out the last wrinkles in his duvet when she heard the front door slam.

"Wheeler?" She stood in the bedroom doorway, feeling an unnerving mixture of anxiety and relief.

"I thought you were gone." His face was pale and his eyes were lined with dark circles.

To her relief, his hands were empty of any new bottles of liquor, and though his shoulders were hunched, he was no longer swaying. Sober.

I went searching for you instead of a drink.

She could only shake her head in response to the way he looked. It grieved her to see him like this. She watched as he sank onto the couch, his gaze blank and tired.

"Wheeler..." She crept closer to him, her heart pounding.

Oh God, she's scared of me. She's scared of me. What the fuck have I done...?

He clenched his hands in an effort to stop them trembling, and Linka stopped, suddenly, panic a loud roar in her ears.

"Have you eaten?" she asked. It was a normal question, but the atmosphere was so tense she was sweating, and her voice was strained.

He shook his head. At that moment all he wanted to do was sob – or slam his head against the wall. He wished she'd hit him.

Punch me. Punch me. I deserve it. I need it – I need you to hurt me like I hurt you. Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me... It became a silent mantra in his mind, and he concentrated on it so hard it carried.

Linka was pouring Wheeler a glass of orange juice when she heard Ma-Ti's voice.

Linka? Is Wheeler wearing his ring again?

She glanced over to the Fire Planeteer. Nyet, Ma-Ti.

I can hear him. He wants you to hurt him. He is consumed by guilt.

Linka looked over to Wheeler again. "Wheeler?"

"What is it?" He was hunched over, his elbows on his knees and his hands clutching loosely at his hair.

"Will you talk to me?" she asked softly. "Please?"

I don't want to talk, I don't. Just let me sit here, please, Linka. Just let me sit here.

She set the glass of orange juice down on the phone table by the couch, and touched his shoulder lightly; nervously.

He felt her touch like a hot coal on his skin, and he flinched.

She moved her hand away again, and sat on the coffee table, her knees almost touching his as she settled opposite him. Please talk to me – I need you to talk to me, Yankee.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asked again, timidly.

He shook his head, rubbing his palms over his face, feeling rough stubble on his skin. How long has it been since I shaved? Ma's funeral. How long ago was Ma's funeral?

"Yankee?"

"What?" His voice came out harder than he intended it to.

Linka took one of his hands, carefully. She pressed her hands either side of him, tracing his long fingers and his wide palm. "Do you remember when I took Bliss, Wheeler?"

He blinked and glanced at her for a split second. She caught the flash of his eyes with her own gaze and continued.

"When it was leaving my system, I began to remember everything that had happened," she said, and her voice trembled. "I remembered Boris – and I remembered trying to hurt you, and have you take Bliss as well. I felt so ashamed... And I thought that the only way to escape from my shame and my guilt was to take more Bliss. I remembered how it made me feel... how it made me forget the difficult things. It was a relief, not having to deal with the pain.

"When I was lying on the camp bed and you were all looking after me, I kept trying to think of ways to sneak away and get more of it. All I could think about was how easy it made everything. But it got better, and I was strong because I had you – and Kwame and Gi and Ma-Ti – and I made it out safely.

"I know you are feeling guilty over your mother's death, Wheeler. But it is not your fault. There is no guarantee that she would have been safe from her pain if you had been here."

"Of course she would have been," he whispered desperately. "She'd still be alive. She killed herself because she was alone."

"Nyet, you do not know that," Linka said gently.

"God..." He sobbed and buried his face in his hands. "I feel so sick."

She edged closer and touched his hands, pulling them away from his face and squeezing them gently. "You need to get some sleep, okay?"

He nodded. He was too numb to argue. It's all my fault Ma's dead, and then I come here and I hurt Linka like this. If she hadn't ducked at the last minute...

He stopped as they neared his bed, and he whirled around.

She jumped, and gasped, tearing free of him.

"Linka, I'm sorry," he whispered. "God, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you – I'd never..." He shook his head, his breath trembling from his lips and taking too long to reach his lungs again.

"I know," she murmured. She moved towards him again, her panic easing, but he stepped back.

"Hit me," he said.

"What?" She looked at him in amazement.

"Hit me."

"Nyet, Wheeler –"

"Please, I deserve it."

"Nyet!"

"Please, please," he begged. "Hurt me, Linka, I deserve it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Nyet, I can't," she sobbed. "Do not make me, please."

"Hurt me!"

She reached out and slapped him, her palm stinging. His head snapped to the side and he gasped, a red mark rising on his cheek immediately.

"Again!" he demanded. His eyes were wild.

"Nyet," she gasped softly, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Again!" he roared.

It was defence, if anything. She struck out at him in terror, afraid of the look in his eyes – something deep and dark had risen up and was about to spill out of him, and she punched it back.

"Hurt me," he sobbed, coming at her again.

She shook her head and threw herself at him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her knees clamping to his hips. He fell backwards under her weight, onto his bed, and the blankets flew up around them.

She kissed him.

I love you and I do not want to hurt you.

She ripped at his shirt, popping buttons and gripping the fabric in her fists before she sank her teeth into the warm curve of his shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark but not break the skin. He gasped under her and she lifted her head again, her lips meeting his, her arms working their way between him and the mattress, her fingers digging into him desperately.

He sat up and threw his shirt to the floor, wrapping one arm around her waist and burying his free hand in her hair, holding her to him firmly. She shrugged her hips closer to him, settling close against him, straddling his lap. They parted only for breath, panting frantically and working at each other's clothing. Fabric tore and stretched and was tossed to the floor in useless scraps.

She felt his hands, wide and warm on her breasts, pulling gently at her skin, his fingers leaving pale streaks on her flesh. She squirmed against him, pressing her bare chest to his, hugging him tightly, her mouth moving over his shoulders, his throat, his jaw. She felt his teeth on her shoulder, felt him tug her hair free, and he spun her and pinned her to the mattress, his hand delving between her skin and her jeans, his fingers brushing the thin cotton beneath.

She lifted her hips and kicked away heavy denim, and he settled between her thighs, his hips grinding against her as they squirmed together on the bed, gasping and clutching at one another. She could feel the heat of him against the barrier of cotton around her hips, and she groaned softly as he tugged her underwear down her thighs.

She put her hands flat against his shoulders and shoved, and he stopped and rolled over, only to have her on top of him again, her nails tracking across his skin, her breath rapid and desperate. He sat up and grazed her neck again with his teeth, pulling him to her.

She shifted above him as his fingers teased against her. She tipped her head so the weight of her hair spilled down her back, and he wound his hand into it and held her there, trapped, his mouth moving over her breasts as his fingers slipped inside her body and stroked her slick flesh.

She twitched and gasped, her hips grinding against him, her body totally out of her own control now. She whimpered his name and he moved again, pinning her gently to the mattress with his weight, one hand twining with hers against the blankets, the other steadying himself against her hips.

He slid into her slowly, deliberately, and she felt his breathing measure soft and gentle suddenly, a quiet sigh spilling across her skin, his breath warm in her ear.

"Linka," he whispered. His hand cupped her face gently and tilted her head and she felt the soft press of his lips on her mouth.

He moved against her and she whimpered, adjusting herself beneath him, wrapping her legs around him and holding him to her. She kissed his shoulder gently, pressing her lips over the angry marks she had left just moments before.

She could hear his breath against her ear. Hear him sigh when she shifted beneath him. She turned her head and met his mouth with her own. Between breaths they kissed, sucking and stroking gently until he rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed and a crease in his brow, his hands lifting her and clutching at her as he moved faster against her.

Somewhere, above the racing din of her heart and lungs, she could hear herself whispering to him, her voice desperate and panting. She had only a vague idea of what she was pleading for but she could feel it building inside her, hot and wet, spreading from her stomach to either end of her body, delicious thrills racing along every nerve within her.

She turned her head when she came, muffling her cry into his skin and jolting beneath him. She felt him thrust hard against her before his strokes slowed and he sank his weight onto her body, gleaming and linked to her in a helpless tangle.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, babe."

She hugged him and he wept into her shoulder, quivering with shame and fear.

"Don't leave me," he whispered tiredly.

She kissed him gently, and kissed his tears. "Never," she promised.

"It wasn't meant to be like that." He hugged her to him, their naked bodies warm and entangled beneath the sheets. "I never wanted it to be like that; I'm sorry."

"Nyet, Wheeler, quiet..." She kissed him, trying to reassure him. She couldn't remember any pain during, but it hurt to move, now. She adjusted herself tenderly, wincing only slightly as she parted her thighs to wrap her legs around his, burrowing closer to him.

He touched the red marks on her skin, the signs of his teeth and his fingers on her flesh everywhere. "I was too rough," he whispered.

She shook her head and smiled up at him. "I started it," she whispered back.

He didn't smile in return. He just kissed her gently, feeling light-headed and guilty. "Did it hurt?" he asked softly.

"A little," she admitted. "But no worse than I expected."

"Linka, I'm so sorry..."

She shook her head and kissed him again. "Apologies are not needed, Wheeler." She gazed up at him, desperately wanting him to understand. "But I need you. I need you to come home. I am sorry for pushing you away, before..."

He shook his head tiredly, not ready to talk about any previous complications between them. He curled around her and they slept, the evening sun pouring in on them, warm and golden.

It was gentle, the next time. He kissed her and traced the smooth contours of her body with his fingers and his tongue, his skin warm against hers. She whimpered beneath him, running her hands over his body. She found freckles and scars she'd never noticed before. She traced the firm lines of his muscles and pushed her fingers through his hair, holding him to her as he kissed her. Her heart pounded in her chest.

When he entered her for the second time it hurt and she hissed a sharp breath through her teeth – but he waited and kissed her and moved slowly against her. Careful.

"I love you," he whispered into her skin.

When he told her of the past few days she held him tightly and kissed away his tears. When he admitted to going home with the woman from the bar she felt tremendous sadness – but it was for him and the way he felt, not for herself.

He explained his fears to her, his eyes closed and his mouth mumbling against her skin.

"I don't want to be like him," he whispered. "But it's so hard, Linka. It's easier to block it all out."

"Is it really?" she asked, tracing his jaw. "Do you feel better?"

"When I'm drunk I do," he answered miserably. "I think I understand why he did it."

"Did you really feel better, Wheeler?" she asked, pressing the question a little harder.

He thought for a long moment. He thought about sitting in the bar or lying on his bed clutching a bottle and wallowing in the misery that surrounded him. He remembered the thoughts of guilt and shame that had spiralled through his mind, accelerated by the alcohol. Remembered the way he had felt so numb and empty – and had hated it.

"No," he whispered.

She snuggled into him and sighed. "Promise me you will be here when I wake up," she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head and snaked his arms around her, holding her tightly. "I promise," he whispered.