Notes: This chapter does make blatant reference to the Gin/Sherry pairing. And the dream and what follows were inspired in part by Aubrie's wonderful fic Tomorrow We'll See.

Chapter Four

Vodka did not know how long he and Gin simply sat there in silence after their brief conversation ended. Something about the action made it almost seem like old times once again, and for a moment Vodka allowed himself to forget their problems and to think of it in that context. For that moment, there was not any Dr. Portman who had torn apart their lives. There was not any agony over an effect of something she had done. There was just the two of them, sitting quietly as they had done many times in the past. But then Gin started to pull himself up, dragging Vodka unwillingly back into the present situation.

As he watched, the blonde limped over to the door leading into the connecting bathroom, but then simply stopped and stared at it. Vodka blinked, confused, and watched him reach out several times for the doorknob but then draw back, as if uncertain of what would happen if he touched it. Then he half-turned, as if giving up on the idea altogether.

Vodka debated for a moment on if he should say anything at all, but then he finally cleared his throat and did. "Bro?"

Gin said nothing, but then he turned back to the door and again hesitantly reached for the knob. As before, he withdrew his hand at the last minute. If Vodka had seen his green eyes, he would have seen the confusion and turmoil within them.

Vodka wondered what to say in response to Gin's behavior. It was obvious that he was concerned about something, that something would go wrong if he touched the doorknob, but Vodka could not understand what that would be. "Bro . . . nothing's going to happen to you if you open the door," he said at last, and then fell silent, pondering over if he had said the correct thing.

Gin grunted. "Nothing?" he repeated, and looked back at Vodka, who nodded in surprise. Turning back to the door, Gin held out a finger cautiously and touched it to the metal of the knob before immediately pulling back. Then, encouraged, he reached out again with two fingers. When nothing happened again, he finally got the courage to put his hand on the doorknob and turn it. He disappeared into the room, shutting the door behind him.

There was not any electricity, or any needles, coming from the door. It seemed almost impossible and incredible. How could that be? That was all he had known for what seemed ages. Any time he or someone else tried to leave or enter a room when Portman did not want them to, they would be shocked with electricity, and often times stuck with a needle that would suddenly emerge from the knob when it was turned. Sometimes she would do it just to be sadistic, whether she actually cared where they went or not. But now there was nothing. He had been able to enter the room safely.

He looked to the bathtub and shower in the corner. He badly wanted to have a shower and wash his hair, but he wondered what would happen if he tried. More often than not, when he had tried to shower at Portman's base, the water would come out too hot or too cold, and stay that way. He was certain that had been on purpose, too. Some people, such as himself, had endured it as long as they could because they had wanted to get clean. Others had not been able to bear the extreme temperatures and had given up. Once, he had abandoned the practice himself after the water had suddenly turned even more scalding than it had been when he had first gotten into the tub. But now, he decided, the bedroom had seemed real, Vodka had seemed real, and the knob had turned peacefully, so perhaps it would not hurt to try the water here.

Slowly he turned the hot water faucet, then tested it. It felt normal enough, so he turned the cold water faucet as well, mixing the liquid until it came to a pleasant temperature. He studied it for a moment, wondering if it would actually stay that way, or if Portman was still lurking around and would make things much more miserable for him as soon as he tried to bathe. But in the end he decided to take the chance. Stripping off his torn pants and his boxers, he stepped into the tub and pulled the shower curtain.

The water initially felt good as it rained over him, but as he drew his hair aside to lather it with the shampoo, he hissed as the droplets beat over and into the welts that crisscrossed on his back. He moved further away from the pounding liquid as he squeezed the shampoo throughout his long locks and then began rubbing soap over his body.

Vodka remained in Gin's bedroom, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do. Would Gin be upset if he came out of the bathroom and found that Vodka was not there? Would he believe all the more that he was still in a fantasy? Vodka could not get the memory of what Gin had said about the others always leaving out of his mind. It haunted him. The blonde had looked so exhausted and forlorn when he had said that. And there was always the chance that he was not in any kind of a physical condition that would enable him to stay standing in the tub for as long as it would take to have a shower. Whether he would want to admit it or not, he might end up needing help. And so for those reasons Vodka lingered, shifting in the chair and worrying about his partner.

He nearly jumped a mile when he heard a loud crash in the bathroom. Then, his eyes widening in realization, he got up and hurried over to the door. "Bro?" he called, but did not receive an answer. He hesitated for a long moment, knowing that Gin would not want to be barged in on, and then called again. Still there was not an answer, and Vodka decided he would have to risk the consequences of entering the bathroom. Quickly he turned the knob, relieved that Gin had not locked the door, and hurried inside.

He was not sure what he would see as he pulled the shower curtain aside, but it was not the sight of Gin sitting dazedly in the tub, rubbing at his head with one hand. He had apparently been too weakened to stand in the slippery bathtub, and had either lost his balance from dizziness or from slipping. But still, he was alive . . . and conscious. Vodka had half-expected to find him sprawled on the floor of the tub, stunned senseless from striking his head on the side of it.

Vodka let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. "Are . . . are you okay, bro?" he asked hesitantly.

Gin's head snapped up and he regarded Vodka with shock. Apparently he had not realized until now that the other had come into the room. "I'm fine," he retorted then, and shakily reached for the towel rack to pull himself up.

Vodka swallowed. "Maybe you should get out of the tub," he said slowly.

"I will when I'm ready," Gin answered flatly, and pulled the curtain across again.

Vodka sighed, knowing that it was not any use, and went back into the bedroom. But he could not sit still and he found himself pacing about until he heard the water being turned off. He looked up as the door opened a moment later and Gin came out, a towel wrapped around his waist as his wet hair billowed behind him. The green-eyed man glanced to Vodka, but did not speak as he gathered up underwear from the chest drawer and his robe from the closet. Vodka averted his eyes when Gin threw the towel aside to get dressed.

He wondered if Gin would possibly explain his strange behavior concerning the doorknob, but he rather doubted it. Gin was not the sort of person who would explain his actions, and whatever the reason for his hesitation, it probably had something to do with his captivity. Vodka wanted to know what that woman had done to his partner, but he was certain that Gin would not want to discuss any of it. He would bottle his pain up, as he had always done. Vodka had to worry, though, whether Gin would be able to fully recover from such a traumatizing experience if he never spoke of what had happened.

He turned back when he heard the other limping across the floor. With a sigh, Gin pulled back the comforter quilt and climbed into the bed, bringing the pillow close to him. He looked at it blearily, remembering how he had nearly killed Vodka with it, and then narrowed his eyes in annoyance. Whether this was reality or not, he hoped that he would not lose control of himself in that way again. He did not know how it had happened. All he knew was that he hated Portman and what she had done to his mind.

"Do you want anything, bro?"

He looked over at Vodka, who had come back over to the bed. "No," he mumbled then. "I just want to sleep." Normally he would have wanted to dry his hair first, but he was leery of the hair dryer at the moment. He did not want to be holding an electric appliance so close to him. After what he had been through, he feared being shocked at any given time.

Vodka nodded slowly and then hesitated. "Do you . . . still want me to stay?" he asked.

Gin grunted. "Yeah," he answered, his eyes closing involuntarily. He was still so worn out from everything. He had never gotten much sleep at Portman's base; at least, hardly any natural, undrugged sleep. Most of his slumbers there had been the results of stupors from the various toxins she had used on him. And any time when he had slept naturally, he had been constantly in terror, afraid of suddenly being awakened with a whip or some other cruel instrument.

Vodka slowly sank back into the chair, watching as his partner again drifted into sleep. He knew that Gin must still be feeling very ill and exhausted, to want to go right back into slumber. He had not been awake that long. And it still disturbed him, that Gin wanted him to remain there. That was not like the hardened, cold assassin whom Vodka had known for years. Gin seemed so vulnerable right now, and helpless, and Vodka wondered how to handle it. He knew that, whenever Gin finally fully accepted the reality of everything, that would only be the start of the healing process. And after the extremely long day and night, Vodka was already feeling it all start to take its toll on him. He wondered if he would able to be strong throughout what was to come. He hoped so. That was what Gin needed right now, for someone to support and comfort him, and to just be there for him.

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Gin did not take kindly to being locked in Portman's cell. It made him furious and outraged, and as the time passed he grew even more so. He would spend the time thinking of exactly what he would do to her and her men once he got free, and in between, she would come and taunt him. She would tell him that it was his fault that Vodka was dead, and that the cage he was in was not real. It was all in Gin's mind, a product of his guilt. Whether he cared about Vodka or not, he was loyal to his partner and would not want to be responsible for getting him killed. Gin hated Portman and the things she would say. Every time she came by, his loathing only increased.

He was absolutely bewildered one day, when he became aware that he was laying on something much more soft than the cot in his cell. As he sat up, taking in his surroundings, he realized that he was back in his room. His eyes widened in disbelief. He did not remember being moved! But . . . he could not have imagined all those days in the cell. It was not possible . . . was it?

He gripped the quilt tightly. Was it just one of Portman's tricks, or was he going mad? He hated that he was starting to seriously question his sanity. It was all that woman's doing! Oh, he despised her. He wished that she would die.

"Good morning, Gin." There was her treacherous voice now, on the loudspeaker of which he still could not find the location. "I see that you're finally with us again. You've been sick the last few days. Maybe it was something you ate?" The fact that she could sound so incredibly calm and unruffled, even though he was being tortured, made him even angrier.

"If it was something I ate, it's your fault," he hissed, throwing back the quilt and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "And you probably knew in the first place that it would make me ill."

"You're still so fiesty," Portman remarked, and again Gin knew that she was smirking. "Well, that only makes it all the more interesting."

He started to shakily attempt standing up. He found that he was quite weak, and as he stumbled and lost his balance, he had to grab onto the bedpost to keep himself upright. "You'll never have the pleasure of breaking me," he snapped. Having the feeling that Portman was watching as well as listening to him, he pushed himself away from the wood to try to manage without assistance and started to carefully make his way toward the bathroom.

"We'll see," Portman replied smoothly. She did not say anything more at the moment, which Gin was perfectly content about, though it did make him wonder what she was up to now. He muttered, vanishing into the bathroom and shutting the door again behind him.

Gin was able to have a perfectly normal shower, and when he stepped out of the tub and went to the part of the room that was the linen closet, he found that Portman or one of her men had laid out clean clothes for him. He eyed them suspiciously, then unfolded the various articles to make certain that there were not any hidden "surprises", before at last being satisfied and slowly getting dressed.

For the moment, he had forgotten all about the unpleasant incident with the doorknob leading out of his room, and the last thing he expected was to have the problem with another door, but as soon as he gripped the bathroom doorknob to exit that room, a painful sensation spread throughout his body once again. This time it was worse than before, and his throat constricted as he gasped in agony. He could not even scream. When he was released from the force of the electricity a few long seconds later, he crumpled to the floor, unable to even stand right then.

He lay on his side, shuddering, as his damp hair fell around him and over his eyes. He gazed through the shaggy bangs, not actually seeing much of anything. His vision swam in and out, and all he could think about was the burning that was sweeping through his body. He breathed heavily, wanting to find the strength to get up but knowing that at the moment it would be impossible to do so. He could not make himself move. He could not even think of doing so. And so he simply laid there for a time period the length of which he was unsure. After a while his eyelids grew heavy and he felt as if he would doze right there, on the floor.

"Bro?"

He nearly choked. In shock, he blinked rapidly several times in an attempt to focus. But he could not look up. He heard footsteps approaching, however, and then he could see black dress shoes stopping on the floor near where he was.

"Vodka," he mumbled, suddenly unsure whether he was dreaming or not, "I can't get up. . . ."

"I know." A sharp kick was delivered to Gin's ribs and he cried out, stunned more from the actual action and who was executing it rather than from the resulting physical pain.

Gin again tried to weakly look up, but he still could not see beyond the dark shoes and part of the pant legs. "Why?" he managed to say after a moment. If he could have, he would have struggled to stand and attack Vodka right back for his betrayal, but when he tried to get up, his arms shook and he was kicked to the floor again.

"I think you know why, bro," Vodka answered in a voice that was much too calm and quiet for Gin's liking, in light of what Vodka was doing. "You failed the mission. The target got away, and your bullheaded ways got me killed. You didn't even stop to think! You didn't care. All you could think about was making sure that your pride wasn't damaged!"

Gin was silent while he tried to digest this. Then he shuddered, struggling again to rise. As before, Vodka mercilessly kicked him down. The blonde hissed in pain and betrayal, gripping at the floor tiles as he tried to keep hold of his sanity as well. But that was not as easy to hold on to. "You can't be beating me," he said then. "You're dead. You said so yourself. . . ."

"I can beat you," Vodka answered, "in your dreams. You're not awake right now, Gin, but when you do wake up, you'll find that you really are injured." Gin had the feeling that the other was smirking maliciously. "And in your dreams, you're not going to be able to fight me back. I can beat you as much as I want. I can have my revenge for all the times you treated me like dirt, and how you ended up bringing my life to a close. And it will feel good! It does feel good, Gin. Now I know how you must feel, tracking down Sherry."

Now Gin felt something hard crack down over his shoulder blades. Vodka was hitting him with a towel rack. Refusing to let himself simply submit, Gin struggled again and again to get up, once managing to grab onto Vodka's leg in an attempt to drag him to the floor. "I didn't treat you poorly," he retorted, gasping in between being struck with the metal and beaten and kicked by the other's hands and feet. "I gave you more respect than I've given to most people! Do you think I wanted you dead? Do you?" He gripped tighter at Vodka's leg, and he could feel the other beginning to lose his balance. He would not allow this to happen, whether it was a dream or reality. He would fight!

"I don't care!" Vodka cried, his voice rising for the first time. Abandoning the towel rack, he gripped Gin's shoulders and shook him viciously, trying to stun him into letting go of his leg. "It was your fault that I was killed! I won't forgive you for that, Gin! I'll never forgive you for taking my life!" He shoved the other back with force, causing him to slam into the opposite wall.

Gin growled in pain, slipping down into a sitting position on the floor. Dazed, he looked up at Vodka as the other came closer and bent down in front of him. Smirking, Vodka reached out to take hold of Gin's throat with his strong hands. Immediately Gin grabbed the other's wrists, trying to force him back. "This isn't real!" the green-eyed man yelled insistently. "You wouldn't hurt me like this. None of this is real!"

Vodka gave him a cruel look. "You don't want to believe it, bro, but that doesn't make it any less true. I hate you. Everyone ends up hating you in the end, don't they? First Akemi, then Sherry, and now me." He pressed his knee firmly into Gin's abdomen, and the blonde hissed as he found it more difficult to breathe. Again he struggled to throw his partner back.

"You're not Vodka!" Gin retorted darkly, abruptly kicking out and managing to strike the other hard on the leg. Vodka was thrown off balance, enabling Gin to get away from his grasp.

Now the blonde picked up the abandoned towel rack, clutching it tightly as he looked to Vodka with wild eyes, as if daring him to attack again. But instead of Vodka doing so, he simply stayed where he was and smirked, as if seeing something Gin did not see. Gin whirled around, trying to catch sight of what it was, and was suddenly clubbed hard in the chest by a second party.

He fell back, gasping in agony and disbelief. There had not been anyone else in the room! How had someone else gotten inside? It did not make sense! He struck out, slamming the towel rack into the new attacker's legs and sending him back with a curse. But then Vodka was upon him again, lifting him off the floor and throwing him in the direction of the tub with gusto. Gin crashed into the enamel surface and sank to the floor dazedly, and those who had been assaulting him were suddenly all there at once, hitting and hurting. Gin yelled in frustration and pain, trying desperately to fight back. And though he managed to land several good blows, he was grossly outnumbered as four more joined the original two.

Portman laughed quietly to herself as she sipped a glass of lemonade. "Poor Gin," she murmured. "He really is being beaten this time, though of course his partner isn't actually part of it. But as long as he thinks that's so, it certainly makes things more interesting."

"He looks like he's still holding his own," one of her lackeys remarked, watching the screen as the blonde punched one, then kicked at another.

"Oh, of course," Portman grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less of him. Even though he's weak, badly injured, and drugged, he still won't give in. He'll keep fighting back until he either collapses from exhaustion or else is subdued by the others, whichever comes first. And then the boys can really have their fun with him."

"I don't know," the henchman remarked hesitantly. "What if we're creating a monster? Maybe we won't be able to handle him. I have a feeling that he's just going to keep being really violent, not that I blame him. It's understandable, after what we've been putting him through."

"He can't be violent if he's physically and mentally broken," Portman answered smoothly. "It will take time, but don't worry. We'll get there." She leaned back, unconcerned, and only smirked more when she heard Gin cry out in agony.

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An indeterminable amount of time later, Gin was alone again. He was still laying on the floor, crumpled on his side, and only semi-conscious. His body was aching, and he was furious. It had been an unfair fight. He could have won, if they had not ganged up on him as they had. He did not even know who any of them were, except Vodka. . . . And yet it could not have been Vodka, unless this truly was a dream. But it felt much too real to Gin.

I'm going out of my mind, he thought to himself. Weakly he moved his hand across the floor, trying to grip the tiles enough that he could force himself to rise. But his hand fell limp, and he knew that there was not anything he could do at the moment. Vodka wasn't here. I'd have to have been hallucinating. Vodka's dead. . . . And he wouldn't hurt me if he wasn't. . . .

But maybe that was only what Vodka had wanted Gin to believe. Memories came unbidden to Gin's mind, of when he and Vodka had been briefly made to question each other's loyalty. He had been told that Vodka never really cared about him, that Vodka was using him and that if he could, he would kill Gin to rise up in the ranks. But Gin had refused to believe it then, and he still thought it sounded absurd. He knew Vodka. He would not allow some idiot to come along and make Gin believe that he was completely clueless about what his partner was actually like. Gin had known him for so many years. Gin knew him better than anyone else did.

This isn't real, Gin told himself then. I'm not actually hurt. It's all in my mind, just like before. I'll wake up on the floor and physically, I'll be fine. Again he struggled to rise, and failing, he decided to simply lay there once more. Though he did not seem to have much choice.

"Bro?"

He felt himself tensing at Vodka's voice. No, not again. He had been beaten enough. He had been tormented by his mind enough. "Go away," he muttered.

Vodka walked across the room and sat down on the edge of the tub, close to where Gin was laying in agony on the floor. "I'm sorry, bro," he said, and his voice was tinged with obvious regret.

Gin's eyes narrowed in confusion. "You're . . . sorry?" he choked out incredulously. "You're the main one who did this to me!" He raised his hand weakly and then dropped it to the cold floor.

"I wouldn't hurt you, bro. . . ." Vodka looked down at him, obvious concern for the other in his expression.

Gin glowered at him. "Then why don't you help me instead of just sitting there watching me suffer?" he burst out, not even thinking about his words. Vodka was an illusion anyway. It did not matter what he said to something that did not even exist.

Vodka did not look shocked, however, but only more regretful. "I can't help you," he answered. "Remember, Gin? I can't touch you. I'm dead. . . ."

Gin growled. "I know, and it's my fault," he muttered, only half-sarcastically. He tried to push himself across the floor using his arms. The door was partially open, if he could only reach it. But at this point it did not seem likely. His legs felt as if they were on fire. He did not think anything was broken, but amid the immense pain he was not sure.

"It's not your fault," Vodka said firmly. "It's my own fault. I wasn't careful enough. I wanted to get you out of the way of the blast." He surveyed Gin's battered form, slowly shaking his head. "I guess I made things even worse for you."

Gin continued to struggle across the floor to where the door was. "You're not even here," he hissed, his hair falling across his face. "You're a figment of my imagination." And he wondered where he would awaken next time. Perhaps he would be back in his bed, as before, with Portman telling him he had experienced a bad fall, or something of the sort. Or maybe he would be in the cell again. Maybe even he would be back at the Black Organization's base. Whichever it was, he wished that it would happen before long, instead of being forced to go through this Hell. He was sick of these imaginary Vodkas bothering him, and he hated feeling as though he was being beaten but that he could not do anything about it.

"I'm really here," Vodka responded calmly. "You're just really sick right now. You should rest."

"I'm not going to lay on the floor like a defeated man!" Gin snapped. He was halfway out of the bathroom now, and he felt a certain relief to touch the warm carpet of his room. He forced himself to go forward again. Once he reached his bed, he could climb up on it and go to sleep---or wake up, if he was already sleeping. Then this apparition would go away and leave him be.

"But you are a defeated man, Gin," Vodka insisted, and Gin could hear him getting up and following. "You'll never recover now. Portman's getting the better of you. That's what she's wanted all along. You're just playing into her hands. You're only a shadow of your former self."

"Shut up." Gin had arrived at the foot of his bed. He reached up, grabbing the edge of the mattress as he tried to pull himself up onto it. He gritted his teeth in pain, but continued forcing himself anyway, and at last managed to get his arms up on it. From there he continued struggling, moving very carefully, until at last he was entirely on the bed. Then he went limp, exhausted and breathing heavily from the effort. He did not know how long it had taken him to come all this way. And he supposed that it did not matter anyway. It was not as if he had to be somewhere else at a certain time, he thought sarcastically.

Vodka was quiet now, and Gin wondered if the other was still there. He hated what Vodka had said to him last. And what he hated the most was that he was afraid it was true. He was unwillingly helping that woman achieve what she had desired all along---to break him, to make him go insane. The very fact that he was conversing with Vodka testified to that. He knew the other was not actually there. He should ignore Vodka. If Gin ignored him, he would go away. The problem was, it was not easy to ignore him.

Gin pulled the pillow down to him, laying his head against it. The softness of it and the mattress eased his pain somewhat, and he found himself dozing in exhaustion.

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It was not long before he was lost deep in a dream of the past. In his dream, he did not remember the year, or how old he was. It could not have happened so very long ago, and yet it seemed to be another lifetime.

He was with Sherry then. . . . They were on the couch in the study of the manor where they had grown up together. It was late at night, and nearing wintertime, as a fire was roaring in the fireplace near the couch. He was gazing off into the distance, staring at something but not seeing it, and she was sitting next to him, gently running her hands through his hair. She was the only one whom he allowed to do that.

She leaned forward, resting her head against his strong shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" she said softly.

He grunted, but otherwise did not answer. He never burdened her with his thoughts, or the feelings he had concerning the murders he had committed for the Organization. He had felt such guilt at first, and had used nicotine as a way to drown it out, or to try to. And he had hated that even while feeling guilt, another part of him had felt satifaction at eliminating a traitor. He had not understood. He had not wanted to become what he was, a killing machine, a monster. That was how he had come to see himself, even as he had continued his work and had enjoyed the assignments more and more.

And yet she still loved him. He did not understand how she could. But she had promised to always be there, and ever since he had returned home with his partner Vodka over four years ago, she had kept that vow.

She put her arms around him now, kissing him softly on the cheek. He was a tortured man; she could see it clearly during times such as this. And while she hated what he had to do, for her it did not change the good that she saw in him. Her best friend, her protector, he still existed. She saw glimpes of him now and then. But she would be lying if she did not admit that he frightened her more frequently. She could see that he got a certain enjoyment out of what the Organization made him do. Many times she had felt a wall growing between them, but on nights such as this, it seemed to crumble somewhat and her hope would be renewed.

He put out the cigarette he had been holding between his fingers and absently put an arm around her shoulders. He felt her soft, wavy, red hair against the palm of his hand, and he toyed with the locks slightly as he leaned back into the couch. He wanted it to stay like this, but he knew that was foolishness. Nothing would stay the same. The flow of time never stopped, and people were constantly changing. He wondered where they would be in six months . . . a week . . . a day.

But then he pushed those thoughts aside. For now, there was only tonight.

She kissed him again, then snuggled close and laid her head against his chest. His heart was still beating. He was still human, in spite of everything he believed about himself. He was not a complete monster. He was the one with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

He put both arms around her now, holding her close to him. And he whispered her name, the name she was known by, as he studied her hair, her face, her eyes, and breathed in her scent. "Sherry . . ."

He snapped awake when he was kissed again. The study and the couch vanished, and he was laying on his back on his bed in the prison room that Portman had given to him. A raven-haired girl whom he had never seen before was at his side and laying her head against his chest. She was fully clothed, but he could see the seductive look in her eyes. A wave of disgust washed over him and he grabbed her arms, shoving her away from him.

"Who are you and what are you doing in here?" he said indignantly, his eyes flashing with outrage. How dare she! Portman had no doubt allowed her to come inside. What was she trying to prove now?

"You wanted me here," she replied, her voice high-pitched and childish in some way. She looked at him with those same sultry bluish-lavender eyes, her straight black hair cascading down her back. "You were holding me, and stroking my hair." She giggled. "No sense trying to fight it." With that she tried to lean forward again, intending to kiss him on the lips.

He slapped her roughly across the cheek and sat up in spite of his protesting body. He would not stand for this. She would leave him now. He would see to it that she did. He grabbed her wrists, holding her away from him as he shakily eased himself off the bed. He nearly crumpled to the floor, but somehow managed to stay upright as he dragged her off the bed and toward the door. "You're leaving right now," he growled, even as she struggled and protested. "I never asked for you to come here, and I don't want you." Noticing the door was slightly ajar, he pushed it open further with his foot and then shoved her into the hall, sending her sprawling onto the floor when she lost her balance.

She cried out, then looked up at him with her own eyes flashing. "You're gonna regret that," she murmured in a dark, yet whining voice. "No one's turned me away before."

"Too bad," Gin snapped unsympathetically. Looking out at the deserted corridors, and gripping onto the wall, he slowly stepped out as well. He was in pain, but he would ignore it. The girl had made a fatal mistake by leaving the door partially open. He was determined to escape this time. Any pain he was in would pale in comparison to what would happen if he stayed.

He could feel the brunette's eyes boring into him. Something was amiss. . . . He whirled around just as she lunged at him with a knife. Catching her wrist, he began to grip it in a very painful way, twisting it so that the knife was not pointing at him. She shrieked, struggling against him, but no matter what she did, he held on tightly. Finally in desperation, she pulled out a gun with her free hand, firing into his abdomen.

His eyes widened in agony. He released her from his grasp and stumbled back to double over, clapping his hand over the wound. Blood seeped from between his fingers, and he felt it rising in his throat. He coughed, falling to his knees. The girl standing over him smirked wickedly, and when he looked up at her, she had changed into Sherry. He fell back in shock and disgust.

"The girl's really there, Gin," Portman's voice came from somewhere, "or is she? And are you really wounded? That sort of injury is very painful. It takes a long time either to recover from it or to die." She laughed. "And you turned the girl away. Somehow I knew you would. It revolted you, to find her there instead of the one you were dreaming of, didn't it?"

Gin coughed again, slumping against the wall. This could not be a hallucination. It was too real . . . the blood, the pain, the dizziness. . . . Was Portman going to kill him now, or let him suffer for a while and then treat his wound before it became fatal? He shuddered, watching blankly as the crimson trails ran down his hand and onto the floor. And Sherry, Sherry had pulled the trigger. . . . Wait, it was not Sherry. . . . It was that other girl, the girl he had never met. . . . Or was he terribly confused? Had it been Sherry all along?

His vision blurred and he slumped further against the wall. This was not the death he had imagined. Nothing was as he had imagined. But then again, perhaps everything was what he was unwillingly imagining. He cursed weakly. He did not have any way of knowing. That was what was most frustrating of all. He was helpless.

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The next time Gin awoke, he wildly looked around the darkened room as before, then sprang into a sitting position. Portman was there, she must be there, watching him. Or else her men were. They never left him alone. Someone was always there, hiding in the shadows, waiting and observing to see what he would do next. He had been reduced to nothing more than a lab rat.

There! He caught sight of something out of the corner of his eyes. Someone was definitely there, just as he had believed. Without a second thought, he lunged. He would not let whoever it was get the better of him.

"Bro? Bro, it's okay. . . . No one's here. You're safe. . . ."

Gin felt hands touching him and he yelled, struggling desperately. The other held on firmly, but not unkindly, and through his loud protests, Gin was aware of the voice talking to him, trying to reassure him.

"It's just me. Portman isn't here. Her men aren't here. . . . Nothing like what she did is going to happen to you again." There was a pleading note in the voice, as if he was begging for Gin to calm down and be himself again.

Slowly Gin did. He recognized the voice as being Vodka's, and the other was holding onto him without hurting him, something that the apparitions in Gin's mind had never done. Either they would touch him to torment him, or else they would stay back, insisting that they could not help him because of being dead. But this Vodka was trying to help him. This Vodka was real. He had to be real. . . .

Gin looked up at the other. In his frenzy, Gin had grabbed onto Vodka's shoulders, his hands dangerously close to his partner's throat. Vodka was trying his best to restrain Gin without harming him, and the blonde had ended up coming quite close to him while Vodka was trying to remove Gin's hands from their current position. Vodka looked uncomfortable and distressed, and Gin could see his eyes, flickering with so many emotions.

"Vodka . . ." Gin murmured then, trying to quell his alarmed breathing. His hands dropped. "It's you. . . . You stayed. . . ." He looked up at the other in amazement and perhaps even a bit of awe. Not only was this Vodka real, but he had kept his word. He had not left. And to Gin, at this point, that was a very big thing. The Vodkas and the other people he had hallucinated about in the past had never kept any promises. In some way or another, they had all helped Portman advance her plans. They had all betrayed him.

Slowly Vodka nodded, easing Gin back onto the bed. His expression had become all the more uncomfortable upon seeing how Gin was looking at him. This was not the Gin he knew, and as the hours wore on, he was realizing more and more just how much the other had changed. One minute the blonde seemed to be mostly the way Vodka remembered, then the next he was panic-stricken and violent, and then he was insecure and vulnerable. Vodka could hardly stand it. He wanted Gin to be the way he always had been before---strong and silent, and flat-out refusing any help---and not just because he wanted Gin to get better. Vodka frankly did not know how long he would be able to endure seeing him like this.

He slumped back in the chair, absently pushing his sunglasses back up on his nose. It had only been a few hours, too. There was not any telling how long this might go on. He let out a breath he had not realized he was holding, casting his gaze up to the ceiling. Somehow he had to find the strength to deal with this. Gin did not have anyone else whom he could rely on. If Vodka could not do this, then Aoshi was the only other option. And that was not something he wanted to subject his partner to. Gin would think of it as a betrayal. And, Vodka decided then, it would be one. It would be selfish to send Gin away. Aoshi would only think of him as a crazed animal, and treat him as such. He would not care about how Gin was suffering.

Vodka looked back to Gin, realizing how tired he himself was. He had only slept for a few moments during which he had undergone a dream that he would much rather forget. But he wondered if he could safely return to sleep. Gin's condition had definitely kept him at full awareness for hours now, both because Vodka was worried about him and because he wondered if Gin would attack him again.

"Just go back to sleep, bro," he said now, trying to quell a yawn that was suddenly upon him.

Gin grunted, turning painstakingly onto his side. "You'll stay?" he said urgently.

"Yeah. . . ." Vodka watched him, wondering how long this would go on. "I said I would. . . . I'll stay until you tell me to go."

Gin looked satisfied. This Vodka had remained there this long. Gin would trust him to continue staying. He settled back into the bed, dozing again.

Vodka shook his head slowly. It was almost, he thought to himself as he reflected on the look he had been given, as if Gin saw in him a kind of security, a protection against further torment. He wondered if that was possible. But then he frowned. That sounded ridiculous. It was probably just as he had thought earlier, that Gin was simply desperate to not be alone. Gin would not care who the person was at this point, as long as he had someone there. Still, Vodka could not stop himself from continuing to wonder.

He leaned back in the chair again, and it was not long before he found himself falling asleep as well. This time he did not dream---at least, not that he remembered.