Looking at hospitals Victorian
Feeling as helpless as the elephant man
Wish you were here
To chain you up and without shame
In my arms tonight

I ain't a soft and saccharine wannabe
Still I pray to god this song will end happily
So I offer you a place to rest and forget yourself
In my arms tonight

"In My Arms" -- Rufus Wainwright

Four a.m. The worst hour of any sleepless night. It's dark enough to see whatever ghosts, living or dead, haunt you from the shadows. I looked at the bottle of bourbon and realized that, all day and all night, it had been Miguel lurking around the edges of my consciousness. I raised the bottle and discovered I was down to the last inch of amber liquid. Almost time to say goodbye to the only tangible evidence I had of my connection with Miguel. House was snoring softly from his own bed. I held the bottle to my chest and closed my eyes so I could focus on the image of Miguel as I'd last seen him.

He was looking down at the scratched wood of the table in the darkness of Antonio's corner booth. As a flame guttered in the red glass candle-holder, I watched the play of shadows and light on Miguel's face. He looked up and gave a slight smile, forcing it to stick for as long as possible. He reached over and played with my fingers briefly, pulled them back quickly and folded his arms across his chest. As he slid down, he managed another little smile. "I've been missing you, Bobby. I was beginning to think I'd never see you again." He winked at me. "Are you keeping out of trouble?"

I shrugged and sipped my bourbon, unsure whether my invisible friends would constitute trouble in Miguel's conception of the world.

He shifted nervously in the seat as the waitress placed another two bourbons on the table. He finished his old glass and handed it off to her. He watched her walk away. "Say something to me, please," he said, looking back at me.

"Why wouldn't you see me again?" I asked curiously. The degree to which I skirted madness on a daily basis couldn't be transparent enough to prompt that statement.

"I don't know. I guess things are crazy now, anyway. Tough to find time to spend with me?"

I nodded. "Crazy pretty well describes it. Things have been ... difficult." I lifted my glass and drank to cover a lack of details. I felt unable to elaborate with either vague excuses or detailed fabrications. I closed my eyes to avoid his.

"Will you tell me what's been going on? Can you?" Miguel asked. Our communication had to halt abruptly once I was suspended. "Are you undercover again or something?"

"No. Just busy." It was time to look up. Our eyes met and I wondered why I had hadn't called him in so long. "You?" I asked, hoping there was no significance to the gap between his calls.

He shrugged. "Not much, really. Business as usual. Watching a lot of late night nature programming in my underwear."

I chuckled. "I could see why you wouldn't want any witnesses."

He smiled. "Let us not forget the time you got me stoned and made me watch Breakfast At Tiffany's at four thirty in the morning. I can't be embarrassed in front of you anymore."

I shook my head. "No one escapes contact with Audrey Hepburn and 'Moon River' unscathed." The memory of the two of us lounging naked in Miguel's bed watching American Movie Classics came back to me in a rush. Why hadn't I called him? Probably because, all evidence to the contrary, I rarely got to be alone anymore. My hours of insomnia were spent at the mercy of uninvited visitors who filled the air space with their chatter. Solitude eluded me.

He smiled. "No. They don't." He took a sip of his bourbon. "How are you passing your time?"

I tried to smile but had to look away, remembering with discomfort Nicole's soliloquies at 4 a.m. Would Miguel's presence be enough to keep her at bay? "Now that I'm here with you now, I ask myself the same question. Nothing that should have kept us apart this long," I whispered, reaching across to bring my fingers in proximity to his. Head down, I looked up surreptitiously, trying to read Miguel's eyes in the dark glow of our nook.

He squeezed my hand. "Does this mean that we aren't going to be apart anymore?" he asked with a hint of sincerity. His sarcasm was audible, I thought. Though my perception had been off for weeks, so I couldn't be sure.

"I'm not planning to quit the NYPD, if that's what you're asking," I replied with studied nonchalance. Looking straight into his eyes, I didn't like the look I saw there. Stroking his fingers with mine, I couldn't keep the longing out of my voice as I admitted hoarsely, "But it's been far too long."

"We should go back to my place, then. Turn on the television. Toke up. You look like you could use some relaxation."

"That sounds...perfect." I motioned for the check and started pulling my wallet out. We were back at Miguel's apartment within twenty minutes.

To my eternal surprise, brandy was Miguel's favorite drink. He kept snifters and a decanter on a table in the living room for easy access. All other alcohol was kept in the liquor cabinet. I poured two and flipped through television channels as he packed a pipe. Miguel used to meet me at the door with a pipe as soon as I got back from work. The sight of a detective wearing a badge while smoking pot amused him consistently. I smiled as I stopped on 'The Drug Years'.

"Ah, yes. A shared interest," he said, lighting the pipe.

"Ah, my misspent youth," I chuckled as I realized the episode chronicled pot use in the 70s. Watching the familiar scenes from "Teenage Wasteland" as I took a toke on Miguel's pipe amused me more than it should have. I settled back and enjoyed the harsh burn in my lungs as I handed back the pipe and lighter.

"Was this before or after your military life?" he asked with a chuckle. "I can't imagine you smoking in uniform..."

"This was my high school days -- and college." I gestured towards the screen. "Just like them. You were an infant of course," I said with a smirk.

He laughed. "That makes you a cradle robber for sure," he said, taking a hit of the pipe and placing it onto the table. He sipped his brandy.

I reached for the pipe and laughed. "If I'd hit on you the first time we met, you could have called me a pedophile. Cradle robber...when we finally got together? That's...really fucking ridiculous," I snorted. "I've always been more of a child than you anyway," I quickly added before drawing on the almost dead pipe.

He grinned. "That's definitely the truth. I agree with your assessment " He looked over at the television and sighed before shaking his head. "If anyone ever saw me watching VH1 with a cop, I'd lose every ounce of my street cred."

"So we're even here on the blackmail potential. Mutual assured destruction works for me," I grinned as I crossed my arms and leaned back against the sofa cushion in satisfaction.

"Hmm," he began. "Any reason you're inviting destruction?" he asked sincerely.

I rolled my eyes. "How stoned are you, anyway?" I debated answering him seriously but decided against it. "Why don't you just come here and let me take advantage of you?" I offered instead.

He lifted an eyebrow and sighed. "Because I don't know when I'll see you again. I wanna have more than that to remember."

"Any reason why you're worried about this?" I asked. "I'm not planning on disappearing..." I offered in a tone that downplayed the possibility of anything changing between us.

He stared at me a second. "I think there's something really wrong and I think that's why we aren't seeing each other. What I can't figure out is whether it's something I did or if we're just growing apart because of our circumstances."

"Maybe it's just something with me. It will pass," I insisted. I didn't want anything to change between us. "You know...I have my ups and downs," I reminded him.

He nodded. "O.K.," he replied, leaning over to put his head in my lap. He looked up at me. "Start taking advantage, then."

I smiled and went ahead.

Laying in a