Warnings: AU,Slight slash (Stone Cold Steve Austin/CM Punk), Mentions of Child Abuse, Profanity, Age difference. Eventual Warnings: Smut.

The first of the month sees Steve up far earlier on a Sunday than he's been in months. He's given himself a personal mission. He intends to go somewhere he's not been in a long time. When he comes down the stairs, dressed in a nice shirt, and decent jeans, Phil stares at him.

"I thought your date wasn't until Saturday?" He laughs, turning back to breakfast. There's something cooking on the stove, something that smells good. There's only a few more months of this left, only a finite amount of mornings Steve's going to come down stairs to find Phil and Hershey in the kitchen together, the air scented with delicious cooking.

"It is." Steve starts making coffee, and tries to ignore the urge to just stand and watch Phil move around the kitchen. He's going to miss him, but he's not going to miss this sickness building in his head. Yesterday he'd spoken to the Owl about single daughters of friends, and had been fixed up with a nice girl. Another divorcee, tall, blonde, with an ample bosom. A woman who'd had a passing resemblance to his late wife, and Steve had leapt at the chance of going on a date with her. It's what he needs; it has to be what he needs. Getting back in the race on a horse that's similar to the last one, it's the only thing that makes sense.

"So why you looking all fancy?" Phil asks him, plating up the pancakes he's been making. Steve ignores him briefly, taking the coffee pot over to the table, and then the syrup.

"I'm going out." Steve answers him plainly, and takes a seat, starting to eat the pancakes Phil sets in front of him.

"Oh? Somewhere nice?" Phil asks. There's more than a hint of amusement in his tone, and Steve still can't bring himself to look at his charge. The boy had haunted his dreams again last night. His slender body, his long limbs, and those thrice damned eyes. All night Steve had dreamt of those eyes, and he can't bear to look at them in the light of day.

"Church." Steve keeps eating, pausing solely to take sips from his coffee, and Phil seems disinclined to comment on Steve's destination. He finishes breakfast quickly, and leaves with a hurried goodbye to Phil.

The service was a dull as Steve had always remembered them being, and he hadn't felt as though it had done him the slightest bit of good. All he'd gotten was a headache from the volume of the preacher's voice, and a sore throat from singing, but medicine takes time to work. He'll go back next week, and hopefully it'll take the sickness away from him, hopefully at least. Between church, and this new woman he'll hopefully be normal again before too long.

All week Steve broods over his upcoming date, a week of Phil mistaking brooding for stressing, and therefore trying to help Steve relax by being extra sweet. It's terrifying. The sweeter Phil is, the more Steve notices little things about him, like his habit of biting his lip when he's concentrating, the way he'll twist his fingers in his sleeves when he's talking, or how he's never more relaxed than when he's sitting on the couch with Hershey's head on his lap, laughing or commenting on their shows. It's the sort of little things that Steve's only ever noticed about one other person, the sort of little things that he never thought he'd see in someone other than her, but they're so clear in Phil, so obvious, and it's almost painful to realise.

The first date goes smoothly. This new woman is charming, she's funny, beautiful in a completely conventional way, and Steve feels normal with her. He feels better than he has since that dream. He's a normal widower on a date with a normal divorcee, talking about normal things. Her daughter is in college, studying to be a doctor, her pet dog is having puppies, her job is dull, but well paid, and whilst she doesn't hate it, she doesn't love it either. It's all normal, and nice. It makes Steve feel normal, but the whole time he can't help but notice she has hazel green eyes, and when the light catches them right, they're the colour of Phil's. It's distracting, and he can't stop shifting in his seat to make the light hit them at the right angle. When he gets home, Phil's waiting up for him, a grin on his face, hopeful, excited, waiting for news of how the date went. When Steve relays that he'll be going on another date next week with her, Phil seems delighted for him, gives him a tight, warm hug that stays with Steve for the rest of the night.

Sunday, he goes back to church, and he sits barely hearing anything the preacher says, barely remembering to stand to sing, barely realising he's there. It's like going through some strange motions to try and shake the thoughts that are circulating in his head. Thoughts of his date, thoughts of Phil, thoughts that chase each other like an ouroboros. They loop around and eat their tails, consuming themselves and Steve. When he gets home, Phil draws him into some strange card game he learned somewhere, some game where Steve has to keep asking the rules, and Phil keeps explaining with calm patience. Something's playing on Phil's mind, but what he's not saying, and Steve can't say he's surprised, because there's something playing on his mind, and he's not saying what either.

The second date comes around after a tranquil week of nothing in particular. Phil's first seedlings started getting taller, and he'd spent most of his after school time out in the vegetable patch, getting himself covered in mud, but looking ridiculously proud of himself. Steve had spent most of that time watching Phil, feeling ashamed of how much he enjoyed the happiness on Phil's face. In the sunshine, muddy, and grinning, Phil was beautiful, and it did nothing but confirm that Steve was a terrible man.

"Steve... I need you to do something for me." Friday night sees Phil back late, but he'd sent a message to Steve's cell phone warning him of this, and whilst Steve hasn't worked out how to reply, he'd managed to read the message just fine.

"A favour? What is it, Punkster?" Steve takes the takeaway pizza box from Phil, and is tempted to take the grocery bag from him too, but Phil carries it through to the kitchen, and sets it on the counter.

"I need you to make me up some little strong batches of each of these." He starts taking out little bags of coffee beans, and Steve stares at them in confusion. "I was talking to the Owl yesterday, and she says that your new lady friend." At this Phil positively beams, and Steve closes his eyes rather than face Phil's happiness for him. "Loves coffee truffles, so I thought some homemade ones would be a nice little present for her." Phil's smile remains bright and happy, and all Steve can do is nod.

"You'll burn the coffee, right?" Steve laughs, hating how desperate the sound is, hating how hollow it feels.

"Ah, how well you know me, Steve." Phil chuckles, and sets four little bags of beans down in front of Steve. "We eat first, then you get started on my coffee. It's good stuff... I asked the guy in the store for the best." Phil grins, and Steve shakes his head. His fingers feel itchy, but he's not sure why. It's like they want to do something, but what, he's no idea.

"You didn't have to, Punkster." Steve mutters, and Phil laughs.

"Yes, I did! Last weekend you looked happier than I've seen you in ages. This lady is good for you, and if she makes you happy, then we're gonna do our best to keep her around, aren't we Hersh?" Phil turns to the dog who's been sitting contentedly at his feet. She looks up at Phil and yelps once, clearly in agreement.

"I'm plenty happy without her." Steve immediately wants to recant the words when he catches the dubious look on Phil's face. Phil knows them to be a lie, and Steve wants to apologise for it, but he can't it'd be too messy, too complicated to explain the truth. "C'mon, we'll eat. I've not heard much from you all week, you've been playing at farmer too much, tell me about school." It's a normal question, but it drives home to Steve once more how wrong he is in what he's not sure he can keep denying is attraction. There's something about this child, and it's wrong, so wrong.

"School?" Phil glances up, and shakes his head. "School is school... No better, no worse. The Owl's daughter is a bitch, my math teacher hates me, my English teacher wishes I'd apply myself more, the drama club keep trying to recruit me... I might let them." Phil looks thoughtful, and Steve stares at him.

"Really? You were really good in that play, Punkster. You should join." Steve smiles, and Phil ducks his head, a blush creeping over his cheeks. "You were. I was proud of you. If she could have seen Hershey would have been proud of you too." Phil laughs at Steve's words, and there's a perfectly timed huff from Hershey, as though she was taking offence to her pride being laughed at. "See, she's proud without having seen your acting." Steve passes down a pizza crust to the dog, and laughs as she devours it.

"If I joined... Would you come watch me?" Phil mutters, his voice soft, and Steve nods, before realising that as Phil's not looking he didn't see the gesture.

"Every night, front row." It's painfully earnest, and brutally true. Steve would be there every night to watch Phil, and every night he'd tell him how good he was. Phil looks up, and meets Steve's eyes. He's not sure what expression he's wearing, but what ever it is, it has a deep blush creeping over Phil's cheeks, a blush that makes the green of his eyes more prominent.

"Thank you." Phil's voice is soft, and so filled with honest gratitude, that all Steve can do is nod, and return to eating. There's nothing to add to that, no more words that can, or need, to be said.

Saturday, Steve writes his letters, and Phil busies himself with making truffles, the scent in the kitchen is incredible, and Steve keeps sneaking over to steal little bits of the rich filling for the chocolates to sample. He's sure he's going to gain pounds, but it's worth it to see Phil's exasperated amusement, it's even worth the sharp little smacks with the wooden spoon just to see the smile the Phil wears every time Steve steals a little more. Eventually, Phil sends him off to get ready, and when it's time to go, he's waiting by the front door, his hands behind his back.

"So... This is for the lovely Miss Linda." Steve glances up from fussing with his jacket when Phil hands him a box, deep purple and wrapped with a neat, matt gold bow. The whole thing looks expensive, and Steve's no idea if Phil's homemade candies are or aren't cheaper than store bought, but they taste so much better.

"This looks damnedly fancy, Punkster... You sure you don't wanna keep it?" Steve makes to hand the box back, and Phil shakes his head.

"I've got some of my own... Was playing with the fillings... There's some more interesting combos for me, and maybe you if I've not eaten them all." Phil laughs, and pats Steve's shoulder. "Have a good time, okay?" He smiles, and Steve nods, leaving the house with a reluctant goodbye.

The second date was a pleasant as the first. She's a nice woman, and a smart match for Steve, but he doesn't care. He's not all that into her, even if his brain keeps telling him he should be, because she's a good alternative to his wife. She's the right age, she's the right gender, she's smart, she's funny, she's pretty. She's not a scruffy, damaged, boy from Chicago with the most gorgeous eyes he's ever seen. The longer he spends with this woman, the worse his attraction to Phil gets. This whole dating thing is having the opposite effect, and Steve's not sure how to remedy it.

Church isn't helping in the way he'd hoped either. He'd wanted sitting on the cool hard pews to bring him some kind of spiritual enlightenment, he'd wanted hearing the preacher to make him realise that his feelings are so wrong, and whilst he knows they are, they don't fade. Every second they grow stronger, and it's killing something inside him.

The third date happens, and Steve can't say much about it. It was like the last two. A night spent with a beautiful woman, who should be captivating him and his thoughts, but he spends his time thinking about the teenage boy in his house, probably still sitting at the kitchen table, fighting with his math homework, or curled up on the couch with Hershey watching TV. His date ended earlier than usual, the woman wasn't feeling well, she'd been coughing a lot, and Steve had joked that he was a good nurse, which had led to him telling the story of Phil's illness, which in turn had led to the woman cooing over how sweet he was. Steve didn't feel sweet. He felt like he'd shared something intensely personal and private. He'd felt like he'd given away something precious. He'd driven her home in near silence, and left her with orders to get plenty of rest for next week. On date four Steve knows that he's going to have sex with that woman, and he's not sure how he feels about it. He's tried thinking of her in the shower, when he wakes up from having a dream of Phil, and it never works. Her image bleeds into a soft, sweet teenage boy, and Steve can't finish. He refuses to masturbate to the image of Phil; he can't sully sweet, damaged Phil like that.

When he gets home, Hershey is sleeping on the couch, and the rest of the house is in silent darkness.

"Hello, Wonder Dog." Steve ruffles her ears, and wondering why she's sleeping there, and not with Phil. "Where's your little buddy?" It's then that Steve catches the sound of a shower running, a soft patter of water in the stillness of the house. It's after eleven, a little late for a shower, but it might be that Phil's not bathing. He's a teenage boy, he'll have desires. Without thinking Steve wanders down to the door with a sliver of light coming from under it, the sound of water a little louder, and he swears that just under that sound he can hear Phil's breathing, harsh and ragged, soft, breathy moans mingling with the spray. It's just his imagination, Steve tells himself sharply, and goes to the kitchen to get a drink. He can't help but look when Phil leaves the bathroom, his skin still damp, a towel slunk low on his narrow hips. There's a look on his face for the few seconds he doesn't realise Steve's there, a look that Steve's never seen him wear before, a look that rapidly fades to panicked embarrassment, a look of just come satisfaction.

Sunday, Steve goes back to church, and he forces himself to listen to the sermon. He can't shake that memory of that expression on Phil's face, he can't shake the memory of the way that towel had been so low on Phil's hips, the way his lean chest had looked, his thin arms, his sharp collarbone, his little bellybutton, his eyes, always his eyes haunt Steve's mind. Those eyes will follow Steve to the grave, he's sure of it.

When he gets home, he proposes fishing, and Phil readily agrees. On the trip to the lake, he starts talking about the play he's been cast in, explaining that he did let the drama club talk him into joining. The entire time they spend on the water, Phil's animated and happy, talking quickly, his accent thickening from the one he uses normally to what he truly sounds like. All Steve does is sit and listen. He offers some occasional comments to keep Phil talking, but on the whole, he lets himself get lost in the sharply flat vowels, and odd consonants of Phil's accent. It's the opposite to the drawl of the preacher, and Steve thinks that it's so much better. Phil might be doing nothing but rambling, currently talking about the project the Owl's assigned him, something to do with capturing clouds, but Steve could listen to him talk for hours. He does listen to Phil talk for hours, and not one second does he regret.

The fourth date is right on schedule. Steve takes the woman home, her name still escapes him sometimes, and he hates himself for that fact. He hates that when he looks into her eyes, he sees them the colour of Phil's. She invites him in; the wine she's been drinking is making her giggly, and soft. Steve knows what's going to happen here, knows what he's expected to do, but he's not sure he can bring himself to do it. When she kisses him, as with every other kiss they've shared, he imagines someone else in her stead. He imagines tentative nervousness, he imagines thin fingers on his skin, he imagines shorn, bleached fuzz in place of her long hair, and it makes him feel sick, though not in the way it should. He's not sick because he's thinking of a child, he's sick because of the fact he's touching this woman. She's nice, the last three dates she's been a gem, but she's not what Steve wants. He wants the skinny boy in his house, and that's wrong, so very wrong.

In the end, he begs out. He can't go further with her, he can't bring himself to touch this woman, a part of him suspects any woman any more. He's sick, he has to be, incurably diseased in the mind to be lusting after sweet, delicate Phil. She's understanding of his excuses, supportive of his false reasoning, too soon after his wife passing, too much alcohol; too much, too soon in general.

On the drive back to the Ranch, Steve considers veering the car to one side of the road, and crashing, hopefully ending this whole thing, but he can't. Phil stops him. Phil needs him. He has to stay alive for Phil. He has to stop wanting Phil for Phil too. He can't do this to him. He's a child; he's a child abuse survivor who's still recovering. He had a crush on a football coach. He blushes when Steve touches him, blushes when Steve looks at him, blushes when he says nice things to Steve, blushes even worse when Steve says nice things back.

Phil has a crush on him.

It's a realisation that hits Steve as he's walking into the Ranch house, the quiet, dark Ranch house. He walks down to Phil's room to check on him, part of Steve hoping to see him perhaps touching himself, part hoping for him to be asleep, and a third hoping for Phil to be awake, so Steve can talk to him. He's asleep, the soft sounds of talk radio burbling in the background, Hershey curled up at the foot of his bed. He's a child, for all his height, for all his maturity, Phil is a child that can't sleep without the radio, and his dog to keep the monsters away. Without thinking about it, Steve enters Phil's room, coming to stand by his bed.

"I'm a mess." Steve whispers softly. Hershey's head lifts from the bed as she looks at him inquisitively. "This one, Wonder Dog..." Steve glances at her then back at Phil's sleeping face. He's beautiful. Over the time he's been at the Ranch, he's become more and more of a man, his features hardening into the face he'll wear for life, but his eyes will always be too big, probably his ears too, Steve thinks fondly, stroking a finger over one of Phil's ears. "I'm a mess, Punkster." Steve murmurs as he leans down, and brushes a kiss over Phil's temple before retreating to his own bed.

"You wanna come to church this morning?" It's the first thing Steve says to Phil the next morning. Once more Steve can barely bring himself to look at him, but he has to. He can't let Phil think that he's angry, or disgusted with him, not when the opposite is so very true.

"Church? Me? I dunno, Steve..." Phil laughs nervously, and Steve smiles at him. He's not sure why, but Steve wants Phil to come with him. He misses spending as much time with him as he used to.

"C'mon, you might enjoy it." Steve knows Phil won't like it one bit, knows that this is pointless; this whole month of going to a dusty old relic of a building has been futile. He's not cured; he's just as sick as ever. This month of church visits and dates have been futile, he's no better, and it he might have to learn to live with the sickness for as long as Phil remains at the Ranch.

"Alright, but I'm not getting dressed-up." Phil laughs, and Steve nods. He'd be disappointed if Phil changed who he was to fit in anywhere, especially a church.

The sermon wasn't what Steve had wanted it to be. It wasn't what Phil had needed to be witness to. A polemic against homosexuality that had Phil storming out halfway through, and Steve was left sitting there, rigidly staring at the pastor in horror, willing the man to hear the hate in his own voice. Hate that should be so very against the religion he claimed to have. Love your neighbour as you love yourself. Love is greatest of all of the commandments, and yet there had been no love in that sermon, no love in those words, and Steve had boiled with rage to hear them, but he'd stayed to hear them all. He had to. If there was medicine to be found in this building, that would be it, but it felt more like torture. There was no healing to be had here, only flagellation for something Steve thinks he can't control.

When he leaves the church, a part of Steve is hoping to see Phil standing by the truck, but he's not there, and Steve hopes he's gone home. He pulls his cell out of his pocket and stares at it. He's no idea how to send one of those messages, but he somehow manages to get one out, a simple did you go home? Phil doesn't reply, and Steve finds himself driving back to the Ranch slowly, checking the side of the road, hoping to find Phil there, but he's not, so Steve pins his hopes on Phil being at home, because the other options are too terrible to consider.

"Why?" When Steve gets out of the truck, Phil's standing behind him, deathly pale, and shaking slightly. "Why the fuck did you do that to me? I thought you were okay with me? I thought we were okay?" His voice is soft like a whisper in the wind, and Steve stares at him, watches thins lines of tears trickle down his cheeks. "You think I'm sick too, don't you?" Steve grabs him and holds him tightly. His hands moving over Phil's back.

"No. No." He murmurs against Phil's hair, holding him close, swaying gently. Phil doesn't say anything, just stands still in the loop of Steve's arms, not protesting the embrace, not accepting it, just standing there rigidly. "You're not sick, Punkster." Steve presses a kiss to the top of Phil's head. "You're exactly the way you should be, you're perfect the way you are." Steve doesn't add that he's sick, doesn't think Phil needs to hear that. He doesn't need to know that Steve's been lusting after him.

"Then why?" Phil's voice is tiny, and Steve squeezes him tightly. "You want them to make me bet-"

"No!" Steve holds Phil out at arm's length, and stares at him. "No. You don't need to be made better. You listen to me, and you listen good. You are perfect the way you are. You're not sick; you don't need to be made better. Me... I'm sick-"

"What?" Phil looks stricken, and Steve stares at him blankly. "You're sick? You can't be, you're not dying, I won't let you. Fuck, Steve... I can't lose you." Phil's trembling, and Steve shakes his head, pulling Phil closer once more. "How long? How long have you been sick? Is it serious? Steve... Answer me."

"Not sick like that... I... Punkster." Steve sighs, and kisses the top of Phil's head. "I'm not going anywhere. It's a different kind of sickness... It's something that no one can help me with... It's-"

"It's what?" Phil pulls away, and levels Steve with a sharp glare. "You don't get to scare me, and then not give me any explanations. Tell me what's wrong."

"You wouldn't-"

"Don't you dare tell me I wouldn't understand, Steve Austin, don't you fucking dare." Phil hisses, and Steve's struck by how much like his wife Phil is in that moment. He can almost hear him laughing, and calling him a stupid rattlesnake.

"You..." Steve laughs suddenly, and Phil stares at him in confusion, mouthing me. "Yes, you... It's not your fault; don't start thinking that, Punkster... It's me... But it's you." Steve catches a hold of Phil's shoulders so he can't run, because he looked like he was considering flight rather than fight. "You remind me of her in the best ways..." Steve sighs, and a small, shy smile creeps over Phil's lips.

"Your wife?" He whispers, and Steve nods, his hand coming to rest on Phil's cheek. "I'm not your wife, Steve." Phil's smile takes a sad little turn, and Steve kisses his forehead.

"No... You're not." He agrees, and Phil nods slightly in agreement. "She was a woman, she wasn't a good twenty years my junior, she wasn't a high school student. I wasn't her guardian..." Phil steps closer to Steve, his head tucked under Steve's chin.

"It's okay to miss her... It's okay that I remind you of her... It's okay to mourn, Steve." Phil says softly, and for the first time in so close to two years, Steve lets himself break down and truly mourn the woman he'd loved.

Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:

Lucien Raven Jacobs, plebs, AshJoivillette, littleone1389, Brokenspell77, Shiki94, and Rebellecherry.

April down... I am going to try and get this finished as quickly as possible. I'm looking to finish up both of my on-going fics by the end of the month.

Please review - it means a lot more than you realise.