The Agency

When he walked into the file room and saw what Sara was doing, she immediately closed the window on her computer screen and blushed deeply.

"Mine?" he asked with a slight smile.

She bit her lip, then nodded.

"I'm not going to ask how you got access to the Personnel files." He went to the A-B cabinet, quickly retrieved the folder he'd come after. "As far as I know, you're here after hours catching up because we had such a busy day."

"I'm sorry," she began, her lush, full lower lip almost trembling. "I didn't mean to pry, I just…" She gestured helplessly at the computer. "I can't believe anyone would…I mean…"

For all her wit and sarcasm, she was a genuinely kind person, and he couldn't be angry at her--besides, with the complete known records of every Agent at her fingertips, who could blame her for wanting to know more about the strange creatures and unusual people that surrounded her?

"All I'll say is that if you keep looking in there you're going to learn a lot of things you'll regret knowing, and not just about me. We all have our ghosts."

"I just never expected…" Her expression turned angry. "You're the most amazing person I've ever met, Rowan. The thought that anyone could…do those things…to you…I can't believe it."

He managed to smile at her again. "Think about this place a moment. Think about the sort of person who would choose to live here, to work here, to have so little contact with the outside world, except as an outsider themselves. That sort of person has very little to lose."

She shook her head, and her eyes were shining, their smoky hazel full of tears of compassion. Yes, her empathic gift was getting stronger, working with him; he made a mental note to start incorporating more exercises for it in their next session. Ness wanted her telepathy trained first so she could learn to use the Ears, and Sara wanted to learn more uses for her psychometry, but it was the empathy that was going to get her into trouble. Sara didn't know everything the Agency had in store for her, but Rowan knew quite well. It had, after all, been his idea.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, lowering her eyes. She had such long lashes, dark and thick like her hair, and her eyes were large and almost innocent-looking. Here, in the archive off the clock, her tailored jacket was slung over the chair, and she had on a low-cut pullover the color of a ripe raspberry. Her breasts, as full as her lower lip, pressed round and creamy against the fabric. Rowan closed his eyes--not now.

"Is this why you're celibate?" she asked, and the echo of where his thoughts were headed was too close for comfort.

"Yes," he replied. "It's also why I can't shield properly. The…I was forced to use my skills, and when I tried to block them, the implant--you saw the scar in the photographs--released a neurotoxin into my blood as a punishment. Over time the nerve damage became permanent."

She was trying even harder not to cry. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." He turned to leave, adding, "I trust you not to share anything you see in those files. They're a matter of official record and national security, as well as being deeply personal."

Sara took a deep breath. "I'm done. I don't want to know any more."

Rowan smiled, this time with actual humor. "Oh, I don't know--you might have a look at Beck's first. Hers is pretty entertaining."

He left the archive, and was halfway down the hall before he remembered the file in his hand--he could barely even feel himself gripping it, and his fingers were white with strain. So now, besides Dr. Nava and selected members of the medical staff, there were two people at the Agency who knew: Ness, who was aware of every Agent's history, and Sara, who already wished her curiosity hadn't gotten the better of her.

He knew why she'd done it, obviously: Jason. She was a bit smitten with the vampire, even knowing he would never reciprocate. Jason was like that, though. The looks, the immortal allure, the attitude--irresistible. People either hated him, lusted after him, or were simply fascinated. Rowan understood that better than most. Beck, even with her 180 degree divergence in personality, commanded attention the same way.

Beck was different, though. She was straightforward in what she wanted. She never took "no" for an answer, not that anyone ever said "no." She liked it rough, liked being shoved back against the wall, mouth and thighs pried open, tight leather skirt pushed up over her hips. Her nails dug in, leaving half-moons of blood in his shoulders, as she sucked hard on his tongue, the kitten-claw prick of her teeth a reminder that she was always in control. Her clever hands had his zipper down between one heartbeat and the next, and her smile was wicked, even feral. Her muscles clamped around him, legs latching on, and she lowered herself, grinning wickedly, taking one inch at a time. He could feel her thighs engaging as she raised herself, then lowered, teasing, every muscle in her body taut, worked to perfection from hours and hours of fighting and fucking. Her luminous blue eyes, so like her brother's, locked on his, and there was darkness in them, the insatiable need of the hunter. Quick as a snake, her head darted forward, and pain shot through his neck as the blood flowed…

Rowan sagged back against the hallway wall, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it. Damn it. He was more tired than he'd thought, if it was starting already. Thankfully it was night, the offices closed; he could avoid people, avoid losing control.

Right on cue, the pain flared up, and he bit back a whimper; he needed to get back to his quarters. His pills were there, and if this got worse, he would need them.

Blame it on Sara, he thought with an inward smile, imagining what she would think every time she saw him now. She had suffered under the popular notion that Elves were pure beings of white light, sitting on mushrooms and teaching squirrels to talk. Despite her attraction to him--yes, he was aware of that too, he couldn't help but be--she still expected him to be some sort of saint. He was a healer, yes, but not the kind she had expected. The word in his tongue, rethla, had no English equivalent--the closest words were all used as insults, almost always against women by a society that feared and hated the feminine.

Once, humans had treated their sexuality differently. They too had had sacred prostitutes, those who healed through the sexual arts, channeling divine power through their bodies. There were still vestiges of those arts in the East, bastardized by long-haired Westerners with bad hygiene and worse boundaries, but in this world, there was no way to describe what he was, no way for a human to fully understand.

What he was, past tense. No more. It was just as well there was no place for him here as rethla--he, once the most sought-after of his entire Clan, was little more than a shadow of the priest he had been. The slave traders had broken him, the mortals who had bought him had shattered him. His abilities had been twisted into a perversion of the beauty and grace they once were. As far as anyone here knew, he was an Elf, nothing more.

Only the medical staff, who had kept him alive those first weeks after the Agency had raided the brothel and found him chained, filthy and starving and unable to control his power, knew better. He'd been kept isolated until strong enough to block off the energy, after a nurse had come to check his vitals and ended up climbing over the machines and fucking him in his sleep, the act nearly killing him. She had disappeared, and he hadn't asked after her. He'd been too busy trying not to throw down and rape every orderly who entered the room.

That had been twelve years ago. Now, the power itself was at bay, and he refused all but the most casual of touches--a hand here and there, but no hugs, and certainly nothing more. He could stop it from leaking out, unless he was exhausted or injured, but he couldn't stop from absorbing knowledge about others, from knowing intuitively just how to touch them, just where to apply pressure with his teeth, to have them dissolve into an orgasmic puddle at his feet. It wasn't arrogance. It was what he was born for.

Male, female, old, young, human, otherwise, it didn't matter. He had never actually had sex with Beck, never even kissed her, but he knew what she would want, and if she were to demand it, to fasten her heart-shaped mouth to his, he would have no choice.

There had been a choice once, before the humans destroyed his home and took him and the two other rethla of the Clan as slaves. He had been a legend among his kind. No one here knew that, either.

He had told Sara they all had ghosts. He hadn't told her he was a ghost. His true identity had been brutally murdered, slowly, by dozens of humans, for years. Each human who shuddered to a climax that his power amplified against his will, each pair of meaty hands clenching his hips, each thick, graceless human cock forced into his body, had killed him a little more, and a little more, until there was nothing left but Rowan, a tree growing alone in the pale light of morning, an Elf who had forgotten his own name.

Yet, perhaps as a testament to the depth and beauty of what had been killed, he still felt it stirring, still wanted. He pushed himself off the wall and made his way to his quarters, forgetting about the file and his intention of researching the Dulaney case. Once in, and the door locked, he was safe, and everyone else was safe; he didn't have to fight it so hard.

Sara's lip intruded on his whirling thoughts again, and he considered: she was human, and a traditionalist when it came to sex. To truly bring her out would take hours of foreplay--slow, easy caresses along her skin, preferably by the light of her altar candles. She was body-shy, being rounder and softer than the idiotic American ideal of beauty, but he'd always liked the feel of human women who were made like her--Elven women were as slender as the men, without much in the way of breast and belly. Sara had both, and that lovely porcelain skin, set off even more by her dark brown hair.

Kisses, first. She would taste like a baked peach with cinnamon and brown sugar. She would not be shy with her mouth, not while her clothes were still on. She would slide a hand around the back of his neck, and he would shift her onto his lap, arms moving around her. She would need to feel safe, not because of a traumatic past, but because she did not value herself very highly. Feeling secure she would be able to accept what he would whisper to her, the way her body responded as his hands moved up under her shirt, palms encircling the line of her generous breasts beneath their restraint of lace and elastic.

He closed his eyes, smiling, and in his mind lifted the shirt over her head, leaning in to taste the exposed skin. She would enjoy being devoured, one mouthful at a time, and his mouth had always been prized by his partners--while his hands finished undressing her, he would trace spirals on her belly with his tongue, dipping into her navel where she was just ticklish enough that a shudder would run through her. She would need contact, body to body, at least the first time; no athletics, just the sweetness of skin over skin, her legs wrapping around his waist, the two of them moving in perfect concert, one long undulation so slow it would leave her sobbing into his chest.

No, she wasn't at all like Beck. By the time he got Sara's body bare to the candlelight, Beck would have come twice and fallen asleep straddling him, or possibly have brought out the handcuffs. Beck's breasts were smaller, more muscle than softness, but there was still something deeply feminine about her, tattoos and piercings and all. He followed the lines of her tattoo with his mouth, pushing her onto her back--it was a game she enjoyed, playing with control. He pinned her shoulders with one arm and slipped his other hand down between her legs, all but shoving his fingers inside her, but her cry of pain was deceptive--she was already wet, hips thrusting up against his hand, eager. She was a biter, of course, but he bit back, hard. A low growl built in her throat.

She tried to force her way back on top of him, but he was stronger than he looked, and held her down a moment longer, cruelly teasing her in slick circles while she strained and moaned and snarled. Her eyes lost their color and went silver--the feed was on her, as he'd heard her put it. He saw her teeth lengthen and sharpen about halfway, and though at this point she could have subdued him easily, she stayed where she was.

"Smart girl," he hissed into her ear, then shifted down the length of her body, seizing her thighs and replacing his fingers with his tongue.

Her cries were beautiful, almost bestial, as he flicked his tongue against her clit. Her hands wound in his hair and held him there, as if he had any interest in resisting. She would put off her orgasm as long as possible, to make him work for it, and he would allow it, allow her to think she was the one who knew. Meanwhile he would reach into her mind, his power sliding inside her the way his fingers did, stroking the energy centers of her body, driving her pleasure to a fever pitch. She wasn't just a biter, she was a screamer, but few men ever got to hear it--she was so wrapped up in the idea of controlling events that she almost never let herself dissolve into her own skin.

She would scream for him. She would scream herself hoarse, and when he was done with her--when he had fucked her so hard her pelvis felt like it was cracked, and when he had sculpted her into positions no human body could attain without mechanical assistance, he would finally come, sweat gluing them together as he tore into her shoulder with his teeth, leaving a mark she would touch again and again for days with one hand while her other hand snaked beneath her gun belt.

Rowan sighed, thankful it wasn't daylight like it had been the last time he'd had this much difficulty with his impulses. Last time, he'd been in the R&D lab when it started, and had caught himself staring at poor Frog, who was working with him on the technological wonder that they hoped would one day allow Rowan to leave the base and be of use in the field.

Frog was straight, of course, and like most geeks painfully under-laid, but that was of little consequence to a rethla; it would take mere moments, perhaps even a single kiss, to overwhelm the boy's usual preferences and have his pants around his ankles.

He couldn't help it; the thought made him laugh now, but at the time it had been alarming, especially for Frog, who saw the look in Rowan's eyes and went pale.

"Rowan? Um…Agent 5, are you all right?" The boy blushed--damn it, Rowan hated it when humans blushed, it was about the most attractive thing their species could do--under the intensity of the Elf's gaze. Grinning awkwardly, Frog groped at his own cheeks and forehead. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Do you want to?" Rowan asked softly, looking around the room…then he blinked, appalled at what he was doing. He was evaluating the height of the lab tables and desks for the appropriate place to bend the boy over and fuck him. Straight human males often loved being penetrated; it was a hallmark of the breed. They would insist otherwise, out of abject terror of being branded unmanly, but he would have them begging, offering, bargaining away anything he would take, if he would take them. Frog wouldn't take much convincing; he was young, and funny-looking in the eyes of women, and didn't get out much. One slow, hard stroke of the palm, delivered to the outside of his jeans, one hand curved around his…

Damn it.

"Excuse me, Frog," Rowan said, standing up and nearly bolting from the room.

The good thing, or perhaps the sad thing, about it was that Rowan's own body would show no obvious signs of arousal until he permitted it to. He had learned in his first month of training as a rethla how to control himself, and even after everything he had endured, he still had that control. It was easy, really; he marveled at how difficult a time human men seemed to have with their penises. So, at the very least, he didn't have to contend with a massive erection terrifying Frog, just a certain look, a certain change in his energy that, to another Elf, would be unmistakable. Then afterward came the pain--fighting his sexual impulses, and the need to give himself to another, triggered the nerve damage that had yet to heal. He had spent that night stoned out of his mind on painkillers; an Elf of his power relying on oxycontin was just embarrassing, but he had no choice.

The next day they'd gone back to work and not mentioned it again, but still sometimes he knew Frog was watching him warily. Luckily it was well known among long-time staff that Rowan was celibate, and his behavior and aura would never give anyone reason to think otherwise…most of the time. In the last few years he had noticed a marked increase in his…episodes. He knew why, and that knowledge terrified him.

Jason.

Why, oh why, did a beautiful gay vampire have to join the same Agency branch as Rowan had? Each state plus D.C. had its own branch, and with a reputation like SA-7's he could have had his pick. But everyone knew about Austin: it wasn't the biggest or the busiest, but it was the best. The minute the Adams twins walked through the doors, that reputation was locked. No one, human or otherwise, could compare to either of them in the field. They could out-shoot, out-fight, out-track, out-intimidate, and out-command every Agent in the United States, and even the director of the FBI had gotten up and let Jason have his seat once in a crowded conference room.

One simply did not fuck with SA-7 or SA-8. That was part of the reason Texas was so quiet in terms of illegal occult activity. People who wanted to cause trouble usually went to Louisiana instead.

And while Rowan's psychic gifts allowed him to know how he would serve Beck, she wasn't the one he lay awake craving. She wasn't the one he had actually fantasized about--he, whose entire purpose was to give pleasure to others, and who hadn't been genuinely attracted to any one individual since he was still with his Clan. It wasn't the way of the rethla to bond with any one person, or even to want any one person at the exclusion of any others; they saw the beauty and desirability of everyone, even geeks like Frog. His charge was to lie with those who needed him, and his own needs…well, it was assumed that rethla had no needs, that their own pleasure was fulfilled entirely through the ecstasy of those they served.

Apparently not.

But, he reminded himself, he was no longer truly a rethla. He had been broken--if he had still been with his Clan, another of his own kind would have been assigned to him, and through magic and the holiness of lovemaking they would have worked together to restore the sanctity of his body and his power. The humans who had rescued him had no such ability. They could heal his body, offer him counseling, but even if they had understood what he was, that level of magic was almost unheard-of among humans. Sara was probably the closest to his peer, and even if she were fully trained she was still a single drop of water compared to his sea. There was much she could do, but she could not heal him.

No one could.

He curled up on the sofa, wishing he could think about something else, but there was no help for it. Sex preoccupied most males regardless of species, but for him, it was far worse; until a dozen years ago, sex had been his entire life. In the end he still couldn't decide whether it was worse to be forced to use his gifts under torture, or too scared and scarred to use them at all.

He could no more stop himself from mentally filing away the erotic subtleties of everyone he met than Beck could stop drinking blood. He knew that Ness, the tough-as-nails head of the entire Texas branch, liked having her toes sucked, and also had a thing for dessert toppings. He knew that for vampires the neck was the primary erogenous zone. He knew that SA-19, a gigantic African-American man who chain smoked and played professional football until being recruited for the Agency, gave fantastic head. He knew that SA-21 was a virgin. He knew that Jill, one of the Admins, had masturbated with a cucumber she then sliced up into the salad she brought to the Christmas party last year.

Only Jason remained an enigma to him. That, perhaps, was why Rowan wanted him so badly.

Vampires had unparalleled shielding ability, and while Beck seemed to wear everything on her sleeve--or rather, in her ammo belt--she was actually an expert at psychic protections and barriers, just as her brother was. The difference was that she chose to let people see more of her. She laughed, she joked, she made inappropriate comments about people's asses, she brought Rowan fruit every night from the organic market near her patrol route. She had told him once that her twin was the reason she had learned to give of herself. She didn't want to end up lonely and, in her words, "all mopey goth" like her brother.

Jason had never seemed mopey or particularly goth to Rowan, but he was definitely a closed book. Rowan knew he had been hurt by love, long ago, and that the story was somehow bound up in his becoming a vampire. He could easily have passed as asexual, like Rowan, but he made no secret of the fact that he was gay, even though no one had ever actually seen him express any interest in a man. Some speculated that he was actually straight but wanted to keep the legions of women who flirted with him at a distance.

Not true. Shielded or not, to Rowan, it was as easily visible as his cobalt blue eyes. He had in fact seen it the first moment Jason had walked into the Agency, mere weeks after Rowan had finally left the infirmary and was working on his first case.

He remembered it quite well. It was late evening, just after sunset, and Ness had called an Agent meeting--Rowan had only just been given a number, and chances were he would never go into the field, but he'd felt almost as proud of his badge as he had long ago, the day of his initiation as a rethla. He sat at the long conference table surrounded by the ten other Agents, right next to SA-4, who would die two days later on assignment.

"I heard we're getting two new Agents," she had said to him quietly as they waited for Ness. "A couple of badasses from somewhere up North."

"Humans?" he asked.

"No. Vampires. A brother and a sister."

Rowan was about to say something about how odd that was, two vampires in the same family, but just then the Director of Agency Operations arrived…and she wasn't alone.

Ness was a formidable woman, toe-sucking aside, and it took a lot to make her look small and insignificant. As eyes widened all around the room, Rowan watched Ness take her chair--she seemed almost nervous, and it was easy to see why.

The two Agents strode in side by side, in the standard SA uniform but with the addition of long black coats--hers shiny patent leather stopping just at her knees, his wool and nearly touching the floor. No one was permitted to bear arms inside the base except in the training rooms and locker room, but the way they walked it was obvious they were both used to wearing weapons.

The woman was almost pixielike, the man topping her by a good five inches, but their facial features were simply two gendered versions of the exact same thing. Shining black hair, the woman's razor-cut down past her chin and streaked with violent purple; eyes of blue fire, typical among vampires; flawless ivory skin.

They even walked with the same swagger, but there the similarity ended. The woman's expression was unsmiling but there was humor in her eyes, as if she was perfectly aware of how intimidated everyone in the room was by her presence. Rowan could see some sort of tattoo wrapping around the back of her neck, and her eyebrow and nose were both pierced. The other was all business, unimpressed by his surroundings, though Rowan knew he had taken in every detail of the room the second they entered, his glowing eyes sweeping over them all…but lingering, Rowan noticed, on the men.

Aha.

Rowan tried not to stare, but he felt that gaze move over him, and lifted his eyes just in time to lock with the vampire's.

Amazing, how quickly it happened. In that split-second of eyes meeting, Rowan felt the entire world fall out from under him, and his life spun off axis, forever.

"Good evening everyone," he heard Ness say distantly. "As you can see we have two new Agents on the team. Meet SA-7 and SA-8, Jason and Beck Adams. They are both transfers from Washington. I hope you'll all do your best to make them feel welcome here in Austin."

She gestured, and the two swept forward to take their seats, conveniently where Rowan could observe them both without being noticed if he chose.

He tried to pay attention to the briefing, he really did, but he kept stealing glances, and to his shock found that he couldn't stop. It had only been a few months since his rescue, and keeping his powers contained was already hard enough, but he found himself nearly losing it halfway through the meeting--sweat broke out on his forehead, and his head pounded as he held back the tendrils of energy that reached toward the vampire, seeking to wrap themselves around him and learn all they could about his body, his tastes, his needs.

Thankfully, he had met a brick wall. The surprise at being unable to read Jason had jolted him back to the present and kept him from getting himself fired.

Now, a decade later, every time he was near Jason he had that same feeling of breathlessness and pain. They had a strange relationship; though it never seemed that the vampire sought him out deliberately, they had a tendency to wind up alone together, talking, and Rowan was fairly sure he knew more about Jason than anyone but Beck. He wished he could attribute the attention to attraction, but the fact was, Rowan's kind always invited confidence; it was part of what they were. His calling was equal parts courtesan, healer, and confessor. People shared their secrets with him, even now, even Jason. They rarely discussed the past, but occasionally Jason would let things slip, and more than once Rowan had wanted desperately to simply blurt out his whole story, confess his feelings, and essentially beg for even an hour spent alongside that perfect body without guns and a coat and horrific memories between them.

He thought of Jason's hands…efficient, capable…changing out the clip on one of his myriad weapons…watching the vampire arm himself before a night out in town was one of Rowan's favorite ways to torture himself. Jason knew the intricacies of at least fifty kinds of firearms, including those designed to kill his own kind. He could throw knives with supernatural accuracy and had about a half-dozen black belts to his name. He had spent years in Asia learning how to beat the shit out of people. Those hands, strong and long-fingered, could wrap around a sword's hilt or choke the breath out of a mortal or squeeze the trigger of a semiautomatic, but there was something else Rowan knew they could do…they made music.

Rowan was one of the few who had ever been in SA-7's quarters, and seen the violin.

He was waiting for Jason to change clothes so they could go to dinner after their shift, and wandered around the apartment taking in all the things that made the vampire such a lovely tangle of paradoxes. A vast collection of CDs, books from floor to ceiling, ranging through every taste and genre; art from travels all over the world, disparate cultures that somehow worked together without pretension or any real plan; luxurious textiles; and then, the real surprise.

The violin sat on a stand in the corner where, in most quarters, the TV was located. There was sheet music in an untidy pile beneath it.

Rowan had walked over and held his hand out over the instrument, letting his empathy seek out anything it had to say; he wasn't a contact clairvoyant like Sara, but if the emotional impressions in an object were strong he could pick them up. This instrument, its slender body and its dark wood, had been a part of Jason for a long time. It had taken his sorrow, his rage, his confusion, and turned them into beauty.

He stood there hand extended, rocking slightly back and forth, imagining Jason's hands caressing the wood, drawing the bow back and forth, the room's dim light casting shadows that moved over the dragon on his arm. He'd gotten the tattoo in Japan, and it had taken every scrap of Rowan's will not to lean over and run his tongue along the outline…more than once. God, those hands…how it must feel to be that violin, fingertips brushing over the strings, pressing down, drawing out melody like a lover's cries. It had been so long since Rowan had been touched that way, and if he wanted to…if he only could…it would be so easy…

"What are you doing?"

He had looked up, guilty, ears turning pink. "I'm sorry. Do you…I didn't know you played."

Jason eyed him, the openness they usually shared shutting down, something hard and unyielding replacing it. "Not for other people. Let's go eat, Rowan."

Rowan nodded, acutely embarrassed and angry at himself for violating the vampire's privacy--all immortals guarded their secrets well, and he was already more in Jason's confidence than anyone save Beck. He couldn't stand to lose even that much. Their friendship, such as it was, was the closest he could come to what he truly wanted, and to break Jason's trust would break his own heart.

He never went anywhere near the violin again, and in fact he noticed that the next time he stopped by, it was nowhere in sight.

Still, Jason's hands occupied his fantasies for weeks. He dreamed of nibbling up the palm of one hand, tracing Jason's long life line with the barest touch of his lips, biting the mound of flesh at the base of each finger. Hands, and wrists…and what those hands could do to Rowan…drawing up along his sides, peeling off clothes as if he were opening the violin's case, unwrapping wood and string, his dragon-guarded treasure…and god, that mouth, that stern line softening, lips parting, Rowan's hands sliding up around his neck, weaving into his short dark hair, one mouth seeking the other with centuries of hunger.

What would a vampire taste like? Oh, he knew…darkness…wine…chocolate…wind through bare-limbed trees…it was against all the prejudices of Rowan's people, but he craved a taste of Jason's blood, to see if the legends were true. A drop of salt-sweetness on his tongue, and they would be connected, mind joining into mind until they consumed each other as one flesh.

He wanted to tear the fatigues off of Jason's body, right after he was done with patrol and still sweaty from walking all over Austin. To lick the sweat from his skin, starting at the throat, knowing it would drive the vampire mad with need. He wanted to dive tongue-first into Jason's mouth and not emerge until he was reborn. To lay beneath him on the floor, nails tearing into the rug, pressing his hips back to draw the vampire in deeper, deeper, that perfect hard cock finally filling all the empty places that had ached so badly, for so long.

And he wanted to wake up there on the floor, with Jason still inside him, their arms twined around each other, the candles burning themselves out. He wanted to feel Jason breathe on the back of his neck, to hear him whisper…

No. No. It couldn't happen. He had to accept that. Jason might even want him someday, maybe, but it wasn't worth the risk, not knowing what could happen if he let loose the energies he'd been controlling with an iron grip for over a decade. He might have lost all his skill, he might hurt Jason--or worse, the most humiliating thought of all for a rethla, he might be bad in bed.

He might as well just kill himself if that were the case.

Pain coursed through him, and he turned his face into the pillow to stifle the moan. It was going to be a bad night, a very bad night.

He would never be sure if it was good luck or bad, but just as he was about to reach for another pill to knock himself completely unconscious, there was a knock at his door.

Rowan debated answering it, but was on his feet, a bit unsteady but upright, before he could really stop himself. There were warm tones of concern in the hallway, and he knew who it was before he even opened the door.

"Hi," Sara said.

"Hello," he replied, and they stood staring at each other for a moment. She had obviously come with something to say, and forgotten it when she saw him.

For his part, he had to clench the doorframe to keep from seizing her sweet body right there in the hall.

"Is there something I can do for you, Sara?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even. He could only imagine what she was picking up from him right now, and at the very least the waves of sexual energy filling his apartment had to be hitting her pretty hard.

"I'm sorry for just dropping by like this, but I was worried about you," she said. "I wanted to check if you're okay."

"Oh…yes, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" she asked, clearly unconvinced. "You look like hell. Can I come in?"

"Um…all right." He was a bit dazed from the oxycontin, and from the energy that he had unintentionally raised in his living room as he lay there thinking things he should have locked away long ago. "Would you like a drink?"

Sara looked around with interest, and if she felt the sex permeating every fiber of every object in the room, she didn't comment. "Sure, what do you have?"

"Tequila?"

She looked at him, raising her eyebrows. "You drink alcohol?"

He sighed. "Of course not. Elves only drink enchanted spring water and we only eat acorns."

Sara grinned. "Sorry. Sure, I'd love a shot or two. It's Friday, and it's been a hell of a week."

"It certainly has."

She sat down on the couch while he gathered up the necessary supplies: shot glasses, limes, salt, and a mostly-full bottle of Cuervo. Might as well do it right.

When he returned she was staring at the prescription bottle on the coffee table, and looked up guiltily.

"I'm just the nosiest person in the history of ever," she sighed. "I don't know why I do that. I guess I just…when I care about people I want to fix whatever hurts them, and it really bothers me when I can't. Finding out where you came from was just…awful. And after we've been working together so closely for the last couple of weeks, I think I'm more sensitive to you than I should be."

He smiled, lining up the ingredients and filling two shot glasses. "I told you the empathy was going to be the bane of your existence. You and I need that sensitivity to accomplish what we need to accomplish together, and it's been working very well in my opinion. Whoever was your first teacher, even if it was one of those horrible coven people, should be congratulated."

She didn't reply until they'd had their first shot and she was sucking on a lime wedge. Rowan had never expected to feel envious of a citrus fruit. "No," she said, plucking the lime from her mouth. "It wasn't them. Before I started looking for a coven I took classes from a woman who ran a different store in town. One of those feminist bookstores. I bought every book, did every meditation…a lot of it was crap, but I found enough that made sense that I was hooked."

"So are you a Wiccan, or some other flavor of NeoPagan?" he asked, setting up two more shots, then four more behind those.

"Wiccan, mostly, with a little bit of Sufism, Hinduism, and Buddhism thrown in for spice. I've always done my own thing." She knocked back another shot, this time without salt or lime, making a face. "What about Elves? What kind of religion do you have?"

Rowan pointed vaguely at the shrine on the far wall. "Duotheistic. We worship a celestial Goddess and a God of the Earth. It's actually very similar in flavor to Wicca, just a bit more organic and less ceremonial. Given the way our energies mesh together I would imagine our religious beliefs would, too."

"I think you're right," she said with a nod, only slightly fuzzy. "And so your village got attacked and turned into slaves?"

He was just drunk enough, between the tequila and the drugs, not to feel any real pain at the question. "Sort of. They killed off most everyone and sold those with particular skills."

"What skills?"

Was now the time? Was Sara someone he could speak openly with? He wanted so badly to trust her. Or was he simply tired of living like a ticking time bomb full of secrets?

Or was he just drunk?

Only one way to find out.

"Among my people I am, or was, known as a rethla," he said, almost too softly for her to hear. "Rethla are a special kind of healer--we work magic through sex."

"Oh, like in the Temples of Aphrodite, back in the day?"

"Yes, very much so. It's one of the highest callings among the Clans. When we were attacked, the rethla were taken to be sold as slaves in the sex trade. I spent twenty years being bartered from one bordello to another, chained to one bed and then to another. I was a birthday gift once, party entertainment many times, and mostly…mostly just a whore."

"Oh my god," Sara whispered, and now she really was crying. He continued to speak, almost pushing the words out like children from a burning building.

"You see, our powers work whether we consent to the sex or not. When we're willingly engaged with a lover it's amplified, of course, beyond measure, but even chained naked to a wall and gang-raped by soldiers, those soldiers will have the best sex of their lives. They keep coming back over and over until your body simply gives out. My entire family--my parents, my grandparents, even my daughter--were all put to the fire that day. I never saw any of them again after I was thrown in the truck...but I could smell the bodies burning. I never know whether to wish them survival or simply a quick death."

"You had a daughter?"

He had to take another shot before he found the strength to reply.

"Her name was Kaeli. After I came to the SA I sent out contacts to try and find her, or anyone of the Clan still alive. There was nothing to find. They're either dead or in hiding."

Sara sat down her shot glass with a thunk and scooched across the couch to put her arms around him in a slightly sloppy hug. "I'm sorry, Rowan, I'm so sorry. What can I do to help you?"

He leaned into her shoulder, staring down at her small, agile hands. What could hands like hers do, he wondered? He knew hands that made music and hands that could kill. Once upon a time his hands had healed. What about Sara's hands?

He took one of them in his and lifted it to his lips, feeling the warmth of her perfectly human, perfectly mortal skin. Temporary…they were only temporary. The urgency of human life was so beautiful, and so horrible, the way it drove them on and on.

A different kind of urgency, one he had never felt before, closed over Rowan, and he leaned in and touched his mouth to hers.

Surprised, she started to pull back, but thought better of it and came back to him, this time ready. The kiss began tentatively, but grew from there into the dark Earth of parted lips and hot breath; Sara started to break apart and say something, more than once, but found she couldn't. Mouth danced over mouth, tongue tasting the soft edges of her lips, moving down to nuzzle behind her ear. A light nip against her throat, and she moaned softly, her hands moving up his arms, curving around his shoulders.

He slid his hands under her thighs to lift her into his lap…and stopped.

"I can't do this," he said, shaking his head.

She was dazed, her pupils dilated and her breath shallow. "Why…why not?"

He leaned his head on her shoulder, feeling the weight of his years, all 420 of them, dragging him down even further into despair. "About a dozen reasons."

Sara rested her hand on his neck, stroking gently, the touch more comforting than any he'd felt in years…in fact it was the only real comfort he'd had in years. "Is Jason one of them?"

He would have looked up at her in surprise, if he had been surprised. As it was, he simply felt weary and old, and so tired of denying himself, he merely sighed. "Only one," he answered honestly. "Another being that Elves aren't monogamous, and I would hate to risk hurting you. Also, it's been so long, I actually could hurt you."

He heard a smile in her voice. "You know, I'd be willing to chance it."

Now he did look up. "You would?"

"Of course. You've done a lot for me already--if it weren't for you I wouldn't even be here. If there's a way I can help you, I'll take the risk. Besides, I don't know if you've seen yourself lately, but you're just about the hottest thing walking around this base, and if you shag half as good as you kiss…" She shook her head. "I'm not looking for romance, here, and I know you're not either. You've got your heart planted in different soil entirely, and that's fine with me. Let me be your friend, Rowan. Let me help you find what you've lost."

He stared into her eyes, seeing nothing there but the truth, with no ulterior motive whatsoever. They were already linked enough that they knew each other's energy, and she knew most of his past yet wasn't treating him like a freak or an invalid. She wanted to help, and she wanted sex, and really, despite his fears, he couldn't see a problem with either.

"You are a remarkable woman, Sara Larson," he said. "You are going to change all our lives."

She grinned, stood, and offered her hand. "Yes, I am."

Returning her smile, he reached over and downed the last tequila shot, then took her hand and rose.

Agents' quarters were larger than those of the regular staff, but they had basically the same layout, so she led him to the bedroom without having to ask where it was. He was amazed that after four shots of tequila in the space of ten minutes she wasn't having any trouble walking--he had an Elf's super-efficient liver, or he might have been facedown on the rug already himself.

"Candles?" Sara asked.

He nodded, inwardly marking off an item on the list of things he had sensed about her. He took the box of matches from the bedside table and handed it to her, letting her decide how much light was enough, and soon the room, decorated in the greens and greys of the forest, was bathed in soft golden warmth. He had always loved his apartment; it was a haven, away from the press of so many minds and emotions and the chaos of case after case. This and the labyrinth were his favorite places in the world, so far from the darkness and cold he had borne for so long.

Sara came back to him, taking his hands again, and said, "This is the part where I make my mother proud."

He gave her a quizzical look and she chuckled. "No, not that. I mean, grown-up responsibility. Obviously you've had…a lot of experience, and so have I, for a human anyway. You've got almost four centuries on me. So…I'm guessing you probably don't have any condoms, what with the celibacy and all."

"No," he replied, "but as it happens, we don't need them. Elves and humans aren't genetically compatible--it's part of why we're dying out. We can mate all we want, but nothing, er, comes of it. We also can't carry your diseases, or vice versa."

She looked surprised, and he added, "If you'd like we can go break back into my Personnel file and you can see my medicals."

Another laugh, this one merry. "I think I'll just take your word for it. I trust you."

"Plus in about five minutes, you'll know if I'm lying."

"Huh?"

"You'll see." He slid his hands up her arms, drawing her closer, and kissed her again, this time with much more surety. She leaned into him, and as he reached up beneath her shirt to feel the smooth softness of her skin, he touched her mind, the same way he did every day at their sessions but with much more obvious intention. She responded as she did every day, lowering her barriers to let him in; instead of taking control of her psychic abilities and implanting knowledge, however, he extended a tendril of energy down through her body, wrapping it around her, caressing her lightly from the inside.

She groaned into his mouth, her kisses becoming more demanding, and he felt her pushing back with her own energy, both to his surprise and delight. He hadn't expected any sort of aggression from her; his skills were definitely eroding, then. That thought might have filled him with panic, even an hour ago. Right now it didn't seem so important.

Sara guided him back onto the bed, and stepped away, letting him watch as she pulled her shirt off over her head, tossing her hair as she tossed the garment onto the floor. Next went her jeans, and she knelt in front of him in a black bra and a pair of panties with a silver moon-and-stars pattern all over them.

He bit his lip to keep from laughing, and she giggled rather girlishly. "Well I'd have worn something sexier if I'd had any idea I was going to show them to anyone," she told him, lifting her fingers to undo the buttons of his shirt. As she exposed his shoulders, she leaned in and kissed the skin, her lips warm, insistent.

Slowly, almost reverently, they undressed each other, his hands almost trembling on the hook behind her back, she making appreciative noises at the feel of his muscles. They wound up lying face to face on the bed, candlelight waltzing over the bare curve of her hip.

"Tell me what I can do for you," she whispered.

He smiled. "That's usually my line."

"Are you doing okay so far?"

He nodded, realizing it was true. This part was easy; nothing too deep, so far, everything unfolding in its own time. He hadn't fully engaged his powers, yet, but he knew he would have to…he wanted to…it was terrifying, but there was no other way without going back.

Sara touched his face. "I'm here," she said. "Trust me."

"All right…" He nudged her onto her back, moving up against her, hoping she wasn't put off by how hard his heart hammered. "Then let me serve you, my lady."

"You don't have to…"

"Yes, I do." He met her eyes. "It's why I exist."

He touched her mind again, letting her see some of what he had been once, just a glimpse of how joyful and loving his life had once been. He had devoted himself to his art, to those he served, and had been happy, at peace. Every day that he denied himself that, every day severed from his purpose, was a day he might as well have been dead.

She understood, and lay back onto the pillows, a blank canvas stretched out before a master's hands. He let her feel his appreciation for a moment before turning his attention back to her body and his mind back to her mind.

It took mere seconds, while he let his mouth travel over the rolling landscape of her belly, to sweep his senses through her and ascertain every tiny detail about her desires--most of his earlier impressions were correct, of course, but this was far more intimate, encompassing her history, her fears, even things she herself wasn't aware of. The whole of her sexual identity logged itself into him, becoming part of the endless evolution of his work. He learned from everyone he touched. Strange how effortless it was to fall back into the dance, skin and sweat and breath moving in and out, the perfect arch of her back pressing her hips into his, the taste of her thighs one he already knew, because he'd already been there, tongue flicking against her flesh, her nails clutching his sides rhythmically as they had a thousand times, and never.

He held her close, barely allowing any space between them even as she writhed and moaned beneath him. One of her hands twisted in the blankets, the other in his hair, and he fed more energy into her and moved so slowly in her body that every sensation was multiplied.

Twice…three times…four…orgasms rolled through her, thunder, waves crashing. She wasn't loud but her energy certainly was, and he dampened it lest the entire wing of the building be struck horny and cause mayhem throughout the Agency. The last time, she cried out, spasming around him before going completely limp from exhaustion, slick and spent, eyes unfocused, breathing in gasps.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Rowan collapsed beside her, his own breath still matching hers, and he deliberately slowed his, knowing she would unconsciously follow suit as long as the link between them was active.

Long minutes passed with only their breathing to relieve the silence, before Sara looked over at him, her eyes black in the dim light. Her mouth worked soundlessly--she had, by some miracle, lost her usual witty hold over the English language.

[Try this way,] he offered, using the telepathic channel they'd been working on that week.

She nodded weakly. [I don't…I don't know what to say.]

[I do. Thank you.]

[God, I should be thanking you. For the rest of my life. I thought you said you were rusty?]

He gave her a sleepy smile. [I suppose all I needed was proper lubrication.]

She laughed out loud, the sound bright and happy, warming him. [But…you didn't…]

[I didn't need to. Rethla are different, Sara. We live for the pleasure of our partners. If I get off that means essentially that the evening is over with.]

Her eyebrows shot up. [And it isn't?]

[I would never assume without asking first.]

[Aren't you exhausted?]

[Give me a few minutes to rest, and I can give you more.]

Sara smiled, but shook her head. [I think you've shagged me senseless for the night, darling. It's been a long time for me, too--my thighs are actually quivering. And I think you need the rest, to see how you feel after this.]

She was being far more sensible than he would have been; but then, despite his age and their difference in race, she was still a woman, and women tended to be more sensible across the board. He acquiesced to her wishes readily, and they curled up together under the sheets, both sticky and damp but unwilling to break apart just yet while it still felt so wonderful, and so peaceful, just to be together. He hadn't slept with anyone beside him in many years, and yet he felt himself wandering down the shadowed corridor of oblivion, releasing his hold on wakefulness as soon as he was sure that his partner was asleep first.

It was there, in the dark, that the nightmares found him.

*****

Chains. The sound of chains rattling. Water dripping from the wall. The sounds were almost the worst part--footsteps meant they were coming, the rattle of a key meant they were here. Guttural voices beyond the cell door were the worst, the worst. He knew those men.

"Get him up."

Bright light across his face, and someone dragged him to his feet. He hadn't been fed in days and could barely stand, and once upright blood began to flow sluggishly from several of his wounds. He was filthy, emaciated. Only the magic, magic that was supposed to connect to bodies in love and healing, explained why they wanted him again and again, even disgusting and half dead.

"There's a party tonight. Clean him."

Fear, cold as iron, filled his empty belly. They dragged him forward, out of the cell, and he tried to walk but ended up mostly pulled along on his knees. He heard other captives mocking him, hooting and whistling at his naked body--many of them had fucked him too, as a reward if their masters were feeling charitable. He had been ridden by every dick in this place at least once.

They threw him into a windowless stone room and turned a blast hose on him. The water pressure was so high the water stung unbearably against his already-abraded skin, and he cried out in pain, trying to curl up into a ball in the corner. One of the guards kicked him until he was back on his feet, and they held his arms and legs apart and soaped him over, groping and playing with his body however they liked as they washed off the filth from the last time they'd had his company. Then they hosed him off again, and he slipped and fell onto his hands and knees, watching hypnotized as blood and semen and water and dirt washed down the drain, all evidence of the last few days gone to the sea.

One of the guards pushed him with a foot and he vomited into the drain, mostly dry heaves. Another shot with the hose, and they forced him back onto his feet again, but he wasn't strong enough to stand, and kept sinking back to the ground.

"Get UP!" the guard roared, reaching for the button at his belt, and through Rowan tried desperately to obey, his body was simply too worn out, and he fell again. The guard hit the button, and agony unlike any he'd known in his long life coursed through him from the device implanted in his wrist, every nerve in his body on fire, stung by a thousand wasps, screaming, screaming.

When he had finished his spasms they got him up again, and he stayed upright through sheer force of will as they draped a fresh robe over him, the easy-access garment of choice for Elf-fuckers all over the world. Another grabbed his head and raked a comb through his matted hair, pulling out knotted handfuls as he did, leaving Rowan's scalp raw and probably bleeding like the rest of him.

"All right, bring him."

Time flashed forward and he was on his knees again, this time his throat burning, back aching beyond endurance as another cock was forced into his mouth. How long had he been here, on this bed, with one man in front of him and another behind, both yelling out their enjoyment of the best fuck they'd ever had, pumping him full of their scalding hot hatred? Was this time the one where there were ten, or twenty? Or was this the one with the costumes, where he'd been dressed as a pig and raped by men in farmer's outfits? Rich owner, middle-class owner? Silk sheets or linen? The stains were always the same. The grunts of pleasure and the hard slaps to his face were always the same. Their come always tasted like old bread and rainwater.

Then one day, he simply said "No."

The latest owner, a madam in charge of a whorehouse of fifty, stared at him in disbelief. "What did you just say to me, bitch?"

His heart had shut down, and he had nothing more to give her, or anyone else. He had nothing left to lose. "I said no."

"You do not say yes or no to me, you little faggot. You just do what you're told, suck what's given you to suck, and make money for me. Because if you don't, I hit this button, and everyone gets to hear you cry and beg for mercy."

Something in his eyes had frightened her that night. He met her hateful gaze with perfect, desolate calm. "I don't want mercy," he said to her.

"Oh? You don't want mercy?" She got right up in his face. "So what do you want, you perverted little demon-seed? What do you want?"

He smiled, the expression alien and wrong on his face. "I want you to die."

She didn't see the gun until it was pressed into her stomach, and didn't realize what was happening until the bullet ripped through her intestines and shattered her spine. She screamed, and fell, blood pooling out all around her. Her associates tried to help, and the guards started to move to subdue him, but he still had the gun.

One, two, three; pop, pop, pop. The three guards went down and didn't move again.

All around there were screams, but his were not among them. He stood silently, still holding the gun, barely even aware of the havoc he had caused. He bent and dipped a finger in the old woman's blood, holding it up, admiring its dark crimson thickness. A simple thing, really, just squeeze, and wait.

He lifted the gun to his temple, but before he could act, the door to the brothel burst open and a dozen men in black rushed in, each one armed to the teeth, shouting for everyone to lay down and put their hands above their heads.

Rowan watched them all distractedly, not moving, even when one of the soldiers got right up in front of him and demanded that he obey.

"No," he said softly. "I do not obey. I am no one's whore…not now."

He gingerly handed the gun to the soldier, who had immediately figured out what was going on, and then collapsed, his entire frail body wracked with sobs, the blood on his finger smeared over his face. He fell, and the soldier caught him and steered him toward where the medics had set up a triage center for the other prisoners. By the time they got him to a stretcher, he was screaming, long banshee-like wails of loss and horror that gave the entire team nightmares for days afterward.

He screamed, and would have kept screaming if Dr. Nava, at the time the junior Medical Officer for the SA California branch who would transfer with him to Texas in a few weeks, hadn't run an IV into him and pushed enough sedatives into his body that he didn't so much as wiggle a finger for three days.

Other than that, there was only one thing he remembered with any clarity. One of the black-clad men had helped get him onto the stretcher, had held his hand while the medic tried to examine him, had stroked his fevered forehead and spoken to him gently while the delirium overcame him and the screams built in his heart. Comfort, only a moment's comfort, before all was cast back into darkness and pain, but that touch, that voice, stayed with him, as did the light of those moonlit blue eyes, leading him to safety, to rest.

*****

He was sobbing even as he woke, and Sara's arms were already around him. He clung to her weakly, fighting his way out of the memories--the first of thousands, he knew, and he would have to face them all if he wanted to continue with this madness.

"What can I do?" Sara asked, as she would go on to ask every night they spent together, after hours of lovemaking yielded up hours of nightmares and his broken weeping recovery.

The pain was back, with a vengeance, and if he didn't stop it soon he'd go into seizures. "Prescription bottle," he panted. "Two pills. Please."

She all but leaped out of the bed, and he hated how cold it was without her there. She returned quickly with the pills and a glass of water, and it was hard to force himself to swallow them; he was shaking violently, and nearly dropped the glass.

"I should get help," Sara said, face pale and grave. "You're not well, Rowan. I didn't know this could happen--you should have warned me."

"I didn't…either…" he said, but he was lying and she knew it; using his powers again was bound to unblock a lot of old memories and energies. It was necessary, if he truly wanted to heal…but was he really ready? Could he handle it? Could Sara?

He got his answer as she said, "We'll have to be more careful next time, maybe cast a Circle around the room to control the energetic influences better. We can try it at my place, too--there's a lot of wards and charms to protect the space, make it safe. We need to find ways to work through this on your terms."

He found he was smiling, even through the white hot fire snaking through his body. "Remarkable…woman…" he murmured.

She watched him sweat and shiver for another minute before shaking her head and reaching for the phone. "This remarkable woman knows when she's out of her depth, darling. I'm calling another one of my kind for reinforcements."

He was drifting in and out of consciousness, but he knew Dr. Nava's presence quite well from his days in the infirmary. She was a large, brown-skinned woman with a hearty laugh and an appreciation for good food, but she was also fierce when it came to patient care.

She looked around the bedroom, took in his and Sara's states of undress, and said, "Let me guess. This isn't what it looks like."

Sara squeezed Rowan's hand protectively. "It's exactly what it looks like, Dr. He's in pain and he needs help. I called you because you were the lead on his case."

"I'm not going to ask you how you know that," the doctor muttered, setting the case she'd brought with her on the bedside table. She reached in and produced a hypodermic. "Now, your girlfriend should know a few things about Elven anatomy before things go any further."

Rowan managed, "She already knows quite a few."

Nava tried not to smile, and succeeded in keeping her expression serious, but only just. "Most human drugs don't work on Elves because their immune systems, digestive systems, and nervous systems operate at twice the speed of ours. There are a few that are very effective, but just handing him a Tylenol won't help. The only pill we can give him is straight up oxycontin, which I hate to do, but nothing else works. The alternative, which I'm going to insist you keep around if you plan to continue having sex, is morphine."

She pushed the plunger into the hypodermic, and he felt as if someone had cracked an egg on the top of his head, letting warm liquid relief ooze down over his body. The pain melted before the lava's slow burn, and he felt his muscles unclench and relax.

Nava looked from Sara to Rowan and back again. "I'm assuming you are aware of the risks involved in this behavior."

"Yes," Sara answered for him. "We talked about it before. He needs to open himself back up, Doctor. He can't go on living like the walking dead. I want to help him. How about you show me how much of that to give him, and when, so that I can be prepared if this happens again."

The doctor was surprised, but glanced at Rowan, and he sensed her approval. "All right, then. The implant that injected the neurotoxin was on his left wrist, so if you can find a vein in that area you'll get a faster result. If not, aim for the bicep."

Rowan sagged back into the pillows, loving the heat and release of the morphine, the sudden cessation of pain so wonderful that more than once it had made him cry. He drifted in that warm dark sea, hearing them talk at a distance, eventually hearing Nava leave the apartment.

He felt Sara take his hand and trace her fingers along the still-visible rectangular scar on his wrist.

"What am I getting myself into?" he heard her ask the quiet room, or perhaps just herself. "I'm not a counselor, not a therapist, I'm not even a…whatever you are."

"Rethla," he murmured.

"That either. What if I do you more harm than good?"

"What you are, Sara, is a friend," he said to her, twining his fingers through hers. "You are a friend and a lover and by the time this is over I will owe you more than my life. I'll owe you my soul. It's just…going to suck, is all."

"Yeah, well…" She stretched out beside him again, turning off the lamp, and curled up around him, pulling the blankets back up to keep them both warm. "I guess you're just going to have to make it up to me somehow."

"Deal," he replied, already starting to drift off again, this time into drug-induced sleep that he hoped would be empty and silent.

But with the softness of Sara's skin against his, and her hand curled around his arm; with her breath at his ear and her hair tickling his shoulder…even with the nightmares, even with the memory of pain, he felt something in that moment that he hadn't dared let himself feel in so long, tears came to his eyes and spilled hotly onto the pillow…

…hope.