Adult Afraid of the Light

Fandom: My Bloody Valentine (2009)/Friday the 13th Series

Category/Rated: Slash, R

Year/Length: 2011/36,000 words

Pairing: Tom Hanniger/Clay Miller

Spoilers: both

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Summary: Tom Hanniger was on the run. Something was terribly wrong and he was having blackouts. He was in a downward spiral until he met up with Clay Miller, and now he has other things to worry about.

Author's Notes/Beta: Many thanks to runedgirl for lots of help and advice, and onci_dium and peppervl for thorough beta readings. We couldn't have done this without you. And much love to keyweegirlie and her amazing art.

The weather had stayed fine in Harmony all the time he'd been there. Spring was already bursting buds and sending up tender shoots that would soon explode into flower, but as Tom Hanniger stumbled out of the mine and tossed away his hard hat and mask, the heavens opened, and a deluge began. He was disoriented, hurt, and really didn't know what to do about it. All he knew was that he had to run, run and not stop. Because if he did, something utterly dreadful would happen. He'd already been through enough. Dreadful was something he lived with daily, and he didn't need more.

He'd been gutshot, it hurt like a sonofabitch, but he didn't stop - couldn't. The voice in the back of his head was screaming at him to go, get out, don't stop.

There were vehicles up beside the mine office, and he could see the keys dangling in one rusty old Ford. He didn't think, merely climbed in and pulled away, pointing the car south towards warmth, and freedom, and peace, always supposing peace existed anywhere at all.

It was beginning to get dark, and he gritted his teeth and kept going, wanting to get out of Pennsylvania before he stopped. There was blood oozing from the wound in his side, but he wasn't about to give in and stop - not until he was somewhere safe. He prayed that there actually was somewhere safe in the world.

The farther south Tom went, the more people he encountered. He could mostly avoid the people, but the sirens had the voice in his head screaming at him again. Police cars, ambulances, and fire engines were everywhere, always making noise. He turned toward the east, away from nearby cities. Hopefully that would mean fewer noisy emergency vehicles. He kept driving for several hours, trying to get away from the people, only stopping at convenience stores when they were empty. He finally found a seedy looking motel that looked promising. Checking in late at night and paying with cash, the clerk scarcely looked at him, just happy to take his money. That suited him just fine; the less attention he drew, the happier he was.

He had cash, and his bank account held plenty more, easily accessible with his ATM card. Even without the sale of the mine, it'd be a very long time before he needed to worry about money. So he had no trouble buying the necessary provisions (food, water, rudimentary first aid supplies). He managed to clean and dress his wound without passing out from the pain. He covered the wound with triple antibiotic ointment and a clean bandage and prayed it didn't get infected. Money might not be a problem, but he didn't want to chance seeing a doctor to get medication, and he really didn't want to break into some place that might have oral antibiotics. That would run the risk of attracting way too much attention. He'd just have to keep it as clean as he could and hope for the best.

Tom slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares like he hadn't been since just after the ... since he left Harmony the first time. In the gray hours before dawn he finally gave up trying to sleep. He got up, showered and got his stuff together, the voice in the back of his head still urging him to flee. Next to his pills he found another bottle, Tetracycline. He also noticed the dressing on his side was different, more professional than his clumsy attempt the night before. He tried to remember; it didn't seem like he'd lost time, but everything was hazy after he started cleaning the wound. It didn't really matter anyway, because he had to go, get out of there. The truck was no longer safe, so he checked side streets until he found an old Civic with the keys stashed in the sun visor.

There was pain, but he expected that. He knew that he'd been hurt - that he'd been shot, and he really wished he could remember more about that. He had no idea how it had happened. All he knew was that the wound in his abdomen hurt like a bastard and made him wish he could blank out again, but somehow that never seemed to happen just because he wanted it to.

The car he'd stolen was not the best choice he could have made. He was pretty well convinced that the transmission was shot. It took brute force and ignorance to get the thing into reverse, and any gear change was accompanied by a grinding sound that made him grit his teeth every time he had to do it. He'd found another Civic and switched the plates as soon as he possibly could, and now he felt reasonably secure from chance discovery, but he still had a terrible sense of impending doom for which he couldn't account.

The wound in his side was agony, and although he had the antibiotics, (The label on the bottle of pills informed him that they were from the office of a vet, in which case they were probably actually for treating animals, but he wasn't going to complain.) he had no painkillers, and the pain was seriously impeding his ability to function. As he drove south, he found himself having to stop more and more frequently, because it was a choice between resting or passing out.

Pittsburgh was a nightmare. He was scared to stop despite the increasing pain he was suffering, but as he drove down Highway 40, he found himself getting more and more erratic, until finally he pulled into a motel just on the east side of Unionville.

Checking in made him nervous. The motherly woman behind the desk was apparently concerned about him. She told him he looked really pale, and he didn't like to be rude to her, so he told her that he had a headache. That brought out the mother in her, and she insisted on pressing aspirin and hot tea laced with scotch on him. He took them with real gratitude, but excused himself to go to his room as soon as he could.

For almost a week he tossed and turned with a fever caused by his wound, now an angry, suppurating sore. He'd read somewhere that pouring gunpowder onto a wound and then setting fire to it would cauterize it, but he didn't have any gunpowder. In one of his more lucid moments he dropped by the liquor store to buy a bottle of whiskey and wisely drank about a quarter of it before pouring some onto the wound. The agony was excruciating, and he passed out, waking some hours later to find a whole plethora of medication sitting beside his bed.
He was confused, but assumed that his friend in the motel office had provided them. Gratefully popping a Vicodin, he studied the antibiotics and then took the recommended dose. The next day he felt well enough to travel, and he hit the road once again.

He drove aimlessly, no idea where he was going but the voice in his head wouldn't let him stop for long. He had the vague sense that he was running, but he didn't know why. He did know that if he didn't stop soon, he'd be in real danger of killing himself on the road. The medications that had mysteriously appeared went a long way toward helping him cope with his injury, but he needed rest to heal properly. Finally he came across a rustic cabin that looked to have been deserted for a long time. A battered sign hanging askew at the entrance to the drive gave him a number to call for leasing information. When he called, the young woman seemed to be so glad to have someone interested that she didn't require too much in the way of information from him. He traded two month's rent (in cash of course) for a set of keys, and everyone was happy.

The remote location seemed to quiet the voice in his head, and he soon settled in.

He lay low, buying his groceries from a small convenience store on the highway and eking out his diet by hunting. He grew stronger as time passed, and settled into a kind of stupor. His wounds healed, and his nerves settled. The ghost in his head seemed to depart and leave him to his solitary existence, although once he awoke one morning to find that someone had been by and left medication for him. That unsettled him for a while, because he wasn't sure where it had come from, but after a while he found that he could rationalize the mysterious appearance. He'd had blackouts before, and ascribed them to stress. Perhaps he wasn't as relaxed as he thought, and he'd had another one of his blank spots. He figured that he'd seen a doctor while in his funk, and nodded. Occurrences such as that proved to him that he must be sensible, even when unconscious! If that wasn’t the case, Tom couldn’t even begin to guess how this kind of thing happened.

As the days grew warmer, more people had begun to invade his quiet haven, making him feel unsettled and twitchy. He'd called into the little, local store to pick up some coffee and a few other things, and the woman behind the counter had given him a smile, inviting him to stay and chat.

Jeannie Abbott was what Tom thought of as a 'lady of uncertain age', and it was evident that she thought Tom was attractive. Lately, she'd taken to putting on make-up, and he could swear that she had begun hitting on him when he went into the store. He was starting to think it was time to move on. "The kids will all be coming down next week," she said, idly prattling as she made up his order. "They always do once schools are out. That's when we make all our money - on the holidaymakers. They like the beach, you know. I bet you like the beach too."

Agreeing absently that he did in fact like the beach, Tom found his thoughts racing. It really was time to leave. He was fit, and he'd healed. He felt well-rested, and that other, nagging voice in his brain had remained silent for the past few weeks. "I guess that it's time," he murmured, settling up with cash and hefting the sack of groceries. "See ya, Jeannie."

It was time, time to move on. There were too many people, all making him jumpy. Jeannie and the old guy at the gas station, those people were okay; they didn't make the voice scream in his head. But the new people, the unfamiliar people, they made him nervous. He thought about heading south again, but it was getting hot. Maybe he should head north. Not back to Harmony, never there. But there had to be other places he could go. Someplace that would quiet the voice forever. Someplace peaceful, where he could be happy. He couldn't remember the last time he was happy.

He dropped off the key to the cabin with the realtor and left the stolen Civic in a bar parking lot. He found a battered Festiva and put on the plates from the other Civic. He knew he'd been lucky so far, but he didn't know what else to do. He still didn't know where he was going, just someplace that was not here.
Throughout the months he'd been laying low, Tom had slowly been withdrawing cash from his bank account and transferring it to another. He'd successfully managed to move around fifteen thousand dollars from his bank account and felt that he was ready to lose himself even further. He wondered if he could stay Tom Hanniger, or if he should change his identity, but the voice in his head assured him that he was Tom, and he should be proud.

On a warm spring day, a week after the schools were out for summer, Tom was heading north, working his way up towards New England and wondering if he should try for Canada. Surely he'd be safe there.

New York would be a problem, he knew. He didn't want to drive through the Big Apple, and he had a feeling that the Festiva he was driving would not last much longer. He abandoned it at the Greyhound Station in Baltimore and bought himself a ticket to Albany.

Albany was a small town, and he poked around there before deciding that he didn't feel like it would be a good place to settle. However, it was not difficult to find a used car lot, and once there, he bought himself a Matrix that looked as if it was a reasonably good deal and paid cash for it, leaving the salesman scratching his head as he pulled out of the lot.

He liked the countryside and decided that he would press on away from the city. Crossing over into Massachusetts, he began taking the back roads, not knowing where he would end up, but with a feeling that wherever it was would be fine. The road wound through an increasingly wooded area, and Tom began to feel as though he was leaving his previous life behind. As the day drew on, he began to think about stopping for the night, because he was getting tired. When he finally saw signs pointing to a campsite, he followed them, hoping there would be a vacancy.

The campsite was well posted, and he gave a sigh of relief as he made the decision to stop there overnight. He was still feeling a little fragile and knew that he needed a good night’s sleep before pressing on any further, so he turned onto the little road that would lead into the grounds.

There was a small convenience store ahead, and he pulled in to park beside a motor bike that was loaded down with camping equipment. He needed to stock up on groceries, and to get directions to where he could pitch his tent. Hopping out of the car, he made his way towards the door of the store.

The clerk was friendly and pointed him toward the Crystal Lake camping ground. His description made it sound like a beautiful, peaceful place. Tom thought it might be just what he needed.

"Crystal Lake isn't exactly as peaceful as folks around here want you to think." Tom turned toward the speaker, who was standing rather closer to him than he was comfortable with. He looked up (and up again.) to meet the guy's gaze, instinctively stepping back a little in order to take him in without getting a crick in his neck.

"Those are just stories," the clerk objected.

"Not just stories, man," the other man insisted. "I was damn lucky to get out of there alive. None of the people I met down there did. And Whitney ... "The guy's voice broke, and he trailed off.

"I remember you! You were the one passing out flyers about your missing sister. Did you find her?"

"Yeah, I found her."

Tom looked back and forth between them as he tried to follow the conversation. He kept getting distracted by the very tall, very attractive man. He carried himself with an easy strength, broad shoulders as muscled as Tom’s own, but his face was boyish, almost innocent. The stranger tossed his too-long hair out of his eyes, and the appearance of innocence faded as Tom met his intense, haunted gaze.
Tom felt himself drawn to the other man. He didn't think it was just his looks, but there was something about him. It sounded like he'd just been through a horrific experience, almost as bad as Tom's own ordeal. Maybe that was it. Whatever it was, he trusted his opinion about the area a lot more than that of the clerk who'd probably lived there all of his life.

The conversation came to an end and Tom blinked to find both of the other men staring at him. "Um, thanks. I'll ... keep that in mind." He awkwardly placed his items on the counter for the clerk to ring up. He really didn't know where to go from here. He'd hoped this would be a nice spot, but he wasn't going anywhere near Crystal Lake after hearing about the tall guy's ordeal there. So where did that leave him? He turned to leave, bag with his purchases in hand.

"Hi, I'm Clay. Clay Miller." The stranger introduced himself, sticking his hand out for Tom to shake.

"Tom, Tom Hanniger," Tom answered. He passed his bag to his left hand so he could clasp Clay's hand warmly. "Thanks for steering me away from Crystal Lake."

"Oh, you're welcome. I wouldn't want anyone else to have to ... " Clay shook his head, apparently unwilling to continue. "So where you headed now? Since I kinda nixed the only viable camping option around here."

"I'm not really sure. I'll probably head on to a little larger town and find a motel for the night. Try again tomorrow." It was getting late and Tom didn't relish the idea of setting up camp in an unfamiliar site after dark. But he was somehow reluctant to just leave. He might never see Clay again, and that thought was surprisingly unpleasant. Just to continue the conversation a bit, Tom asked, "Who's Whitney?"

"My sister," Clay answered. His voice was sad and not a little bit angry. Tom wondered what had happened. But he didn't want to press, didn't want to push Clay if he wasn't ready to talk about it.

"The guy said that you were looking for her," murmured Tom, looking away as if to remove the pressure of a reply. "I take it she didn't want to be found. That sucks, man." Turning to leave the store he was mildly surprised to see Clay following.

"No, it wasn't like that at all." The day was warm, but Clay shivered. "There's a freak in the woods. He had her." He looked around himself as if he expected something to suddenly pounce on him.

Tom frowned. "You telling me that she was held prisoner? That's just bizarre. And you found her? Where is she?" He reached his car and leaned forward to insert the key into the lock. "Don't tell me she elected to stay with the guy that was holding her."

Shaking his head, Clay watched as Tom pulled open his door and took his seat, reaching to start the engine. "No, man, it wasn't like that. I thought I'd got her free, but..." he swallowed, and Tom frowned, wondering just what it was that this guy wasn't saying. He switched on the ignition as he was listening, but the engine didn't turn over, and he mumbled a curse. "Please tell me that the battery isn't flat," he growled, trying again. "Fuck!"

Annoyed, Tom got out of the car and went around to the front, opening the hood. He fiddled with the battery cables, swearing softly under his breath. "You want to try again for me, Clay?"

"Uh, sure," Clay answered, reaching in the car to turn the key. Nothing.

"Stupid piece of shit!" Tom muttered from under the hood. Clay came around beside him to look at the engine.

"You know what you're looking at?" Clay asked.

"Not really," Tom answered. The absurdity of the situation suddenly hit him, and he burst into laughter. "You?"

"No," Clay answered, laughing along with him. "We must be the only two guys who never took auto shop."

"At least we're not afraid to admit it." Tom sobered slightly. "But now I'm kinda stuck."

"I could give you a lift," Clay gestured towards his motorbike.

"That's your ride? You're kidding, right?" Tom eyed the motorcycle, which looked small against its very large rider and then swept his eyes up all six foot forever of Clay's body, bursting into laughter again.

"Yeah." Clay gave Tom a beaming smile. "Don't be mocking Grumbles. He's been with me for a while now, and he never lets me down."

"Grumbles?" Tom looked from the bike to Clay and back with a grin on his face. "Wherever did you get 'Grumbles' from?"

"Oh, come on! It's obvious. Just listen when I start him up, and you'll know that it's the only name I could possibly give him." Clay shut the hood of Tom's car with a final clanging sound. "And ever since I named him he's worked perfectly for me."

Tom was cursing himself mentally for putting himself into this situation. "Well, if you and Grumbles don't mind giving me a ride I'd be very happy to accept. I don't think that I'm up to walking to civilization."

"Do you have much stuff?" Clay was surveying his own belongings as he spoke, and began to rearrange the items that he'd got packed on the back of the motorbike. "What I can do is grab your essentials and we'll go find a motel or something, then come back here and get the rest of your things once I've unloaded."

"Dude, that's going above and beyond!" Tom blinked. "You don't have to do that. There's nothing there I need to keep."

"Don't be an idiot; I want to." The sincerity shone from Clay's eyes, and Tom began to wonder just what Clay's angle was. Everyone had to have an angle, didn't they? Still, the voice in his head stayed quiet, seemingly unfazed, and at last Tom nodded gratefully.

"Thanks, man. I owe you dinner or something."

Grumbles seemed to cope well with ferrying two strapping young men to the nearest settlement - a small town unsurprisingly named Lakeville. There was a bed and breakfast place there that seemed reasonable, and although there was only one room available, they agreed that it would be fine for a night and Clay dropped Tom with the baggage he'd brought, setting off to retrieve the rest of his things. Tom, suddenly tired, gratefully lay down on one of the beds, and Clay was barely back on the road before he had fallen asleep.

It was dark by the time Clay returned, and as he burst back into the room, Tom found himself groggily trying to collect his wits and remember where exactly he was.

"I got it all," said Clay, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed and beaming at Tom.

"You're awesome." Tom yawned and stretched as he fought his way past the cobwebs that his long nap had caused. "Don't suppose you saw anywhere good to go eat? I'm starving."

"Funny you should say that." Clay bent to deposit the contents of his backpack onto the floor next to his bed. "I spotted a diner about a block and a half from here. You wanna wait a minute while I use the facilities?" He rose and went to their little bathroom without waiting for Tom's response, leaving him shaking his head. His companion's enthusiasm was something he would need to get used to.

Dinner was pretty standard fare for small town diners across the country. Tom had chicken fried steak while Clay had the pot roast. Both meals were quite good, but not anything to write home about. The easy camaraderie between them was surprising considering they'd just met that afternoon. The two men soon found themselves deep in conversation.

"So, what happened back there?" Tom asked. "At Crystal Lake I mean."

"There was some crazy dude in a hockey mask running around killing everyone. I was very lucky to get out of there alive." The sadness in Clay's voice would've been obvious even if Tom wasn't already expecting it. "Except Whitney, he didn't kill her. He must've had her down there for weeks."

"What, was he holding her hostage or something?" Tom asked curiously.

"No ... at least he never asked for any money or anything. I don't even think he knew I was related to her when I got there. I have no idea why he didn't kill her along with her friends. None of it made any kind of sense."

"But you found her, right? Got her out of there?" Tom didn't want to press, but it seemed like it was doing Clay good to talk about it.

"Yeah, we found her. Jenna and I were just trying to stay away from him, not to attract his attention. And then we heard her calling out. I wasn't even sure it was Whitney at first. She'd probably been screaming like that every time she heard somebody."

"Wow, that's rough. Who's Jenna?"

"She was with this group of kids that had come out to stay in a cabin out there. Man, the guy whose cabin they were staying at, he was a real asshole. I think Jenna was sort of his girlfriend but maybe not. I'm not sure. Anyway, I went there to see if they’d heard anything about my sister and later to warn them about the crazy guy, but he was already there, killing their group off slowly. Jenna and I were the only ones to get out of there. So we were pretty much just trying to escape when we heard Whitney."

Clay's words were resonating with Tom in some deep place inside. He frowned, trying to fight the nausea that was threatening to overcome him. "Did... did the nutjob have a... a pickaxe?" he asked, unsure if he actually wanted to hear the answer.

"A pickaxe?" Clay shrugged. "There might have been one lying around in that shed, I guess, but I don't really remember one specifically." He paused, looking at Tom's pale face. "You okay, man?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm good," nodded Tom, reaching for his drink and bringing it to his lips. "It's just... weird, man. I had this thing happening to me back home. For a minute there I had a flashback." He fumbled in his pocket for the pills he knew would calm him and popped a couple of them into his mouth. "Made me into a nervous wreck," he added.

They ate in silence for a moment or two, and then Tom drew a deep breath. "So you got your sister out of there?" he said. "I take it the nutjob didn't catch up with you. That's a good thing. You reckon we should send in the cops to find him and take him in?"

"To tell you the truth, we thought he was dead." Clay set down his fork, and it was his turn to look sickened. "After he killed Jenna, we fought. I was losing 'til Whitney managed to get him trapped in a chain. He... he went into the chipper. We wrapped his body in a tarp and threw it in the lake. We were just taking a break when..." His face crumpled, and he covered it with his hands as his shoulders began to shake. "It was like some kind of perverted miracle. He burst up through the jetty and took her... took her down with him." His voice was very small as he finished. "I couldn't find her after that. She was gone."

Tom's initial feeling was panic. He wanted to run, wanted to get away from crazy men wielding weapons, wanted to avoid blood and never see it again for the rest of his life. He was half out of his seat, poised for flight, when the little voice in the back of his brain began to soothe him. It's okay, Tommy boy. He won't hurt you; he understands, because he's been there. Stay with him. Relaxing back down into his seat, Tom tried to look as if he hadn't just had an internal meltdown.

"You need to do what I've done, dude. Run away, very fast and stay away from there for the rest of your life," he said. "Some things just aren't right. Better out of it. I'm sorry about your sister, though. That's gotta hurt."

"Yeah." Clay obviously didn't want to talk about that part of it. But since he'd been leaving the area anyway, he'd probably already decided he wasn't going to find her. Not alive anyway.

"So, what's your story?" Clay asked. "You sound like you know something of ..." Clay trailed off.

"It's kind of a long story." Tom shrugged. "It started over ten years ago. My family owned the mine, and I screwed up. Got a bunch of people trapped down there. It was a rookie mistake, but I should've known better. Many people said I never should have been given the responsibility, which I wouldn't have if my daddy didn't own the mine. I don't know ..."

"But that's not really your fault. That's a lot to put on a kid." Tom thought Clay was just being nice. He knew that the bottom line was that he should've known better. He should've done better.

"Whatever, man," Tom shrugged again. "But anyway, one of the miners killed the rest with a pickaxe so he'd have more air, enough to live as it turned out. Anyway, he landed in a coma. Nobody thought he'd wake up."

"Still not your fault. You didn't kill those people."

"Doesn't matter." Tom wasn't anywhere near convinced, but he wasn't going to argue the point. "Whole town was convinced I did."

"All this is ancient history anyway, right?" Clay asked. "More than ten years ago."

"That was just the beginning." Tom wasn't sure why he was explaining all this to Clay, but somehow he felt he would understand. That maybe he was the only one who could. "About a year later, we were all going down into the mine, into the tunnel that collapsed. It was sort of a rite of passage thing. So it was me and my girlfriend Sarah, and her friend Irene, and her boyfriend Axel. We all went down there. And this miner started chasing us with a pickaxe. We saw him kill these other kids. I don't even remember clearly how we got past him, but somehow we were running for the entrance to the mine. I stayed back a bit to distract him so the others could get out. When I followed, they just drove off without me."

"Sounds to me like you need better friends." Clay remarked drily.

"Maybe," Tom snorted. "But I did what I intended; they got away. But then I tripped and the miner was right there, with his pickaxe raised to bash my head in."

"Who was this guy?" Clay asked. "Just some nut? Just in mining gear instead of a hockey mask?"

"It was Harry Warden. The guy who'd been in a coma since the tunnel collapsed. Apparently he woke up. Nobody was expecting it, so they weren't really watching him."

"Shit!" Clay did seem to understand. So far at least. "So what happened then?"

"The sheriff shot him before he could kill me. His blood all over me. Literally this time." Tom kept his voice as devoid of emotion as he could. If he got caught up in thinking about that part of it ... he knew he'd go hide inside his head, lose more time.

"Fuck!" Clay exclaimed. "At least they couldn't blame you for these deaths."

"Wanna bet?" Tom asked wryly. "Clearly you've not met the good people of Harmony, Pennsylvania."

"Whatever." Clay shrugged. "But you know better, right?"

"I guess. Doesn't really matter anyway." Tom answered noncommittally.

"So what then? You must've been a mess after all that."

"I don't know. I guess so." Tom answered doubtfully. "I left. I had to get out of that town."

"I don't blame you. Not at all." Clay said comfortingly. "But all this happened more than ten years ago, right? What've you been doing since then?"

"I just..." Tom fell silent, wondering how to tell Clay that he was actually crazy. After a few minutes, as the other man merely sat eating his pot roast and waiting for him to say more, he shrugged. "See, I had a breakdown." There! It was out in the open, and Tom watched Clay narrowly to see if he would suddenly run shrieking. Clay nodded, his face sympathetic.

"I'm not surprised. You know what always does surprise me? Those horror movies. They never show the aftermath, and how the experiences they go through affect the survivors. You get chased by a werewolf that just ate your girlfriend, you're bound to get a little bit loopy, if you ask me, but they never show that." Clay set his fork down and gave Tom a wide smile. "Anyway, I'm glad you're over it now."

"Well, I have these pills I have to take if I'm feeling tense," confessed Tom. "It took me a long time to get over the whole thing. Not only that, but back in February I had to go back to Harmony to wind up my dad's affairs, and I really, really wanted to sell that mine and walk away from it forever. You know what happened?" He'd given up all pretense of eating his steak, and put his cutlery down. "It started up all over again. I saw him - the miner. I thought that Harry had been killed back when the sheriff shot him, but he shut me in a cage and I saw him kill one of the guys. Oh, God, it scared me shitless. I started getting blackouts, and I don't even know if they caught him, because I ran. I've been running ever since. Does that make me a coward?" Tom felt as though he would cry any minute. "It does, doesn't it? It makes me a big, fat cowardly chicken!"

"You know what? I'd have run too." Clay reached to touch Tom's hand, jerking the other man back to the present and away from the horrors that were running through his mind. "What am I saying? I ran like a rat away from that psycho at the lake. Some things just aren't good to be around, and it sounds like you made the best decision."

A feeling of gratitude swelled through Tom at Clay's words. Clay understood. He'd been there, and he knew what it was like. He smiled, relieved. "Thank you," he whispered.

"It’s nothing; now eat your steak before I eat it for you!"

They sank into companionable silence as they finished their meals. Tom insisted on picking up the check and then they decided to check out the small bar next door. A few locals sat at the bar and a couple of small groups sat at tables. The jukebox was playing some sad, ‘crying in your beer’ country song and the tiny pool table in the back was deserted. They stopped by the bar for a couple of beers and headed back to the pool table. They each had a few beers and they played a couple of games of pool. The table was warped and none of the cues were straight, but neither one of them was feeling competitive anyway. They’d fallen into easy small-talk, and at one point, Tom caught Clay staring at him, an expression in his eyes that he’d never seen turned on him before.

It wasn't that late when they headed back to their room, but they were both tired. Maybe reliving their respective ordeals had taken a lot out of them. Tom had been afraid it might be awkward, sharing a room with a relative stranger. But it didn't feel like that at all. Tom wasn't even really worried about what might happen if he lost time again. He thought Clay could probably deal with whatever. And for some strange reason Tom trusted him not to leave. If he wasn't so tired, he'd probably examine that feeling a little more closely. People always left him. He had no real reason to think Clay would be any different. But Tom was too tired to think about that, so he just went to sleep.

Tom woke to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. Once Clay emerged, wrapped in one of the small motel towels that barely covered his muscular frame, he got up and brushed his teeth, then gathered his stuff together. There wasn't that much, and he reorganized, getting everything but the camping gear into one, small duffel. He didn't know what Clay's plans were from here. He'd meant to ask him last night, but it had never actually come up. Tom really didn't want to head back to Crystal Lake to get his car, but he didn't want to impose on Clay and Grumbles forever. Unless Clay wanted him to ... He supposed he could buy another used car, but he really didn't have any clear direction or purpose. So he just packed his stuff up and took his turn in the shower.

They ended up at the diner again for breakfast. They both had the special - eggs, bacon, and a huge mound of pancakes. And lots of coffee. Clay didn't seem any more awake than Tom was until he'd had his caffeine fix. It was nice, being quiet and waking up, being together but not having to worry about carrying the conversation.

"So, where you planning to go now?" Clay asked after his second cup of coffee.

"No plans, really," Tom answered. "I was just looking for someplace quiet to be. I guess Crystal Lake wasn't it."

"Not really, no," Clay laughed. "So no place you need to be?"

"Not so much. The last few years have been more about getting from places than getting to them, if you know what I mean." Tom smiled wryly as he inspected his plate for any stray crumbs.

"Yeah, I get that." Clay sounded sympathetic, and as if he maybe understood a little bit. “I don’t know if…” he flushed a little. “We seem to get on okay, and I really don’t want to be on my own right now…”
That brought Tom’s eyes back to Clay’s in a hurry. “You want us to hang out together?” he asked, a little surprised that this very attractive young giant, who could no doubt persuade anyone to keep him company, should want him. “Well, okay,” he said, dropping his gaze again with an answering blush. “You got any idea what you want to do? Where you want to go?”

The waitress had overheard them talking, and now she pointed to a notice board near the cash register. "They're building a boat house and lodge down by the lake, looking for help. Two young men like yourselves - I'm sure they'd be glad to hire you on. If you've no place special to be." She smiled coyly. Tom was sure she was trying to flirt, but it probably would've been more effective if she'd decided which one of them she wanted to flirt with.

"That's not a bad idea," Clay said. "What do you think?" He turned to Tom, one brow raised in gentle inquiry.

Tom thought that was as good a thing to do as any. And gave them a reason to stay together, get to know each other better. "Sounds good to me."
“Sweet!” Clay’s face lit up, dimples punctuating the grin he was wearing.

The meal was done, and Tom fished out his wallet, leaving a tip for the girl who'd shown them the poster. Turning to Clay, he raised his eyebrows. "Think we should go down and see about getting hired, and then I guess we need to think about something a little more permanent in the way of lodging, unless you want to camp?"

"Let's see if there's a job first, okay?"

Turning, Clay led the way out of the diner, and together the two of them made their way down to the edge of the lake. It didn't take long before the two of them were donning gloves and hard hats and following the site foreman out to the first of a series of trucks that needed to be unloaded, and pretty soon they'd worked up a sweat.

The work was mindless, but somehow satisfying to Tom. He lost himself in the rhythm of lift and carry, muscles straining as he labored. Clay had taken off his shirt after the first hour and wore only his threadbare jeans, and Tom could only admire the lean, brown chest and shoulders of the young giant. Clay was all muscle and apparently tireless, hefting bags of cement and lime, and shoveling sand as if he could go on forever. When a mobile canteen drew up, and lunch was called, Tom was ready for something to eat. He was starving, and every muscle ached in protest against the unaccustomed physical exercise.

Coffee and hot dogs seemed to be manna from heaven as he tore into his food. Clay dropped onto the bench beside him as he sat at one of the wooden tables that had been provided for the workmen, and Tom looked on in wonder as the large young man put away french fries, two burgers, apple pie and several cookies.

"Where are you putting all that stuff?" asked Tom, wide eyed as Clay dusted his fingers of cookie crumbs.

""Hey, I'm a growing boy." Clay grinned and chased a crumb that had stuck to his lip with the tip of a pink tongue.

"You'd better not grow much more, or I'll be able to rent you out to building sites as some kind of organic crane." Grinning, Tom reached forward to wipe a smear of chocolate off Clay's chin, suddenly realizing after he'd done it just how invasive the movement was. When Clay turned his face into the small touch, he drew his hand back quickly, afraid that he’d been too familiar, and was surprised to see that tender look on Clay’s features again although it was soon a memory.

"Hey, it's not often you find quantity AND quality." Clay was still casting about for crumbs, and Tom couldn't help laughing. He was really starting to like his lanky companion. Perhaps he'd be able to stop feeling so tightly wound and relax a little. He hoped so.

The next few hours went by in a blur and by the time the day was over they were pleasantly sore and ready for some down time.

Dinner was - predictably - another visit to the diner that was fast becoming their home away from home. Tom was starting to feel hungry for non-diner food by this time and resolved to start looking for an apartment or trailer or somewhere he could do his own cooking. After their order arrived, he gave Clay what he hoped was a winning smile and raised his eyebrows. "How'd you feel about maybe sharing a place while we're working here? It'd be good to have somewhere to sleep that wasn't just a bed and breakfast."

"I'd kill for something different to eat," Clay agreed. "This diner is great and all that, but two meals a day here, and the menu's getting old."

"We should check the notice board and maybe pick up a paper." Tom wondered if a town this small actually had a paper or not.

"Or we could just ask Kathleen," Clay offered. "Since she was so helpful with the job."

"We could do that," Tom smiled. Kathleen chose that moment to bring the check, and Tom asked, "You know anyplace might be for rent? We're not real picky but it'd be nice if it had a couple of bedrooms, couple of bathrooms and a kitchen."

"Aww, sugar," Kathleen responded. "Don't tell me you're already tired of seeing me twice a day."

"It's not like that," Tom laughed. "You should know that."

"That's fine, boys. I'm sure my broken heart will recover," Kathleen smiled. "My sister has a trailer she wants to rent. Might be just the thing. Here's her number." Kathleen wrote a name and phone number on a blank order ticket and left it on the table with their check. "I'd hurry though. Rentals don't last any time at all around here."

"Thanks," Clay said sincerely.

"Don't mention it," Kathleen smiled. "Just tell me you boys will still come visit me now and again."

"We'll do that," Clay smiled at her.

"Why don't you give her a call while I settle the bill?" Tom said as he left a generous tip on the table and went to pay the cashier.

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~~~~

The trailer turned out to be a double-wide, and by the time they made it out to look at it, Kathleen had been in touch with her sister, and it appeared to be a done deal. When she left them to it, Tom had already begun to put a grocery list together, and Clay was looking worriedly at the empty living room. Realizing what the problem was, the sister, whose name turned out to be Penny, took Clay to one side. "I've got a few things I can loan you 'til you get settled, if you like - you know, pots and pans and such. I've got a couch you can have too. It belonged to Kathy, but she got a new one, and it's been sitting in my garage for a few weeks. Just say the word, and I'll get my husband to truck it over for you."

"Yeah?" Clay looked relieved. Tom had paid the first month's rent and the damage deposit, and he could tell that Clay was starting to feel a little antsy about his companion always picking up the tab. Clay, a student until earlier in the spring, didn't have much money at all, but Tom knew that if they could hold on until their first paycheck came in, he'd be able to start holding his own. He gave Penny a grateful smile, because he'd been feeling anxious that his newfound friend would start to feel guilty and decide that they should split up, and already Tom was beginning to count on Clay's presence. If they could benefit from Penny's generosity, there would be less for them to buy, and that was always a good thing.

"Course. You'll be doing me a favor getting it out of the garage. I'll be able to put my car away again. The poor thing's been stuck outside for weeks." The chubby little woman elbowed him in the ribs, inviting him to share the joke as Tom finished taking stock of the kitchen. "I'll have him bring it over tomorrow, if you like, and I'll look out for a few things for you. It'll save you having to buy everything right away."

Tom, who had listened to the conversation without saying anything, murmured a soft thank you, and then began quizzing her about the best places to buy second hand stuff. "Guess we'll need somewhere to sleep before we move in. We need to get a couple of mattresses, or we're gonna hurt and that'll be bad when we're at work."

They decided to move in at the weekend, which was still several days away, and Penny said she'd ask around to see if anyone had a bed or bedding for sale, and then, locking up behind them, the two of them said their goodbyes and made their way back to their lodging.

It wasn't late, but Tom was exhausted from work, not to mention the stress of finding somewhere to live. "I think I'm gonna turn in," he said to Clay. "Don't feel obligated to do the same; I'm just exhausted after all the barge toting and bale lifting. Not only that, but I'm gonna hurt like a sonofabitch tomorrow. I'm stiffening up. It's been a while since I did anything that physical."

Agreeing that he could use an early night too, Clay followed Tom up the stairs to their room and it wasn't long before they were each in their beds, and Tom could hear Clay's breathing, a steady, comforting sound as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Tom ran through his dreams, afraid that something was coming, but not knowing exactly what it would be. The little voice in the back of his mind had been silent for days, maybe even weeks, and he'd grown accustomed to feeling that all was well in his life. Now it was back, gibbering in the back of his mind, telling him to run, RUN, because HE was coming, and he would eviscerate Tom and dump his heart on Axel's desk where it should have been already.

He couldn't stop running, but as his breath grew faster, more shallow, he began to moan, began to cry out, terrified even though he couldn't see Harry, because he knew that the miner was waiting to get him, and if he stopped running it would be too late; he'd be toast.

Someone was shaking him, but he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop running or HE would get him. The shaking got stronger but he still couldn't stop. Tom thought he could hear someone talking to him, but it was faint over the harsh sound of his own breathing. The voice and the shaking got rougher and he saw someone's face right up in his, but he couldn't stop running long enough to try to remember who it might be.

"Tom, wake up!" Clay was practically shouting at him, roughly shaking his shoulder. "You're having a nightmare; you have to wake up!"

"Whuh huh?" Tom said groggily, brain still stuck on running away as fast as he could. He jerked away from Clay, his feet tangling with the covers as he tried to get up and run away.

"Hold on, man, it's okay," Clay said, grabbing onto him across the chest and holding on. "I got you. It's okay."

Tom eventually stopped struggling, realizing it had all been a horrible dream. This latest bit anyway, the rest was all too real. Heart pounding, he forced himself to calm down enough to say something."Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

"You okay?" Clay seemed reluctant to let go of him, and Tom wasn't sure he wanted him to. Those strong arms felt good holding him like that. Wait, where had that thought come from? "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, dude, I'm fine," Tom answered weakly. "Thanks. I'll be fine."

"Was it the mine?" Clay answered, releasing his grasp on Tom but not moving from where he sat on the edge of Tom's bed. "Was it Harry?"

"Yeah," Tom nodded, grateful that Clay understood that he didn't have to explain why he was so freaked out. "Pretty much the same as always."

"Do you do this often?" Clay asked. "I mean, do you have this dream often?"

"Yeah," Tom nodded. "Well, I used to. Almost every night. But it's been ... a while now. Not since ... not since I met up with you."

"I didn't think you had," Clay said. "I mean, I think I would've noticed."

Tom just nodded again, waiting for his breathing to calm down again.

"Are you okay now? Can I get you a glass of water?" Tom smiled gratefully and Clay got up to get the water.

"Do you ever dream about ..." Tom thought how to word his question, how to ask without bringing back the pain. "Do you have dreams about what happened?"

There was a pause. Clay blinked, obviously thinking back to the night after his sister had been dragged into the lake and away from him by the creature - surely it couldn't be just a man - that he had believed to be dead. "I did. I had a dream about him once, straight after it all went down, but I... you came along and gave me something to do. Guess I should be grateful for that."

Returning to Tom's bedside with the glass of water in his hands, Clay took a seat on the edge of Tom's bed, and Tom could see him noting the sweat that beaded on his forehead. He fixed Clay with eyes that tried to see reality, but no matter what he did, they seemed to look through him, past him to something terrible nobody else could see. "Yeah, you should be grateful for that," was Tom's hoarsely spoken reply, closing them to shut out the sight of Harry, lurking there in the shadowy corners of his vision. "He stalks me through my dreams, Clay. I can see him now, even though I know it's just you and me."

There was nothing Clay could say. He reached to grip Tom's shoulder, and when Tom flinched, shook him gently, seeming more surprised than anything when Tom swayed a little and laid his head on Clay's shoulder. Surely Clay could feel that Tom was still trembling, but he didn't draw attention to it, merely remaining still so that Tom could take a few minutes to compose himself. When he finally straightened up again, clearing his throat, Clay gave him a grin. "It's okay, man. You're safe for now. I won't let anything happen to you."

Tom allowed himself to be soothed, Clay's strength warming him until Harry faded back into the shadows again, and he finally felt safe enough to relax. Looking up at Clay, he smiled gently. "Thanks, Clay," he murmured. "You're a good guy."

"Hey, I kinda know what you're going through, man. If it were me, I think I'd be a basket case after what you've been through."

"I hate that it's still getting to me, even after all this time." Tom hugged himself. "I can't seem to leave it behind me."

"Get some rest, Tom." Clay's voice was gentle, and he reached to ruffle Tom's hair. "Work in less than five hours. A few weeks at this job'll build up muscle for you to such an extent that you'll be able to fight off Harry whatsisname with no trouble, you'll see."
Tom found himself wanting to believe that, but the anxiety lingered, as though some part of him knew that sort of optimism was useless.

The weekend came quickly and they had more people around than they knew what to do with. Penny's husband, two of Kathy's brothers and several guys from the construction site all turned out to help them move. Tom had bought a couple of mattresses, but when they moved in they found complete bedroom sets (mismatched, but neither of them were complaining), the sofa Penny had promised along with a coffee table, an end table and a couple of lamps. In the kitchen they found mismatched dishes and stuff, along with a fridge that hadn't been there when they rented the place. There were washer and dryer hookups and Penny said she knew someone who would sell their old ones to them.

In no time they were all settled in. Tom wondered why everyone was being so nice to them; in his experience people weren't just naturally nice, at least not to him. Clay insisted he was paranoid and he shouldn't compare everyone to the people he knew in Harmony. Tom still didn't trust it, but he had faith in Clay. He wasn't sure why, but he did. He hoped he didn't live to regret his trust, but somehow he couldn't help it.

The summer progressed. The two men worked long hours, returning home sunburned and exhausted, and the hard work and companionship seemed to be healing them both. Tom saw Clay slowly lose that haunted look that had been behind his eyes, and become merry, laughing loud and long at things he found amusing, gradually beginning to show a goofy side to his character. Slowly, Tom began to depend on the other man, and then to like him as more than merely a convenient roommate. Clay's presence relaxed him in ways that he'd forgotten existed, and he found that he was less dependent on the tranquilizers he'd been taking for so long. Clay hadn't ever questioned his need for the medication he always carried, and that was yet another thing that Tom appreciated about him.

He found himself looking for Clay, wanting to be with him all the time, and when the two of them were assigned separate jobs, he would feel vaguely disquieted until the evening came, and the two of them could set off for home, shoulder to shoulder, together again.

Occasionally, on a Saturday night, they would head to the one bar in town and sit in a corner, listening to the music on the jukebox. It seemed easy, after a while, for Tom to start confiding in Clay, and Clay reciprocated, sharing tales of when he'd been a kid.

It was the beginning of September. They had worked for most of Friday, and it was around nine in the evening when they headed into the bar for a beer. Clay had been telling Tom about when he was eight years old, and was laughing at his own stupidity as he related to Tom how he'd jumped off the garage roof wearing one of his mom's tablecloths as a cloak, fully convinced that he was Superman.

"Jesus, you lunatic, what happened? You could've killed yourself." Tom was torn between laughter and exasperation at his friend's story.

"Broke my leg," Clay confessed, grinning his blinding smile, and Tom suddenly felt the room spin, his stomach unaccountably warm as he gazed at Clay. Frowning, he tried to fathom the unexpected feeling, but Clay was continuing on, and the moment passed, leaving him a little breathless, but still caught up in the story Clay was telling.

"Totally ruined my mom's tablecloth. She was really mad at me, but I was wounded, so she couldn't really do too much." The grin on Clay's face softened as he thought back to that time. "I felt kind of bad for distressing her, but somehow it didn't stop me from being a pain in the ass. I got real bored when my leg was in a cast and I couldn't get around much, so I was worse than ever. I think when I cut Whitney's hair she was torn between beating me senseless and sending me off to be adopted. I was a real brat, you know?"

"Oh, God, you cut her hair? How long was it - you know - before?" Tom felt himself grinning like a fool at the thought. He'd had no siblings, and had been a solemn kid, determined to make his father proud, and he couldn't recall doing anything outrageous himself. Clay's happy go lucky childhood was fascinating to him, but also completely alien.

"It was really long, and after I got busy it was like a punk cut - all spikes and weird lengths." Clay ducked his head, suddenly sheepish. "I think mom burst into tears. Whitney thought it was cool though. Said that at least she didn't have to put up with mom combing out the tangles all the time."

"How old was she?" Tom was fascinated.

"'Bout six, I think - maybe just seven. She thought I was her hero after that. She was in her teens before she grew it long again."

The evening was progressing well, and the two men had settled into an easy silence listening to the music on the juke box and sipping their beers, when a slender blonde girl approached them and invited Clay to dance. As he rose to his feet with a grin, Tom felt such a pang of anger flash through him that it made him gasp. Although the dance was soon done, and Clay returned to his seat, Tom found himself grinding his teeth, and it suddenly hit him what his problem was. He felt like Clay was his, and although he'd never experienced anything like this since he'd lost Sarah that fateful evening, it suddenly dawned on him that he was in love.

It's not that Tom was shocked by this, it's just he'd never really been in love before. There had been Sarah of course, but that was just a tiny crush compared to what he felt for Clay. Besides, he didn't want to think he'd been in love with a girl that ran off and left him to die and then married his best friend (rival) as soon as he left town. Tom knew that wasn't exactly fair; he was sure his father hadn't told anyone where he'd gone, what he'd done to his son. So it wasn't fair to blame Sarah for marrying Axel after he disappeared. But the thing was, he was pretty sure Clay wouldn't have left him to die and really pretty sure that Clay would've done whatever it took to find him if he disappeared.

Other than Sarah, there really hadn't been anyone special. In the hospital, he'd been with a few girls (and guys) but it was never anything real. With the meds they were all on, it had been hard enough to feel anything. So it had never been about anything other than sex, and the vague sense of connection they could feel through the fog of the drugs. Since he'd gotten out, he'd been too busy trying to keep his head straight to even think about forming a relationship with anyone. Hell, he hadn't even had sex with anyone since ... well, since before he left the hospital, and those hookups barely counted.

So Tom didn't know what to do with the blind rage he felt toward the girl, who had dared to dance with Clay. Clay quickly realized something was up, and suggested they head home. Tom agreed readily, and they settled their tab before walking the few blocks back to the trailer. Though Clay pressed him, Tom had no idea how to explain what was wrong. He was still angry, and it was hard to think well enough to explain his agitation to his friend. Clay finally agreed to table the discussion until the next day, but he convinced Tom to take some of his anxiety meds and one of the sleeping pills he had. Tom knew that would only make things foggier, but maybe Clay was right and they could discuss this tomorrow with heads clear of both meds and the drinks they'd had at the bar. It was a good thing it was Friday. Tom was pretty sure he wouldn't feel like working in the morning.

Tom came back to himself standing in his boxers in the bathroom in their trailer. He was mopping blood from his hands and face, his outer clothes on the linoleum; the floor was drenched in what had to be more blood. He screamed. This wasn't like his usual nightmare; no one was chasing him, and it didn't look like he was injured. This had to be someone else's blood. And there was an awful lot of it. His stomach clenched, and he just kept screaming.

Clay came rushing into the bathroom, taking in the scene quickly and pulling Tom to his chest. He held him there, murmuring soothing nonsense words until Tom quieted. Then Clay took the cloth from him and calmly finished cleaning the blood from his skin. Once the worst of it was gone and Tom was calmer, Clay sent him to shower with instruction to wash his hair until the water ran clear. Somehow Clay's quiet demeanor made it easier for Tom to stay calm and just do what Clay said. It only made sense after all.

Clay picked up the bloody clothes and put them all (including his own boxers which had gotten messy while he was quieting Tom's earlier hysteria) in a trash bag. Then he cleaned the bathroom with bleach, paying particular attention to the sink and the floor where the bloody clothes had been. By the time Tom was finished, Clay had left clean pajama pants for him and was waiting for him to come out. Clay gave him a couple more of his pills and then bundled him into bed with Clay right behind him. Tom wanted to object but couldn't. Clay's strong arms felt comforting wrapped around him like that. Every time he tried to talk, Clay just shushed him, promising they'd talk tomorrow. Tom fell asleep feeling more peaceful than he had in a long time.

The morning dawned, and as Tom slowly came around, he could feel the warmth of a hard body spooned up against him. The sudden flood of heat that sparked from his groin was dampened in an instant when he recalled what had happened in the night. There had been blood - his clothes had been sticky with it, his hands and face covered in it, and Clay had seen. The chill that shook him was almost painful, and Clay seemed to sense it, because he woke then and Tom felt his arm tighten around his chest.

He's going to send me back, Tom thought, even as his body responded to the closeness, and the way that Clay was protecting him.

"Tom?" Clay's husky voice tugged him out of his panicky reverie. ""You awake?"

Making a small sound of assent, Tom struggled over so that he could look at Clay. "S...something happened," he whispered.

"What was it?" Clay's voice was gentle, kind, and Tom frowned, unable to parse that.

"I don't know." Tom was shaking now, and warm, large hands steadied him, soothed him. "I was in the bathroom, and there was blood everywhere - so much blood. I'm scared, Clay."

"Hey, dude, it's okay." Clay gentled him, hands soft against his spine as they stroked. "It's okay."

"You think I did... I did something? You going to send me back? I don't want to go back."

"Hush now." Arms were suddenly tight around him, and Clay had pulled him tightly in against his chest. "You're staying right here with me. I won't let you go anywhere."

It seemed perfectly natural to lift his chin and press his mouth to Clay's. He was gone, needy and stripped bare of all defenses, and he figured that he might as well tell everything now, because everything had changed between them anyway.

He half expected Clay to shove him away, disgust in his eyes. He hadn't believed that there would be a chance that Clay might want him. When Clay kissed him back, body tight and hard against his, it literally took his breath away.

Tom moaned and deepened the kiss, licking his way into Clay's mouth. Clay groaned and slid his tongue alongside Tom's, darting back and forth between their mouths. The lazy, comforting kiss quickly turned intense and hungry. Clay backed off a bit then, soothing Tom with comforting noises and gentle hands on his face and in his hair.

"Sshh, it's okay. But we need to try to figure out what happened last night. We'll have plenty of time for this," Clay gestured between them, apparently indicating the heavy make-out session they'd been heading toward. "But I'd rather find out if we should be expecting anyone to come around asking questions. We should figure out what happened so we can figure out how we can respond."

Clay's voice was soft, soothing, but Tom stiffened anyway at the reminder of what had happened the previous night. He didn't understand why Clay was being so nice to him after last night, and he really couldn't believe Clay was going to stick around. And not send him back to the hospital. Tom had never met anyone like Clay; he'd never known people like him existed. He found it hard to believe, hard to trust.

"It's okay, Tom. We'll get it figured out." Clay reiterated, obviously picking up on Tom's distress. "I'd just like to avoid any surprises if we can. What do you remember? Anything before the bathroom?"

"Nuh ... no. It was like I just woke up in the bathroom ..." Tom trailed off. That was the truth, he didn't remember anything else. But he knew how bad, how crazy that sounded. If he were in Clay's shoes, he'd probably have Tom committed too. He just couldn't figure out why Clay wouldn't do the same. He couldn't help but continue, "But that's insane, right? And there was all that blood. I had to have done something, I just can't remember!"

"Hey, it's okay. I just need you to try to remember, okay? Before the bathroom, were you in bed? Did you wake up?" Clay's voice was still soft, soothing. Tom relaxed a little bit at that. It seemed Clay was really serious about helping him work it out. He couldn't understand it, but he really seemed sincere. And even if he wasn't, there wasn't a lot Tom could do about it anyway. He knew he was in big trouble and if he ran now, he was quite sure he'd end up back in the hospital, or worse. So maybe between the two of them, they could figure something out. All he could do was try. And let Clay help him.

"No ... no, I don't think so. I just went to sleep," Tom answered. No need to tell Clay about jerking off first to thoughts of Clay - thoughts of Clay here in his bed with him. And now, here he was. It was all so confusing. But he was pretty sure it wasn't relevant, so he'd just keep that bit to himself for now. "I went to sleep and then I woke up in the bathroom. You know the rest."

"Do you remember any dreams? Did you hear anything?"

"No, nothing. That's kind of odd, isn't it?" Tom asked. "Don't most people dream?"

"Yeah, I think so," Clay answered thoughtfully. "But I don't think they always necessarily remember them."

"That makes sense," Tom agreed. "Not sure how it helps us though."

"Yeah, me either," Clay shrugged. "I'm gonna go get some coffee and donuts, see if I can find a newspaper or something. You just sit tight and I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Sounds good. I'll just take a shower or something." Shower, bathroom, blood everywhere! Tom could feel his breathing speeding up. He knew he'd hyperventilate if he didn't get it under control.

"Hey man, calm down," Clay soothed. "It's okay. I cleaned up really good in there. No one would ever know what it looked like last night unless they've got really good equipment and are specifically looking for it. And that's why we need to figure out what happened, so we can be prepared. Okay?"

"Okay," Tom nodded, calming down some. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

"I'll be right back. I'll get rid of these," Clay indicated the garbage bag that Tom vaguely remembered the bloody clothes going into last night. "I'll get some coffee, donuts, and a paper. Then we'll figure out what to do from there. You can use my bathroom to shower if you want."

"Okay, I think I'll do that." Tom's breathing was almost back to normal, and he was pretty sure he'd be okay until Clay got back. And then they'd see what they could see. Figure out what to do from there. Tom nodded and smiled gamely at Clay. "I'll see you when you get back."

"I'll try to be quick," Clay said, sounding relieved. His smile was almost his trademark grin complete with dimples as he left the trailer, locking the door behind him.

As Clay left the trailer, Tom almost couldn't resist chasing after him and begging him not to abandon him. He'd blown it, and done so spectacularly. Clay had sneaked into his affection-starved life and taken it by storm, and he'd helped to settle Tom after the events of the night before. Now he was gone. Tom strained his ears to hear if he'd jumped onto Grumbles and taken off, but there was no sound.

After a while, Tom went to take the shower, pausing to inhale the scent of the shampoo that Clay habitually used. At least he would be able to smell like Clay, even if he had been abandoned. Running the shower until the water ran warm he stepped in and began to wash away the panic-sweat. He tried his hardest to remember how he'd gotten into the bathroom the night before, but there was nothing. All he could recall was being in bed, and then the rude awakening to find himself standing in his bathroom, caked in sticky, half congealed blood.

The thought of that made his gorge rise, and he had to swallow repeatedly so he didn't vomit into Clay's shower cubicle. Panting, he transferred his thoughts to Clay, tall and lean and built like a Greek statue, and kind enough not to call Tom a lunatic before he left. Tom remembered the way it had felt to have Clay spoon up behind him, body sleep warmed and cozy, and wished beyond anything that he could have that again. He'd never felt so safe, so loved, so accepted in his life, and he was choked at the thought that Clay would now probably be miles away and running for the hills.

He was out of the shower, toweling himself down, when he heard the sounds coming from the living room. Half expecting to be faced by the police when he emerged from the bathroom, he drew in a deep breath and went to meet his fate.

"Hey, man, how're you doing? You're looking nice and clean anyway." Clay was setting out coffee and McMuffins in the little galley kitchen, and Tom could only stand there, wide eyed. "Dude, what...?" He paused momentarily in his activities. "You look like you just saw a ghost or something."

"N...no, not a ghost. You." Tom's voice was harsh, deeper even than usual, and Clay frowned.

"What do you mean, me?" For a second, Clay's face was comical as he tried to fathom Tom's meaning; then his brow cleared. "Oh, listen, sorry. I know I promised you donuts, but they weren't open, and Mickey D's was right there, so I..."

"I thought that you'd left." Tom was beyond secrecy now. He cared too much to prevaricate. "Thought you'd be halfway back to Boston by now, man. Last night was pretty fuckin' traumatic. You don't need to saddle yourself with a pathetic psycho. What are you even doing here, man?"

"You think I'd dump your ass?" The baffled look was back on Clay's features. "Tom, you jerk, you're my friend. I don't know what's happened in your life, but in mine we take care of our friends." He took a step towards Tom. "Besides, I kinda think that you and I make a good... a good team."

All Tom could do was nod, dumbly. Clay was going to stay with him. Clay liked him enough that the stupid things that seemed to happen around him didn't seem to matter. He went over and hugged Clay, pounding his shoulder with a fist as he tried to express his gratitude.

Pulling back a moment later, he coughed nervously. "So what did you do with that garbage sack?"

"Oh, that." There was a smile in Clay's eyes as he looked at Tom. "I poured a bunch of bleach in there to make sure that the scent of blood wasn't going to get every god damned raccoon in the world zeroing in on it, and then took it out into the woods by the lake, dug a hole and buried it. That okay?

"More than okay, man." Tom suddenly felt weak with relief. It would be okay. Clay was on his side. Clay liked him, and thought they were a team. "Did you get a paper?" he asked, trying to sound casual, as if it were an afterthought.

"Oh, yeah. It's over there on the side. Now come on and eat your tasty monosodium glutamate sandwich. You're a growing boy and need your strength." Clay was already reaching for his, and as Tom followed suit he couldn't help the warm glow that flooded through him at the thought that at last he had found a friend who didn't apparently care that he was a completely neurotic fuckup.

Tom tried to eat his breakfast leisurely, but his eyes kept darting to the newspaper. He was sure Clay saw him, knew that all he could think about was the silly newspaper. He knew he was being stupid and neurotic again but he couldn't seem to help it. Finally he set his sandwich down and opened the newspaper. There on the front page was an article about a girl they'd found killed and mutilated across town. There was a tiny, grainy black and white picture just below the fold and Tom inhaled sharply when he saw it.

"Clay, this looks like the girl you were dancing with at that bar last night. You think it was her?" He shoved the paper across the table, pointing out the picture for Clay to look at.

"Yeah, maybe," Clay answered cautiously. "It's hard to say for sure. But yeah, it does look like her. Why?"

"You think it was me?" Tom asked, trying not to panic. "You think maybe because she was dancing with you ..." Tom trailed off, not wanting to voice his fear.

"I don't know," Clay answered calmly. "Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. It doesn't really change anything though, does it?"

"Well, of course it does! If I ... if I did something to that girl ..." Tom was panicking now and he knew it, but wasn't now a good time to panic? He and Clay were just starting to move their relationship to a whole new level, and Tom had to go and screw everything up again.

"We were pretty sure last night that something had happened, that somehow you were involved. Why would knowing some girl I might've danced with once ..." Clay paused, probably to figure out how to finish that sentence while still avoiding the word Tom still didn't want to think about, didn't want to face. "What happened to that girl last night," Clay tapped the picture in the newspaper, "was tragic. But it doesn't really change anything for us. I mean, we just wanted the information so we could be prepared in case someone comes around with questions. That's all we're doing, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Tom answered shakily, unable to believe that Clay would stay, that he'd be on his side no matter what had happened.

"So now we have more information. We just have to figure out what to do with it." Clay continued calmly.

"Yeah, okay," Tom agreed, calmer but still not convinced a good panic attack wasn't warranted.

"Good," Clay smiled. "You know that girl ... that dance ... You know it didn't mean anything, right? It's just been you and me since Crystal Lake, and I like it like that. And before that there was just Whitney, and she's my sister so that doesn't count."

Tom laughed, amazed that Clay would make a point of that, when they had so much more important things to worry about. Like figuring out where to go from here. He sobered quickly. "So I guess we need to figure out what to do now, yeah?"

"Yeah," Clay nodded.

"I guess I should pack my shit and get out of here. Sooner or later someone's gonna want to know where I was last night." Tom tried to stay calm, to not freak out at the prospect of leaving (running) again. He'd done it so often before, but he'd never had anyone to leave behind that he cared about. He didn't have Clay before. He didn't know if he could do it this time.

"First off, if someone does ask, you were here all night. I'll vouch for you. We came home from the bar and both went to sleep. Nothing until morning." Clay said, obviously trying to soothe Tom. "Second, I doubt anyone's going to even think we might be involved, no reason to. Third, if anyone's going anywhere, it's both of us. Okay?"

"Yeah." Tom nodded, still not entirely convinced. "So what do we do? How do we find out what happened? How do we find out if anyone thinks maybe I had something to do with ... anything?"

"I'm not sure," Clay answered. "But I do know they'd be a lot more likely to suspect something if we just took off without giving notice at either our jobs or with our landlady."

"Okay, so say we don't run," Tom thought about their options, about what might make him comfortable with staying. Clay wanted to stay, Tom could tell. But he'd said he'd go with him if he left. The thought that Clay cared enough to come with him, even when he wanted to stay, and even if the law was on their tail, warmed something deep inside him. It was a new and heady experience that someone cared that much about him. He never remembered feeling that before, not even when he was a small child. "If only there was some way to find out about the investigation. Some way that wouldn't bring suspicion down on us."

"Hey, I've got a cousin that's a private investigator. He's in Miami but maybe he could make some calls." Clay smiled, seemingly happy to have something to offer. It was almost like he understood how Tom felt, like he understood his need to feel safe. He felt safer with Clay than he could ever remember feeling, but he wasn't sure even that was enough if he felt like they were going to come after him, going to lock him up again. And the last thing he wanted was that little voice screaming in his head again.

"That's a good idea, Clay. I could pay him, of course." Clay would likely argue with him about that; he never seemed to want Tom to pay for anything. But this time it wasn't something for both of them; Clay shouldn't feel like he needed to split the cost. "What if he called and told them his client was trying to find out what happened to his sister. Then he could ask questions about this investigation, to find out if it might be linked to the sister's disappearance. Do you think that would lead back to us?"

"I think that might work. I'll give him a call." Clay sounded happy, pleased that they'd found a way to make Tom more secure. Tom wondered again why Clay put up with all his paranoia and stuff, and thanked his lucky stars that he'd found a ... companion who seemed to care for him enough to overlook all of his issues. "But you don't have to pay him; I'm sure he'd do it just because we're family. And if not, he'll at least cut me a deal."

"I want to pay him. And I don't want a special rate." How could he get Clay to understand that paying the PI was the least he could do, that he wanted to do that, and that he wanted to feel actively involved in sorting this mess out. "I've got the money, and I want to feel like I'm helping to figure out how to deal with this. It's my problem; I don't understand why you don't want me to do my part to resolve it."

"Okay, if it means that much to you." Clay reached across the table to clasp Tom's wrist. "But it is our problem. I want you to promise you won't take off on me, that you'll talk to me if it gets to be too much. All right? We can always decide later that we need to leave, just please don't leave me. Can you promise me that?"

Tom was almost surprised the voice in his head didn't start gibbering at that. How had he gotten himself so attached? But the voice was mercifully silent and Tom felt like he could make that promise. "Okay, I promise I won't take off on you. I'll talk to you first."

"Thank you," Clay said sincerely.

It took Clay the best part of the day to get hold of his cousin, and when he finally did, he swiftly outlined the situation that he and Tom had agreed to present. "We're comparatively new in town, you see, Sean," he said. "And we're a little worried that the cops might just decide it was one of us on principle, because we're the newcomers. I'd feel a little better if someone could make discreet inquiries for us."

His cousin seemed happy to do what was necessary, and by the time Clay hung up the phone, he was grinning, dimples bracketing his smile and sending sweet flutters through Tom's abdomen.

The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully, and by Sunday afternoon the two men found themselves out walking by the lake. It was one of those really hot days that often occur at the end of summer, and towards mid afternoon they'd shucked their shirts and jeans and were cooling off in the lake, not really swimming, merely splashing each other and floating around in the sun-warm water. Clay had steered himself over to where Tom was lying back in the water, eyes closed, looking almost peaceful.

Bumping against his friend as Clay had floated up, Tom turned his head to peer at him. "Hey," he said, a tiny smile curling his lips.

"Hey back." Clay had hooked his arm through Tom's. "You feeling a little better than you were yesterday?"

The smile had left Tom's face at the question, but after a moment it reappeared, slightly muted. "Yeah. Guess I am," he replied.

"Couldn't help noticing that you kind of felt like I was going to just abandon you." Clay allowed his feet to sink down and stood, chest deep in the water. "What the hell was all that about?" Tom looked stricken. He too rose to his feet, all relaxation gone, and body braced to flee. Clay reached out for him and seized his shoulders, kneading them gently in an effort to dispel the stress Tom was feeling. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Tom, really, it's okay if you can't tell me, but I want to know who it was that hurt you so badly that you can't quite believe in me."

Tom shuddered at Clay's touch, but relaxed under his gentle fingers. "I... My mom left when I was little. I don't really remember her properly, but I can remember her voice. She disappeared one day when I was at school - just packed a bag and took off, or that's what Dad told me. I was seven." He began wading towards the shore, and Clay followed him, apparently hoping for further revelations. As he sat down on the shingle beach to dry himself in the sun, Tom began to talk again. "Dad seemed to hate me after mom left. Nothing I ever did was enough. He didn't beat me or anything, but he found fault with everything. I was stupid, and careless, and it was my fault that mom left. That's what he told me - said she'd have stayed if I hadn't been such a brat. I didn't think that I was that bad, but Dad was convinced that I had the devil in me or something." He swallowed, lifted wide green eyes filled with misery to meet Clay's. Clay said nothing, merely gesturing for Tom to continue.

"Sarah was the first person who ever appeared to like me for myself, and I thought she was everything." A brief, hiccupping sob escaped him as he relived the dreadful night that had trapped Harry Warden and his co-workers. "The night I caused the explosion in the mine, it was my fault. I was too busy thinking about meeting Sarah after my shift. When the blast went off I almost shit myself, because I was the one. I knew what I'd done; I knew what I'd forgotten, and sure enough, when I got home afterwards he didn't spare me. According to him, it wasn't enough that I'd hung around to fuck up his life; I'd started to take it to the rest of Harmony. He never spoke to me much after that - he just looked through me."

"Jesus!" Clay put his arm around Tom, pulling him close to his side, and the two of them sat gazing out across the lake into the golden light of late afternoon. A damsel fly swooped down across their vision, iridescent green-blue body and lacy wings whirring as it skimmed the water, and Clay leaned his cheek against Tom's head. "You've had it rough, man. I'm sorry."

The words seemed to spur Tom on. He'd begun his confession, and it was as if now he'd started he couldn't stop. He resumed his story, his voice soft and somehow childlike. "The night it happened - the night Harry woke up, I was feeling pretty fucking bad. I didn't want to go to the party in the mine. Sarah pushed me - she wanted to go because her friends were going, and in the end I said I'd take her, because the alternative was that she'd go with someone else - probably Axel. He didn't like me much, and he was always sniffing around after Sarah. Harry came after us, and I was the last one out. I can still see them driving away and leaving me to it. Harry was right there, and he'd got that pick held high. I thought I was dead meat, and when the sheriff shot him, his blood spattered all over me. I threw up, man."

"Fuck, I'm not surprised. I think I'd have crapped myself if it had been me." Clay squeezed Tom's shoulder. "So then what?"

"Oh, then I kinda lost it. I'm told that I started screaming in the night and couldn't stop. I don't remember. It was weeks later that I can recall anything really, and by then I was in a secure facility just outside of Columbus, Ohio. Dad had made sure he didn't have to see me again; he'd had me taken away and signed me in - committed me. Now I'm not saying I wasn't batshit insane, but I don't know that I deserved that either." He shrugged. "So I was there for seven years, and slowly managed to take control of my life, got it together again and - with a lot of help - found a job and got myself a bit of a life. Everything was fine for three years, and then dad died. I had to go back to Harmony to wind up his affairs, and somehow it all started up again."

There were no more questions; Clay was done. The two of them sat for a long time, and nothing more was said. Finally, as the sun was almost gone, staining the sky orange through to blood red, they rose and dressed themselves again and turned to head back to the trailer. They were almost back home when Clay finally cleared his throat.

"I'm not like them. I won't leave you," he murmured. Tom studied him quizzically, searching for any evidence of jest, but after a long, searching look he nodded.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Clay checked his messages when they got back, smiling at Tom as he listened. After a brief call with his cousin, he filled Tom in on what he'd found so far. "Sounds like they don't have any solid leads, but there were some kids staying at the KOA last week, and someone saw one of them leaving with the girl Friday night. They checked out of the campground Saturday morning; Sean doesn't know if it was planned or even if KOA asks how long you're staying when you check in or if you pay by the day. But either way, the cops think it's suspicious. They're not going to close the case just yet, but they don't have every man on it anymore either. Sean said they'd most likely close the case in a couple of weeks unless something turns up, like a new lead or another body. He's going to stay on it though and let me know."

Tom knew his smile had more than a hint of relief in it. "So that's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, that's good." Clay smiled back, dimples in full force. "I told you leaving would be suspicious."

"Yeah, you did." Tom knew Clay was teasing him, but it still reminded him too much of how he had panicked that morning. "I just ... I don't know. I guess that's how I've handled things. Running always seems like the best option."

"Well, now you've got me around to help calm you down. So we can make good, rational decisions together." Clay's smile was fond, and Tom was sure there was heat in his eyes, reminding him of the kisses they'd shared as they woke up together the previous morning. Clay's hand came up to caress Tom's face, thumb dragging across his bottom lip.

Tom nodded, leaning in to Clay's touch, but then realized it was getting late and they hadn't had a decent meal since breakfast. "We should eat something. Want to try to find stuff around here or head to the diner?"

Clay pulled his hand back, his eyes lingering on Tom's mouth. "Diner sounds good actually."

They walked to the diner, shoulders bumping companionably. They were pleased to see Kathy waiting tables, and she showed them to their favorite booth. She brought Clay's milkshake and a glass of water for each of them along with the menus. "You boys need a menu?"

They both grinned at her and ordered their usual chicken fried steak and pot roast. Kathy always offered them menus, but they hadn't looked at them after the fourth or fifth time they'd been in. She smiled back and went to turn in their order. She was still friendly enough, but she'd dialed back on the flirting quite a bit. Tom hadn't thought much about it, but now he wondered why. Had she seen the affection growing between them and realized there wasn’t much point to her flirting? Or had she just given up because it had never gotten her anywhere? Or maybe that's just how she dealt with strangers, and they didn't fit that category anymore. Tom decided it didn't matter; she was still really friendly, so even if she did think they might be gay, it didn't seem to upset her.

They chatted amiably about everything from their job to the woeful state of their cupboards. They usually did their grocery shopping on Saturday, but this hadn't exactly been their typical weekend. Kathy brought their dinners and gossiped about the poor girl that had been killed, telling them how devastated the family was. That put a bit of a damper on their conversation and Tom didn't know how to get it started again.

"Hey, I was wondering," Clay started. "Did your dad ever come visit you? While you were in the ... hospital I mean."

"No, he didn't." Tom answered flatly.

"Never?" Clay's voice was incredulous. "Not in seven years? I'm sorry, man, but that's pretty screwed up."

"I guess," Tom shrugged. "It's just how it was for us. It's not like I was surprised when he never came to see me. I thought maybe Sarah might, but who knows what my dad told everyone. After a while it got to where it didn't matter anymore. By the time I got out, the last place I wanted to go was back home. But then the attorney said that Dad's will had stipulated I had to be there to sell the mine. I'm sure he wanted me to just leave it alone, let it keep running. But I couldn't, you know? Last thing I wanted to do was own that mine."

"Wow," Clay said, voice admiring as well as shocked. "You're something special, man. It's amazing you're as sane as you are after all that."

Tom shook his head, not sure how to respond. He caught himself meticulously cutting his steak into exactly equal bites. Yeah, he was real stable. But Clay seemed to think he was doing well, and Tom had made a point since the other night to not hide anything from Clay. He didn't know what to think of that either. But changing the subject seemed like a really good idea. "That was fun today. At the lake just messing around. I don't think I've ever done that."

"Haven't done what? Been swimming?" Clay asked, clearly trying to keep the shock from his voice.

"Not like that. Just for fun." Tom answered simply. "I know how to swim of course; Dad made sure I had lessons. And I would sometimes go boating or something with friends. But not just goofing off like that."

"I'm glad you had fun." Clay took another bite of his dinner. Tom was grateful that Clay didn't comment again on how different their childhoods had been. Tom had never known anything else, never realized what he'd been missing. Clay smiled at him again, interrupting his musing. "I had fun too."

The food was welcome, but for some reason Tom felt antsy and unsettled. He ate half of his meal and then pushed his plate away in favor of watching Clay devour everything on his plate. He couldn't take his eyes away from Clay and the other man's mobile features. Ordinarily, Clay's expressive face was cheerful, veering towards overjoyed, his ever-ready, million-watt smile always threatening to burst out and charm people, but when he was eating, that face took on an almost predatory look, cat-eyes focused on his plate as if the contents would attempt to escape without supreme vigilance. Tom thought that Clay ate the way he did everything, taking big bites and enjoying the heck out of it.

He wanted to touch Clay. He wanted to plunge his hands into Clay's hair and feel it slip between his fingers. He wanted things that he wasn't sure he should, but there was no backing out now. He was going to go for it. He was tired of waiting, and his feelings for Clay were spilling out now, no longer able to be contained.

It seemed that Clay was starting to sense something in the air too. He suddenly laid down his fork and gave Tom a long, searching look. "Dude, what?" he said, cat-eyes intense as he studied his companion.

"I... don't know," murmured Tom. "You and me. Clay, I want..." He was silent again, trying to say what he wanted without actually sounding too pathetic. Clay smiled as he gathered up his fork again.

"Yeah. It's been getting that way, hasn't it?" He speared his last piece of meat and waved it at Tom. "You need to eat though. I suspect that there may be energy involved in things. Wouldn't want you to run out."

"I don't have to fuel quite so much... everything." Tom waved his arms vaguely, indicating the everything that Clay possessed. "I'm good to go." He gave Clay a strained grin. "You gonna eat mounds of dessert and stuff?" he asked, the faintest suggestion of a whine in his voice.

"No, not tonight." Clay was smirking now, his eyes alight with mischief. "We've got ice cream and a pie in the fridge at home. I think I can keep going, knowing that sustenance is only a few feet away."

Fumbling in his wallet for some money, Tom rose to his feet, feeling slightly shaky. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, and then went to settle up the bill and flirt a little with Kathy. By the time Clay was ready and came to join him the two of them were laughing together about a birthday cake she was describing that she'd made for her husband. "And don't forget, you're invited to the party on Tuesday night. Just make sure that you don't tell him. It's supposed to be a surprise, so we're all going to hide and jump out at him." She gave a rich chuckle and elbowed Tom in the ribs. "You think he'll keel over with a heart attack?"

"God, I hope not," said Tom, grinning back. "He owes me a beer. I totally fixed his computer for him the other night."

The two of them said goodbye to Kathy and made their way out to the sidewalk. The heat between them that had temporarily damped down returned in full force, and Tom turned to look up at Clay, licking his lips. "You... I... Fuck! Come on!"

Turning on his heel, he headed towards home and privacy, hoping that Clay wouldn’t know that he was freaking out. Reaching the trailer he fumbled with his key and jumped when Clay reached over his shoulder to take it out of his hand and use it to open the door. Clay's heat was pressed along his back, Clay's breath was tickling his ear, and Tom couldn't wait any longer. Turning, he gripped Clay's forearm and dragged him over the threshold so that the door could be closed on the world outside.

Once inside, Tom seemed to lose momentum. He stood looking at Clay, hands twitching, uncertain now that they were back at home. "Clay?" When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, as if he was afraid to break some fragile moment and shatter a dream.

"Easy, Tom." Clay sounded calm, but when Tom looked, he could see the heightened color in his face. Biting his lip, Tom stepped forward into Clay's space, closed his eyes and raised his face, waiting.

Time stretched, and Tom stood waiting. He thought that lifetimes might have passed by the time he felt Clay's hands on his shoulders, and then Clay's lips found his, softly at first, brushing his own as if learning them. He heard a soft growl, as if Clay were unleashing some hunger he'd kept in check, and then there were arms about him, pulling him close, and Clay was deepening their kiss, pressing them together so that their bodies aligned, parting his own lips so that he could taste Tom's mouth. A shudder ran through Tom's body, and then he melted into Clay, tongue seeking Clay's as his arms tightened around him.

For a while they were content to stand and kiss, bodies tight and hard against each other, and mouth on mouth, sucking and biting, tenderness forgotten. Clay was the first to move, hands sliding up under Tom's sweat-stained T-shirt to press it up and off over his head. Tom pulled away, looking at Clay as if trying to memorize him. Deliberately, he allowed his hands to drop to his belt, slowly snapping the buckle open and unfastening the fly. He found a smile from somewhere, swayed towards Clay and then turned and walked back towards Clay’s bedroom, allowing his jeans to start falling, his thumbs assisting his underwear in its descent.

At the door to the bedroom, Tom turned and leaned on the door frame, eying Clay, who was still standing, eyes wide, his face a mask of naked lust. "Come on," he murmured, pressing his jeans and underwear down until he could kick his legs free. "Clay, come on."

He was sure of his power now, sure that he was desired, and the thrill of that was sending liquid heat surging through his belly. His cock stood proud against his stomach, displaying his need more surely than any words.

Clay moved to him, mesmerized, and Tom - naked now - took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Once they reached the bed, Clay pulled him back into a rough, needy kiss. Clay's hands roamed over Tom's naked back, one hand sliding down to his waist, pressing Tom flush against his body. Tom moaned as his naked erection brushed against Clay's equally hard, but still clothed, cock. Tom slid his hands under Clay's shirt, exploring his chest and tweaking his nipples. Clay groaned and pulled back just enough to pull his shirt off over his head and then dove back into the kiss. Tom took that as encouragement and continued mapping Clay's chest with one hand, and with the other he reached for Clay's belt. When Clay pulled away again, Tom couldn't help his needy whimper.

Clay went to his knees and holding Tom's cock with one hand, swirled his tongue around the head. He tongued at the slit before sucking the head into his mouth. The warm, wet suction was too much for Tom, and his knees gave out, ending with him sitting rather abruptly on the side of the bed. Clay grinned up at him before following him down and swallowing him down again. Tom couldn't remember anything ever feeling as good as Clay's mouth on his cock. He focused on staying still and not thrusting up into Clay's mouth. That battle was lost when Clay swallowed around his dick, until his nose was buried in Tom's pubes.

Clay pulled off when Tom tentatively thrust into his mouth and urged him on, "That's it, Tom, fuck my mouth." Tom was sure there was something else he'd wanted, but he couldn't think with Clay's lips wrapped around his cock. Clay pressed his tongue flat along the underside of it, hollowing his cheeks and sucking him in. Tom couldn't help but thrust into the welcoming warmth, and, before he knew it, he was shouting and coming down Clay's throat.

Tom was still hazy from his orgasm when he noticed Clay had opened his jeans and was jacking his own cock. He pulled Clay to his feet and took it into his mouth. He wanted to draw it out, tease Clay a little, but almost as soon as he'd wrapped his lips around Clay, the other man was thrusting urgently and coming.

"Fuck, Tom, your mouth," Clay said, between harsh panting breaths. "I wanted ... I'd dreamed ..." Tom felt almost as flattered by having reduced Clay to speaking in sentence fragments as he was by what Clay had actually said. Clay had wanted him? Had been dreaming about him? Why hadn't he ever said anything?

Tom pulled Clay to sit beside him on the bed and kissed him, his tongue darting inside Clay's mouth, tasting himself there. Clay groaned and took control of the kiss, plunging his tongue into Tom's mouth, exploring thoroughly. Tom moaned as his own taste mingled in his mouth with the salt-bitter flavor of Clay's come. Clay pushed Tom onto his back and followed him down, kissing along his jaw. Settling his weight to one side, he pulled Tom fully into his arms, kissing and petting.

Once they'd both caught their breath, Tom gathered his scrambled wits together enough to ask, "So, if you wanted ..." Tom trailed off, unsure how to phrase it, but then went on, sure Clay would figure out what he meant. "How come you never said anything, man?"

"I thought for sure you were straight," Clay laughed. "I mean, you talked about your girlfriend but never ... anyone else."

"You never talked about anyone," Tom returned. "But after the other morning ... I was sure you'd know how I felt."

"But then we had other stuff to deal with," Clay said. "And nothing since then."

"Yeah, because I was waiting for you. I figured I'd made the first move and ... I didn't want to push you into anything."

"As if," Clay laughed. "I thought ... I don't know what I thought. I was just afraid you'd changed your mind, or it had just been some freak thing because we woke up in bed together or whatever."

"Not likely," Tom smiled at him. "I mean, look at you - who wouldn't want you?"

"Whatever." Tom thought Clay might be turning a bit pink. "Besides, have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Tom was sure he was blushing and pulled Clay down into another gentle kiss. "Any time you want me," he mumbled against Clay's mouth. "Been crushing on you since Crystal Lake."

Clay threw his head back and laughed. "And there I was, being so careful not to scare you away with my evil, lust-ridden thoughts. What a damned shame - we could have been together all this time."

"Better this way, don't you think?" Tom pushed Clay back onto the bed and snuggled in against his shoulder. "We're friends now, not just fuck buddies, and we've got something that might last." He felt a weird pang in his chest as he said the words. Together - he and Clay were together, and they would stay together. Something in the back of his thoughts stirred, and he felt a weird echo of agreement at that word. Together. Yes.

The warmth of late summer had cooled into a hazy fall, bright with the red and yellow foliage of autumn. Waking the next morning, tangled up together in sleepy fellowship, Tom thought he'd at last found himself a winning streak. Heading for the bathroom, he relieved himself and then padded back to bed and the warmth of his new love. Lounging on one elbow, he studied Clay, admiring the way the sun had lightened his hair in streaks that ranged from red gold to rich chestnut. Clay's clever eyes were closed, the thick lashes fanning out over his high cheekbones to give him an exotic look that made Tom shiver. Bending, he kissed Clay into wakefulness, unsure as yet what the protocol was, but just wanting him too much to let him lie.

"Good morning," he murmured, tracing over Clay's bristly chin with one thumb. "Sleep well? I did."

Clay's answer was to reach for Tom, pulling him down into a deep, wet kiss, teeth, and morning breath and hot, loving hands roaming his body. Letting out a sigh of contentment, Tom rolled with it, allowing Clay to cover him as he stole his arms around the big man's neck and gave back kiss for kiss. "Get it while it's hot, Mr. Miller," he mumbled into the rough skin of Clay's cheek. "It's not just for breakfast any more."

Laughing, Clay slid down a little so that he could suck a chain of hickeys around Tom's throat. "Not just comfortable to lie on, edible. I like that." Clay's cock was a hard presence against Tom's thigh, and Tom reached down to palm it, hand gripping it tight and jacking it slowly, relishing the needy little gasp that brought from Clay's lips.

"It beats self service any day." Snickering, Tom increased his strokes, tugging Clay over so that their cocks lined up and trying to grip the two of them together. "Damn! I suck at this. The theory is all there, but the execution needs work."

"You need some help there?" Clay wrapped his somewhat larger hand around Tom's and together they began to work them in earnest, hands moving faster and faster until first Tom, then seconds later Clay, spilled themselves, breath harsh and strident as their muscles locked, and orgasm shook them.

Lying against Clay's muscular chest, sweaty and sated and contented, Tom thought his life couldn't possibly be any better. He sighed as the alarm finally sounded and rolled out of bed. "Guess we get up and go to work and I'll try not to keep on groping you, okay?"

Grinning, Clay swung his legs around to follow. "You want to grope me, go right ahead. I've got nothing to hide."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Tom looked down at Clay's cock, nestled half hard amongst the damp curls at his groin. "You let anyone see that thing, and they'll all be after you for some."

Heading in to shower and get ready for work, Tom couldn't keep from singing. Everything was going to be awesome from now on.

That feeling lasted until he remembered that this would be the first time he'd been out, around people, since Friday night when he'd come to himself in the bathroom covered in blood. (The previous night in the diner didn’t count; Kathy and the rest were as good as family. Tom trusted them a whole lot more than he did his own family.) He knew it wasn't rational, but he was convinced everyone would be able to see the blood on his hands - all over him - even though it had been washed off days ago. He caught himself scrubbing his skin raw and forced himself to stop. No sense further convincing Clay that he was completely fucking bonkers. Tom had no idea why the other man stuck around. No one else ever had. But since Clay was still there, and even helping him figure out what to do about it, Tom thought maybe he might really stay. He still didn't understand why, but thinking of Clay left a warm feeling inside, and Tom thought just maybe he could make it to work. One step at a time, he'd worry about how to make it through the rest of the day later, right now he just needed to hold himself together long enough to get to work.

Work itself was strangely routine. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this day seeming like every other day just seemed wrong somehow. He kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to fall. But it never did. One step at a time, and before he knew it, it was lunchtime. They all gathered around the tables to eat their lunch, just like any other day. Tom knew he was quieter than normal, but he didn't know what to say, how to interact with the people he'd worked with every day for weeks, months. He gave Clay a small smile when he looked at Tom worriedly. He hoped Clay understood that he meant that he was okay, or maybe not yet, but that he would be okay.

Chuck, one of the guys they'd worked with these last weeks, seemed to catch Clay's worried glance and Tom's attempt at reassurance. He stormed over to their table, finger pointing at the two of them. Oh no, thought Tom, here it comes. He'd been waiting all morning for someone to call him out, to let everyone know what a monster he really was. And here it was. He knew he should've run. He shouldn't have let Clay talk him out of it. He was so deep in his own terrified thoughts that it took a while for what the guy was actually saying to penetrate.

"You fucking fairies," he was yelling at them. "Why'd you have to bring that shit around here? This was a great place to work until you two showed up."

"And what shit would that be?" Clay asked mildly, standing to face the angry man.

"I saw you two down at the beach yesterday," Chuck blustered, craning his neck back to look Clay in the face. "And now you're here making eyes at each other while all us decent folk try to eat!" He pointed at Clay and Tom, glancing wildly around at the rest of the crew. "They're flaming fags! I knew there was something off about them."

"So?" Clay answered, hands going to his hips in an unconsciously threatening move. "What if we are? You some kind of bigot?"

Tom couldn't help himself; he started giggling hysterically. He’d been prepared for censure this morning, but this was the last thing he'd expected to have thrown in their faces. He knew laughter probably wasn't an appropriate response, but he couldn't help himself. It was mostly relief, and undoubtedly fueled by the state of controlled panic he'd held himself in all morning, but he couldn't seem to stop. He was sure he was probably just convincing people of their guilt, but he really couldn't be bothered by that. So much better to be labeled gay than ... a murderer. Fuck! Now he'd done it. Thinking like that was sure to bring on a blackout and he just couldn't afford that right now. Besides, what if Clay didn't want to be outed to all his co-workers like that. Maybe he'd rather be ...

Tom stopped his madly spiraling thoughts when he realized that no, he hadn't blacked out. He was still here and still giggling insanely. He swallowed down the last of his laughter with a little hiccupping sob and forced himself to look up into Clay's eyes, fully expecting to see disappointment there. Tom had always disappointed everyone, why should Clay be any different? But Clay was looking at him with concern, obviously worried for him. Not annoyed with him, not even the least bit displeased. Just ... caring. Tom shot him what he hoped was a reassuring smile before tuning back in to the conversation around him.

" ... Don’t care what or who they do in their bedrooms, they're good workers and just plain nice people. And that's a lot more than I can say for some of the assholes around here." Darren cast a snide glance Chuck's way before falling silent as the shift foreman came to see what the uproar was about.

"What's going on over here?" Scott asked, looking around curiously.

"These two are gay," Chuck started in before getting swiftly cut off.

"Hold on now," Brian interrupted. "I'm pretty sure no one has established one way or the other on that score. But most of us have decided we don't really care either way. Unless you have policy that says otherwise?"

"No," Scott answered, "no policy. And even if there was, I'd likely ignore it. Even if anyone were to prove conclusively one way or the other, I don't think that's any of our business. So unless there's something else, I suggest you boys eat your lunch. Afternoon shift starts in just a few minutes."

Tom watched as Clay finished off his sandwiches and rose to go back to his forklift and finish unloading the truck he'd been working on. He felt disoriented, but knew that now wasn't the time to break down. Sighing, he set aside the half a sandwich he hadn't eaten and rose to his feet. He'd get through the afternoon, and then he could go home and shut the world out. All he wanted to do right now was be with Clay. Clay understood him and yet, unaccountably, seemed to love him anyway, and right now all Tom wanted was to feel the love and acceptance that radiated from his tall companion.

He'd been working up on the roof, placing and tacking down shingles, and as he returned to continue, Brian, who was working with him, elbowed him. "You seemed to be upset back there, but it's okay; I don't think any of us think any less of you for occasionally playing the pink oboe. Pay no attention to Chuck, man. He's a dick."

"Playing the pink oboe?" Tom paused, wide eyed. The feeling of displacement was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to giggle. "You've got to be kidding, dude. Where did you ever get that from?"

"Jeez, don't hold it against me," smirked Brian. "Seems somehow classier than some of the other terms I've heard. Anyway, I just wanted to say that Chuck didn't really out you, if that's what was making you nervous. We'd all come to the conclusion that you and Clay are pretty much an item."

Tom didn't say anything more, merely put his hand on Brian's shoulder and nodded his thanks before turning back to the stack of shingles that were waiting to be attached. He felt a little better - more centered, and the rest of the afternoon went by without further incident.

When the whistle blew, he was finally able to stretch his cramped back and listen to the crack and pop of his joints with satisfaction before heading to the ladder and down to meet Clay. His new lover was sweat-shiny and filthy, and greeted him extravagantly with a hug. "They don't care, so why should I?" he asked, and Tom, who had stiffened a little at the public display, relaxed, but didn't hold up his face for a kiss.

"Yeah, but you're all sweaty and gross," he said with a smirk. "You need to grab a shower before you get any favors from me."

Brian had followed Tom down the ladder, and he snickered, elbowing Clay. "Better do as he says, man! They get really bitchy when you don't mind what they say."

"Excuse me?" Tom was grinning, but his voice was severe. "I am still here, you know." He grabbed Clay's arm. "Come on, filthy! I'm gonna take you home and scrub you clean."

The two of them said their goodbyes and headed up the hill to their trailer. Once they were out of earshot, Clay turned to Tom. "Okay, what was all that about? The laughing and the stressing out? You scared to let people know about us?"

They were almost back home before Tom answered him. "I thought..." He paused, swallowed. "That girl - the one that... died. I was convinced that they were going to blame us. When it turned out to be about us being gay, it felt like such a weird let-down."

Nodding, Clay fished in his pocket for his keys. "Yeah, I can see why you wigged out. Do you think you had something to do with that killing?" he asked.

"Do you?" Tom followed Clay in, tossing his overshirt down on the table by the door and revealing the powerful shoulders that were displayed by the dark wife-beater he was wearing.

"Honestly?" Clay turned to face him, sliding his arms around him and pulling him close. "Yeah, I do." Tom stiffened in his embrace, and Clay held him tighter. "Hear me out, please. I got onto the net while you were sleeping and did a little searching. There were enough news reports about the events in Harmony for me to start seeing a pattern. I think that you have... something... Something that we need to drag out into the open and lay to rest. It's not something I know much about - we haven't really covered it in school yet, but I'm looking into it. Don't worry, once I know a little more I'll share. It'll be fine."

Tom felt something acid and nauseating surge along his throat at Clay's words, but the tender look in his eyes seemed to speak to something deep inside him, and the little voice inside him that occasionally warned him of danger was telling him to stay calm, because Clay was going to take care of him. Slowly relaxing into Clay's embrace, Tom allowed his tense shoulders to drop as the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding slowly hissed out between his teeth.

"I'm scared," he whispered against Clay's shoulder. "Been scared for a long, long time. You really gonna help me?"

"Yeah, Tom. I really am. You and me together are gonna find out what's going on and kick it into touch." Clay laid his cheek against Tom's dusty hair. "You mean too much to me."

Unable to even respond to that, Tom clung tightly to Clay, thankful for his quiet reassurance. He felt tears prickle behind his eyes, but managed to keep them there, to not break down sobbing like a baby. He knew that tears would be just as inappropriate as his crazy laughter earlier, but that wasn't why he was able to hold them back. Clay's quiet acceptance of him, of who he was no matter what he did, reassured him. He knew that if he did break into tears Clay would be just as understanding as he had been about the laughter. And in some strange way, that realization was what helped him keep the tears at bay.

Hearing Clay say that he believed that Tom had been involved in what happened to that poor girl ... but still wanted to be with him, to help him even. Tom just didn't know what to think. Giddy tears or even the ridiculous laughter from earlier today seemed equally appropriate right then. Tom choked back both responses and just held on tighter to Clay. He didn't even know what to say, but that was all right because he was pretty sure he'd never get any words out past the huge lump in his throat anyway. Thankfully, Clay seemed to understand that.

"Let me clean up, and I'll get something going for dinner," Clay said, almost as if it was any other day. Tom couldn't remember whose turn it was to cook, but thankfully he didn't have to worry about that. "You just relax; I know it's been a rough day for you. Hell, it's been a rough several days for you. So just take it easy, let me take care of things."

Once Clay had gotten rid of the worst of the evidence of his day on the construction site and started their supper, Tom took a quick shower as well. He hadn't been in the bathroom that used to be his since Friday night. He'd moved most of his stuff into what had been Clay's bedroom too. If he'd ever thought of it before, he would've expected more ... effort or something surrounding their getting together. But instead, it had been easy, just like everything had been since they met. Like somehow it was all meant to be. Tom tried not to think about it too much, afraid that he'd jinx it or something. He'd learned never to get too attached to the good things in his life, because that's when it seemed they were ripped from him. As much as Clay tried to reassure him, Tom still couldn't quite believe it was real.

By the time he was finished, Clay had dinner well in hand. Tom got the plates from the cupboard, but Clay took them from him and handed him a beer. "I told you to relax. I've got this." In no time, supper was on the table. Clay had fixed pasta with a meat sauce, garlic bread, and a simple salad. Tom had never tasted anything better in his life.

"Summer's nearly over," he murmured as he licked his fingers clean of buttery garlic and surveyed his empty plate. Inside, his belly was fluttering. This was the first time he'd dared broach the idea of future plans. He didn't say anything further, but he was holding his breath as he waited for Clay's response.

Nodding absently, Clay - always a good eater - reached for the remaining pasta and scooped it onto his plate. "Only 80 something shopping days until Christmas," he said, shoveling a forkful towards his mouth.

"Are we gonna stay here? The job's almost done. We'd have to find something else." Tom spoke carefully, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. Clay looked up from his attack on the pasta and smiled.

"Yeah, I was gonna talk to you about that. I took a leave of absence from school because of family problems, but I should go back. I'm only a year away from my MD." Clay examined his plate as he was speaking, added a sprinkling of Parmesan and twirled his fork into the pasta.

"Oh..." Tom's heart sank, and he rose to his feet to leave the table, so that Clay wouldn't see the tears that had sprung to his eyes. "When... when are you leaving?"

Something in Tom's voice must have alerted Clay to the way he was feeling, because he looked up, then set his fork down and rose to his feet, advancing on Tom so that he was suddenly pressed back against the wall. "What the fuck is your problem, Tom?"

The words sounded fierce, and there was impatience on Clay's face. Tom took a deep breath. "I... we... you're going back to school?" he mumbled.

"Don't you want me to get my degree?" Clay was frowning, apparently trying to determine exactly what was bothering Tom and failing miserably.

"Of course." Tom wasn't quite sure how he managed to find his voice, but it emerged, hoarse and desperate to his own ears. "I just... I thought we were..."

"We were what?" There was an edge to his words that made Tom's knees shake. "Come on, Tom, spit it out? You thought we were going to stay in this place and be laborers for the rest of our lives? Is that it?"

"No. I..." There was nowhere to look but at Clay, spaghetti sauce in the corner of his mouth and eyes glittering angrily. "Can I come with you?" he blurted out.

"Is that what this is all about?" Clay still sounded pissy, but his hands reached to press Tom's shoulders against the wall, and his expression had become somewhat less irritable. "You think I'm gonna leave you behind? Why the fuck would you think that?"

Because everybody does. "I... I didn't go to school. Just went into the mine like dad wanted." It was no explanation, of course. Tom knew that, but he hoped that Clay would accept it anyway.

"All the more reason to go now." It seemed that Clay had taken his words at face value, and Tom relaxed a little. Clay bent and claimed his mouth in a brief kiss, tasting of garlic and tomato and hope. "Dude, you're intelligent. You should go to school - study something you're interested in. You're a little fucked up at the moment, but like I said, we'll get you sorted out. You have to trust me though. Don't constantly be expecting the worst; it's making me crazy."

"Sorry." Tom hung his head and felt slightly sick as his lover stepped back, ready to return to his meal. He was making Clay crazy. How long would Clay put up with that before it drove them apart?

Clay was obviously a mind reader, because he suddenly moved in again, wrapped his arms around Tom and growled down at him. "You're an idiot; you know that?" He was almost smiling, generous mouth twitching at the corners as he stared down at Tom. "You and me are going to see this thing through, and you are to stop this negative shit, because that's what it is - it's negative. Trust me, Tom; you and me are in this for the long haul. I love you in spite of your 'glass half empty' attitude; you got that?"

"I... I guess," Tom could feel himself relaxing, slightly giddy from the relief of Clay's words. He closed his eyes, then opened them, wide and shocked as Clay spoke again.

"Not good enough. No guessing allowed."

"Okay. No guessing." Tom pulled Clay down and kissed him, then licked away the sauce that still marked the corner of his mouth, and that drew a laugh from Clay.

"Dude, you enact this emo scene just so you can share my dinner? All you gotta do is ask me."

"Oh, shut up!" Tom elbowed him as he turned to go back to his meal. "And Clay?" He managed a smile as Clay looked back at him. "Thanks. I know I get weird sometimes."

"Yeah, we're gonna have to work on that, dumbass!" Picking his fork up, Clay conveyed the contents to his mouth, and, with that, Tom felt his world brighten just a little. Maybe he would look into school. He had money. He could afford it. One thing was certain, though. He was going with Clay.

The next day he was laying shingle with Brian again. Neither of them were very talkative, which left Tom plenty of time to think. So of course his thoughts immediately drifted to the conversation he'd had with Clay the night before. He realized that he'd sort of let Clay cajole him out of his funk, but they hadn't really addressed the basic issue. In fact, the clear evidence that Clay did get impatient with him, but somehow just got over it, reinforced Tom's fears. Nobody could be that easy-going, that understanding, that ... perfect. No matter what Clay said, Tom was sure that eventually it would become too much for him, and he'd just explode. Tom knew all about bottling things up, and how badly that could backfire. Or worse yet, Clay would just get sick of him and his issues and just leave.

And while it was very reassuring that Clay saw their relationship as something long-term (Dare he think permanent? No, he couldn't afford to do that. It would hurt too much when it eventually fell apart.), they never really addressed the real problem as Tom saw it. And Clay was still handling him with kid gloves. Somehow he had to convince Clay that he wouldn't fall apart if Clay acted upset with him. That he was going to be all right, that he didn't need to be treated like a china doll. He was honest enough with himself to know he wasn't okay by any stretch of the imagination, but he was better. And Clay had a lot to do with that. But if they were going to have a long-term, functional relationship, Clay needed to feel like he could address issues with him, even get mad at him, without undoing all the progress they'd made.
~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

It was his turn to cook that night, and he found himself lost in thought as he pottered about the kitchen. Before they'd settled in Lakeville, he'd never cooked much. Those few years after the asylum when he'd been on his own, there wasn't much motivation to be creative. He'd lived on pre-packaged meals and instant potatoes. Not entirely of course, he could grill a steak, but he'd never been able to afford those much. But Clay had encouraged him to branch out, try new things. He still didn't consider himself a good cook, but he could make pretty much anything as long as he had a recipe. And he could even add or subtract things here and there, either to add more of things they liked or because they were out of something or didn't particularly care for it. So yeah, he'd come a long way.

He steamed some wild rice and then cooked a couple of chicken breasts in a little olive oil. Once they were cooked through, he turned up the heat a bit to brown them on both sides. Putting the chicken aside, he added some canned chicken broth to the pan and when it boiled, he added frozen peas and carrots and a chopped onion. Once the onions started to turn clear, he stirred the rice in and placed the chicken breasts on top. He put the lid back on the pan and turned the heat down on the stove before setting the table quickly. He'd just finished tossing a salad together and putting the chicken dish on the table when Clay came out from his shower.

Cooking for Clay had been soothing, quieting his fractious thoughts from earlier in the day. So he was quite surprised when the first thing Clay said when he sat down for dinner was, "Okay, spill. You've been moody and lost in thought all day. What's going on in your head?"

"I um ..." Tom didn't know how to put his fears into words but he knew he had to try. "You just treat me like I'm some sort of damsel in distress, like you can't get mad at me or yell at me. That you're afraid I'll lose it again or something if you do."

"I think I'd have noticed if you were any sort of damsel," Clay leered at him. "I'm pretty glad of that too, since I'm really not into chicks."

"See, there you go again," Tom retorted, not quite yelling in frustration. "Making jokes instead of talking to me. You don't take anything seriously."

"That's not fair. I'm pretty serious about you. I thought you knew that." Clay's tone was more serious now, but Tom refused to be mollified.

"Yeah, maybe, but you still haven't addressed my point about you being afraid to get angry or upset with me. Like you think I'd fall apart if you did." Tom was pretty sure he was shouting at Clay, and that Clay certainly didn't deserve it, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "We've been together, living in each other's pockets, for four months. And we've never had a fight. I'm pretty sure that's not normal, or healthy."

"So you decided to pick a fight with me?" Tom was pretty sure Clay was getting annoyed with him now.

"No, of course not!" Tom responded, voice still pretty angry. But Clay just looked at him and he couldn't stay mad. "Well, maybe."

"Look, maybe I do cut you a lot of slack. But that's because I know what you've been through. You're just about the strongest person I know to have been able to get through what you've have with even a shred of sanity left." Clay didn't sound so annoyed anymore. "And I can't help but think about that whenever we're talking. Or whenever I think about you. Which is pretty much all the time. So yeah, maybe I do try not to upset you, but it's only because I care."

"I know that, it's just ... I don't know," Tom tried to explain. "You shouldn't have to feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me all the time. You've been through a lot too, I think it's part of what drew us together originally."

"Yeah, I have been through a lot. I lost my mom and my sister in the space of a few months. And I had this horrific experience with some psycho maniac in a mask trying to kill me and everybody else. So yeah, it was pretty rough for a while. But you, you've been through hell almost all your life. Especially the last twelve years or so. I can't imagine being left to die by people I considered friends and then betrayed by my parent and sent off to get rid of me. And to start recovering from that only to have to go back and face it all again? And then to have the whole thing start up all over again? My god, man, my experiences, horrible as they were, pale by comparison. I think you've dealt with things amazingly well."

"Yeah, so well that I spent seven years in a mental hospital, and if they knew even half of what's going on with me now I'd be right back there." Tom knew his voice was laced with sarcasm.

"Do you know how many people actually make it out of that sort of place?" Clay's voice sounded more sarcastic than comforting. "Not many. That sort of place isn't exactly designed to rehabilitate people. And you got through it successfully."

Tom blanched and mumbled toward the floor, "I didn't exactly get let out. I was on a 5-year supervised program where they helped me find a job, and I stayed in a sort of halfway house. I'm supposed to have regular meetings with the psychiatrist, and I'm not. I was only three years into the program, and I skipped out. I had permission to go to Harmony, but after what happened there ... I just ran. So that's not exactly the success story you're making it out to be."

"I'm convinced you'd still be okay if you hadn't had to go back to Harmony. And that little jaunt was also set up by your dad if I recall."

"Still not a resounding success, even if you want to blame my dad. Who's dead, by the way, so that doesn't do much good." Tom suddenly realized Clay hadn't been surprised by his revelation that he'd run before completing the program with the hospital. "Hey, wait a minute! You knew about that, didn't you? I never told you about the five year thing, and that I hadn't finished. How did you know?"

"I told you I'd done some research the other day. Well, I made a few calls too. I needed to know what we were dealing with." Clay's tone wasn't the least bit defensive, but was almost comforting. Tom didn't know what to make of that. But he still wasn't happy with Clay checking up on him.

"Why didn't you just ask me?"

"I needed to know things about the hospital and its programs that you couldn't know. I didn't ask about you specifically but I did find out about the work-release program, so I figured you were on one of those before ... before you had to go back to Harmony." Clay's tone was still soothing. "I don't think I ever told you, but I'm studying to be a psychiatrist. I'm in med school with a psych emphasis. That helped me to know what to ask, what to look for in my research."
"But still, you could've asked." Tom was still upset, and not really happy with the idea that Clay might know more about him and his issues than he did himself. He had a deep distrust of hospitals, and even though Clay was the man he’d fallen for, he somehow felt a little betrayed. To be fair, Clay had hinted very strongly that he had firm ideas about what was going on with him, but Tom had let that go over his head, not ready to deal with it yet. He still wasn't, actually, but that didn't mean he was comfortable with Clay knowing all about him.

"Yeah, I could have. But it's not like we've had a lot of time since then, and even when I've tried to talk to you, you haven't seemed comfortable talking about things. So I decided not to mention it yet. I'm sorry if you feel like that's an invasion of your privacy or betrayal of your trust. I didn't mean it that way, and I would've told you eventually even if we didn't have this conversation." Despite his words, Clay's tone wasn't defensive. It felt more as if he was still trying to calm Tom down.

"It's not that, not really." Tom tried to figure out what the issue was, and how much he could stand to reveal. He was still frightened, still scared that if Clay knew who he really was, that he'd leave. He knew he needed to explain, but wasn't sure how.

"It's okay, you don't have to ... I get how it would be hard to talk about." Clay paused for a long moment, before continuing, "But if it's going to keep coming up like this, it would probably help if you could try to explain what you're feeling."

Tom laughed. "I know and I'm trying. It's just ... hard. I don't even know myself really." Tom knew he needed to find a way to figure out what was going on in his head, to communicate that to Clay. Clay was worth it. And Tom trusted Clay, more than he'd ever trusted anyone before. This wasn’t saying much given his life, but still. He trusted Clay with his life ... and his heart.

Clay pulled him into a hug. "It's all right, we'll sort it out. Just don't forget, I'm not about to leave you, I love you too much. Whatever it is, we'll work it out together, okay?"

"That's it. How do you always know?" Tom laughed at himself a bit, knowing he wasn't making any sense. He tried again. "I think I am afraid of you knowing what's wrong with me. Afraid that you'll decide I'm just too screwed up. That you'll leave me." Surprisingly, Tom felt relieved. It was silly, Clay had just said he wasn't going to leave, but Tom just couldn't bring himself to trust in that fully. And this tiny distinction from every other time they'd had this conversation, felt huge to him. Like he was baring his soul, showing the last of his hidden fears. Or ... hopefully it was the last of them.

"Never gonna happen," Clay reassured him, pulling him tighter into his arms. "And I'll try to talk to you more, instead of shouldering everything myself. I'm just sometimes afraid that you'll get scared and run again.”

"I'm not running anymore," Tom insisted, hoping it was true. He felt pretty confident; all he'd been getting from the little voice in his head were vague reassurances, so he was pretty sure he could promise this. "Not without you, anyway. You're too important to me. And you make me feel ... safe, safer than I've felt in ... a long time. Maybe ever."

Clay smiled and nodded. "And I have to trust that you won't run. I can see how much better you're doing and I just need to believe in you. But you need to believe in me too, okay?"

"Okay." Tom let himself relax into Clay's arms.

"Come on," Clay said a few minutes later. "We've got a birthday party to go to."

The night of the party had seen the last of the fine weather. Foggy mornings and fine drizzle had begun to be the order of the day, and it was a mere handful of days before the boathouse and leisure center they'd been building was completed, six weeks ahead of schedule. As Scott called them in to collect their severance pay he was grinning. "Been good having you guys on the site. You're both good workers. Maybe you'll be back on the crew in spring when we start the new project?"

Clay merely nodded and smiled, accepting his pay packet with a muttered word of thanks, and it was Tom, stepping forward to sign for his, that was left to answer. "I think we're going to be leaving for home soon. Clay has to get back to school, you know. He's gonna be a doctor." The last was said with such an expression of pride that Clay shot him a look that was half exasperation and half adoration.

"No shit?" Scott looked impressed. "Well, good luck with that," he said, shaking hands with the two of them and then clapping them on the shoulder as they made for the door. "We've all got a bonus for completing ahead of time, so thanks again for your hard work."

And just like that, they were done.

It didn't take them long to pack. Most of their stuff was borrowed, and they left it in the trailer where they'd been living. They'd said their goodbyes and loaded their clothes into the pannier under the seat of Clay's bike and into a backpack that Tom was wearing. They'd said goodbye to Kathleen at the diner, and were all set to go. There were tears in her eyes as the bike pulled away onto the main road, and Tom felt a momentary pang, soon forgotten as Clay guided them onto the interstate.

They'd made good time, and were already down into Connecticut when Clay pulled into a gas station that had a small convenience store beside it. It had been raining, but the rain had stopped, and there was bright sunshine and a stiff breeze helping them on their way. Tom climbed off Grumbles thankfully and stretched his legs, then headed around back of the store to the restrooms, while Clay filled up the tank.

It had been a while since the voice in the back of Tom's skull had made itself known, and Tom wasn't sure why it was suddenly yammering at him, indistinguishable cries that made him frown and claw at his head. The bike stood by the pump, and Clay was nowhere to be seen. There was a rusty pickup truck parked at a crazy angle at the exit to the truck stop, and the driver's side door was open, swinging loose on its hinges. Tom was walking across to peer into the store and ask Clay to get a pack of gum for him, when he heard the shot, followed by a scream, a second shot and then, ominously, silence.

Later, he would wonder why he didn't panic and run around in circles. Later, he would try and puzzle out how he'd known, what it was that helped him to understand himself at last, but at that moment he merely drew in a deep breath and folded himself away, welcoming the darkness that would come, because Clay was in there, and although he could do nothing to help, he had a damned good idea who would.

"Tom? C'mon, Tom. C'mon back..."

Someone was calling him. Someone... He knew that voice. He knew it and loved it. He shook his head sluggishly, trying to shake off the fog in which his thoughts seemed to be mired. "Clay? Oh, God, Clay? He's got a gun."

"It's okay, Tom; it's okay. Come on." There was something... Tom blinked. Clay was standing over him, and he was sticky red with blood, so much blood. Staring, wide eyed, Tom raised his hands to his mouth, stared in shock at the tire iron he still held.

"What...?" He dropped the iron and reached for Clay. "Are you hurt? Are you shot?"

"I'm good, but we've gotta go, or we're gonna be in deep shit." Clay bent to pick up the tool Tom had let fall. "Come on, man; we'll talk later. For now we just ride like we mean it."

They were back on Grumbles, heading away from the rest stop, Tom clinging to Clay, leaning into him as if he could melt through and become one with him, the tire iron clutched between them. It was twenty miles down the road that they crossed the river Whetstone, and Clay brought the bike to a stop. "Throw that in the water, right now," he told Tom, and the two of them watched as the bloody metal went end over end before disappearing into the stream with a little splash.

Setting off again, they drove until it was almost dark, and the shadows were beginning to merge. When Clay finally pulled in to a small motel that was advertising vacancies and went in to the office to book a room.

Surprisingly, Clay said nothing immediately about what had happened during his most recent blackout, and his imagination ran riot. Tom showered, watching blood flake and swirl down the drain as he cleaned his skin of evidence without being completely sure of what he'd done. They were exhausted and starving, and they followed the directions they were given to a diner in the next block. Tom wasn't sure how he managed to eat, knowing that in all probability he'd just murdered someone, but eat he did, chicken pie and fries. It was only when he finally laid down his fork and raised his eyes to Clay that he knew he couldn't wait any longer.

"What did I do?" he asked Clay, his voice harsh as he forced it out, terrified of the answer but needing to know the truth.

"You saved my life," whispered Clay. "That freak had killed the counter clerk, and he was turning to shoot me when you came bursting in like the wrath of God." There was a pause, and then he added, "When you finished beating the guy's brains in, you stood up and looked at me. All you said was, 'we'll be all right now we've got you,' and then you just turned and went out the door again."

Tom’s brain helpfully supplied images to go with Clay’s words. He closed his eyes for a moment to try to control his nausea so he wouldn’t lose his dinner. He was quite sure the chicken pie and fries wouldn’t taste nearly as good coming back up as they had going down. And that thought was not helping any.

"Hey man, you ok?" Clay asked. "You look a bit green."

"Yeah, I’m good," Tom answered, opening his eyes to meet Clay’s gaze. "I just got some pretty graphic images from what you said." Tom swallowed again and changed the subject. "So, you think this is far enough? We safe to stay here tonight? Or should we keep going?"

"We should really stop, I'm pretty wiped out," Clay answered. "And I seriously doubt anyone is gonna be on our tail at this point. There were enough witnesses to tell the cops that the guy had killed the clerk and was gonna shoot me. I don't think they'll be looking that hard for you."

"Witnesses?" Tom tried to control his panic. "So the cops will know what we look like? They could have one of their sketch artists draw pictures of our faces like you see on TV. Every cop in the country could be looking for us. They might even have the plates from Grumbles! How did you pay for the gas? Did you use a card or cash?"

"Hey, calm down," Clay said soothingly. "I used cash so that's one less thing to worry about. And I really don't think they're going to come after us. The witnesses were all thrilled that the guy with the gun wasn't waving it around and shooting people anymore. They'll have the gun and his prints all over it and the ballistics will match the bullets that killed the clerk. They don't have much reason to come after us."

"But … " Tom tried to wrap his mind about what Clay was saying, but he was still pretty sure the police would want to at least talk to them. "Won't they wonder why we took off? And won't they want to talk to me at least?"

"Yeah, they'd probably like to," Clay admitted. "But I thought it would raise too many questions, and we'd be better off leaving before the cops got there. If it would make you feel better I could have Sean look into it, see if they've issued a warrant or an APB on us."

"But what would you tell him?" Tom wasn't too sure about this idea either, but he knew he'd not be comfortable until they knew for sure. "You'd have to tell him what happened, and that we panicked and fled a crime scene. That doesn't sound very good …"

"It's not so bad," Clay shrugged. "And Sean's family; he wouldn't say anything. I'm sure of it."

"But what if he eventually puts the pieces together?" Tom remained unconvinced. "What if he ties the gas station thing with what happened in Lakeville and then goes digging around in Harmony?" Tom wasn't sure why someone digging around in Harmony terrified him so much, but he was sure it would be very bad.

"Even if he did, I don't think he'd say anything." Clay assured him. "Like I said, he's family. Besides, there is absolutely nothing that would point him back to Harmony."

"If you're sure." Tom still wasn't sure about all this, but he was sure about Clay. And Clay seemed so certain. "You keep talking about your family as if it automatically means they'll do things for you, trust you, believe in you. I've never had anyone I could be sure of like that. At least not until I met you. But certainly not anyone in my family."

"You just had a fucked up family. C'mon, let's get out of here," Clay stood to leave. He was reaching for the check, but Tom beat him to it. "We can get a room, and I'll give him a call. And we need to decide how we're going to handle the finances. This fighting over who gets to pay the check was cute in the beginning, but now we're in it together for the long haul, right?"
"Right," Tom couldn't keep the smile from his face as a warm, contented feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He and Clay were together, in everything. He'd never had anything like this before, and he was starting to believe it, to trust in it. "We can work out how we want to handle our money after we make sure we're in the clear for now, okay?"

"You bet," Clay smiled happily at him, clearly pleased that Tom was beginning to feel secure in their relationship. Or maybe he was just reacting to the smile on Tom's face. Either way, it just made Tom happier, calmer. He wanted Clay, needed him. Somehow, without him noticing it, Clay had become essential to his well-being. And if trusting in what they had together landed him back in a mental hospital, so be it. He didn't want to be on the outside without Clay in his life.

The room was in a tatty little motel with furnishings straight out of the seventies. Tom stretched out on the bed and watched as Clay set up their laptop on the Formica-topped table and started to look at recent news from in and around Pennsylvania. He frowned for a moment, wondering what his boyfriend - his boyfriend - was trying to achieve, but after a few moments he lay back and just watched Clay, enjoying the way his back rippled with muscle under the well-fitting T-shirt he wore. He felt himself drifting, admiring Clay's singleness of purpose and daring to allow himself dreams of the future.

"Hey, look here." Clay swung around in his chair, his eyes alight with excitement. "You were worried about that sheriff guy, Palmer?"

"Axel Palmer, yeah. He was looking to pin something on me. I know he won't let me go without a battle. He's got something against me - always has, right from the moment Sarah and I started to go out together. He was furious that I breezed back into town, you know." Tom pushed himself up and rolled off the bed to go see what Clay was so excited about.

Bending over Clay's shoulder, Tom peered at the screen. It was a page in the Harmony Gazette, and as he read through it, a shiver of guilt and excitement jolted him. It seemed that Axel had been seriously injured back in May, and had in fact died of his injuries. "Oh, my God!" It was all he could think of to say. "That must have been just after I left Harmony." He paused, a horrific thought lodging itself and refusing to let him ignore it. "Clay, you don't suppose that I...?"

"Who knows? Do you remember anything that might make you think you had something to do with Axel's death?" Clay reached behind him to find and hold Tom's hand and squeeze it.

"You know I don't." Tom's tone was grouchy, but he ran his fingers through Clay's hair and bent to kiss the top of his head. "That leaves poor Sarah with little Noah, and nobody to take care of her."

"Yeah." Clay scrolled down the article, passing by the journalistic speculation about Axel's death and the possibility that his murderer had died in the explosion in the tunnel. "It says here that she left town to go to Virginia to stay with some relatives. Is there anyone left there in Harmony that doesn't believe that you're dead?" There was a pause, and Clay tabbed to another page he'd bookmarked. "See here, there's a report on the body they brought out of the mine. Apparently the face was too messed up to identify, but they're pretty convinced that it was the murderer, because of what Axel told them before he died."
The queasy sensation that had been with Tom since leaving Harmony seemed suddenly to lift. He'd spent almost six months needing to run, and he'd somehow begun to feel as if he would never be able to stop. He felt giddy and stumbled back to sit on the edge of the bed again.

"You okay, love?" Clay's slanted eyes were full of concern, his expression warm and loving.
"Yeah. Just... Seems possible that I can maybe stop running. Feels almost too good to be true." Tom gave him a rueful smile. "Maybe I can relax a bit and not feel like there's a posse out there looking to round me up."

Laughing, Clay rose to his feet and reached to haul Tom up to his, dancing him around the end of the bed in a wild tango-esque routine that had Tom cracking up too. "Clay, I love you, but please don't ever let anyone tell you that you can dance. It'd be a lie."

"Shut up. This is not just dancing. This is dirty DANCING!" Clay twirled Tom, then dipped him and dropped him back onto the bed, which groaned alarmingly under the sudden impact.

The grin on Clay's face was wider than any Tom had seen yet, and Tom reached up to pull him down and kiss him over and over again, arms wrapping around his neck to press him close. "Can't believe I've been lucky enough to find you, man," he mumbled, mouth skimming over Clay's rough chin.

Tom woke gradually, feeling safely cocooned in strong arms. When he moved away, the arms tightened around him, the hand large and warm against his abdomen.

"Stay," Clay mumbled sleepily from behind him, nuzzling the back of his neck.

"I wasn't going anywhere. Just to the bathroom." Tom turned his head toward Clay, catching his lips in a soft kiss. Clay was right; they didn't have to rush off right away. They did need to make it to California before the fall semester started, but they'd been making good time and a few hours here wouldn't set them back too much. In the few short weeks since they'd finally gotten together, they'd always been dashing about. There had been that girl that got killed back in Lakeville, and of course their jobs there. And then packing and leaving and driving and ... always hurrying to be somewhere or do something.

Clay tugged Tom back against him, his cock warm against Tom's ass through the two layers of their boxers. That, combined with his hand stroking down Tom's stomach and into his shorts, had his half-hard cock standing at attention in no time. Soon Tom was thrusting into Clay's work-roughened hand and then grinding back against Clay's hard dick. It hadn't taken Clay long to learn his body, how to wind him up, and send him spinning out of control. And right now the perfect grip working his cock threatened to end this before it got properly started. But Tom, wanting to feel skin against skin, pulled off his underwear and reached back for Clay's, still thrusting into Clay's fist as he worked to remove the last barrier of clothing between them.

Clay groaned softly behind him and spoke soothingly, "Easy there, let me help you," before shedding his shorts, pulling Tom even tighter against his body and thrusting against his ass. The heat and friction felt amazing, and Tom couldn't help but answer Clay's groan with one of his own. In no time, they had a rhythm going, Tom thrusting up as Clay's fist stroked him and back as Clay's cock surged against him. Tom tried to quicken their pace but Clay held back, slowing down and drawing it out, impossibly sweet and almost too much to endure.

Eventually, no matter how much Clay tried to hold them back, they both lost it and came almost simultaneously. Tom couldn't remember anything ever feeling so good, so right. Sex with Clay had always been mind-blowing, even though they hadn't gotten to full-on intercourse yet. But, to Tom at least, this time was even better than ever before. He wasn't sure if it was because they were learning each other, or maybe it was because he could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. His life had seemed shrouded in fog for over a decade, ever since that night in the mines. The night when he should've died, but somehow didn't, and Harry did. Or had he really? None of it made much sense yet, but he could sense the sun behind the clouds. The sun he was sure was going to illuminate everything and make it clear.

"Jeez, Tom," Clay panted as they lay side by side catching their breath. "Do you have any idea how crazy you make me?"

Tom's joyous, hopeful mood came crashing down at Clay's words. He made Clay crazy. That surely wasn't a good thing; Tom knew what it was to be crazy, and that was the last thing he wanted for Clay. "I make you crazy?" he asked in a small voice.

"Oh, baby," Clay answered, pulling Tom against his side and kissing the top of his head. "Not like that. It's just an expression. I only meant that you make me feel fantastic, ecstatic. You make me crazy in all the best possible ways."

"Oh," Tom answered, breathing a sigh of relief. But thinking of how insane he had been (still was; who was he fooling?) reminded him of something he'd been wondering for a long time, but had never had the courage to ask. But this thing between them was getting so intense, he had to know. He was already in so deep, he was sure he'd never recover if things between them fell apart. But waiting would only make it hurt worse, so he took a deep breath and blurted out, "Why did you stay?"

"What?" Clay returned, obviously puzzled by the sudden change in topic. "What are you talking about? Why did I stay where? When?"

"That first time," Tom answered, screwing up his courage to see this through. "In the bathroom, screaming, covered in blood."

"I'm not entirely sure." Clay's tone was calm, almost introspective as he rolled to face Tom, reaching out to stroke Tom's cheek gently. "Somehow I just knew that you didn't mean any harm. That you needed my help, and that I could help you. I think maybe I was falling for you even then."

"So you just decided to help me?" Tom was still confused. In his experience, people didn't help other people just because they needed it. But then, in his experience, people didn't put the kind of trust in family that Clay had demonstrated over and over. In his experience, people weren't as kind and open as Clay had always been. But then Clay had always said Tom's family was screwed up, and Tom thought maybe his family had always colored his expectations of people. Tom had always known that other fathers weren't as cold toward their children as his had always been toward him, but he'd always attributed that to the fact that he'd driven his mother away. Maybe Clay was right though, and that hadn't been his fault either. Whatever the case, Tom was sure Clay was too good to be true.

"It wasn't entirely selfless on my part," Clay said, his tone teasing but gentle. "For the hottest guy on the planet, I'm willing to overlook a little bit of crazy."

"I think maybe I was more than a little crazy," Tom insisted, completely ignoring the compliment. That was way too much for him to process right now. "I think maybe I still am."

"Maybe so," Clay admitted, "but you're doing a whole lot better. And I think very soon we'll get this thing sorted once and for all. You just need to be patient a little longer and trust me, okay?"

"I think I can do that," Tom replied, still not understanding, but if all he had to do was trust Clay, he could do that. He'd been doing that for quite a while now.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. Whatever Tom may have thought about Grumbles, the bike had brought them clear across the country, and away from the stresses he'd grown up with. Entering California was like entering a completely foreign land. The sun was hot on the back of his neck, and he'd shed his sweaters and heavy jacket, allowing the warmth to thaw his joints and raise his spirits.

There were plants, gaudy and fragrant, totally unlike the more delicate blooms of his youth, and as Clay pulled up outside a white, stuccoed bungalow with scarlet bougainvillea trailing up and over the porch, it suddenly came home to him that he was free. No matter what he'd done in the past he had a chance to start over, and he was determined that this time he wouldn't fuck that up. Clay loved him, supported him, and he in turn idolized Clay. He was not going to blow that.

But still there was that evil little voice in the back of his mind that whispered to him when he was between waking and dreaming, It's not your choice, Tommy, boy. It's not your choice at all.

Things settled down. The house had belonged to Clay's mom, and with Whitney apparently gone for good, it was now Clay's. It was modest, but comfortable, with terra cotta tiled floors and bright furnishings. Clay, who hadn't ever struck Tom as being a particularly house-proud person seemed to be very invested in keeping it clean and tidy, and once confessed to Tom that he was trying to make sure that it was just how his mom had kept it, in case Whitney ever came home.

They'd looked into courses for Tom to take as they'd taken the final part of the journey home, and after some deliberation he'd decided that he'd like to try for the Bioengineering course that CalTech was offering at their Pasadena campus, so much of Tom's time when they'd first arrived was spent finding out how to get into the course, and once Clay went back into school for his final year as a medical student his days were way too full for him to brood. He'd registered to take a whole bunch of advanced placement exams, since he hadn't got any way of producing his prior academic qualifications without blowing his cover and perhaps revealing himself as a wanted man, so his world was made up with studying, and he was as happy as he could ever remember being.

He went to take the SATs on a sizzling day in November, and came home again feeling more nervous and scared of his own ability or lack of it. When Clay came home from his long day, hoping to celebrate with his lover, he found Tom curled up into a ball in their bed, tense and huddled.

"Tom? You waited for me? That's over and above, man, and I thank you for your thoughtfulness." Clay sat down on the edge of the bed to kick off his boots and flopped back, stretching out his long limbs and writhing in sheer hedonistic joy. "Baby, you okay?" He looked over at Tom's huddled form and instantly lost his smile. "What happened?"

"The SATs. I took the tests today." Tom uncurled just enough that two green, woebegone eyes could peer at Clay.

"And?" Clay was already reaching for him, stroking his face and moving closer so that he could wrap Tom up in his arms.

"And what will you do if I can't get in? Supposing I didn't pass. Supposing I'm a failure?" Tom remained huddled, his eyes still blown wide in what seemed to be only a step away from panic.

"Supposing the worst came to the worst, and you had to take them again somewhere down the line?" Clay pulled him closer, forcing him to uncurl his tight limbs. "I don't foresee that happening, but supposing it actually did? What would it matter?" He bent forward to trace Tom's eyebrows with his tongue.

"You don't want some deadbeat hanging around. Wouldn't be good for your image." Tom's voice sounded small and hesitant, and Clay shook him gently. "Told you ages back to quit that low self esteem crap," he growled. "If you don't, I'll be forced to help you, and your ass will be red and sore for days."

Tom shivered a little, and Clay hugged him tightly. "It's you I love, not the potential inventor of the whatever it is that bioengineers might invent."

"Sorry," mumbled Tom, his face flushing to a deep, unflattering crimson.

"You know we've had this conversation before. I'm not gonna leave you if you don't get the SAT scores you need to get into CalTech this time." Clay shook him gently. "You can retake them any time, but I have a hunch that you didn't fail. Wait and see. They usually put the results on line in about three weeks. You'll know before Thanksgiving, I'm sure."
Tom gave him a sheepish smile and put his hand up to cup Clay's cheek. "Sorry," he murmured.

"Well, fucking stop being sorry." There was a wry smile on Clay's face as he leaned down to capture Tom's lips. "You know what I think about you taking the blame for everything, don't you?" Tom was about to apologize - had already started to say the dreaded words - but Clay chuckled and laid a finger on his lover's lips. "Don't you dare!" Tom's eyes danced, and he lifted his upper lip to seize the finger between his teeth, and they forgot about SATs, forgot about stress, and discovered each other all over again.

Tom tried to stifle his laugh when he walked into the kitchen to find Clay dusted in flour, literally pulling his hair out. He tried, but failed completely. "What are you up to in here? You planning to try out for chef of the year?" he asked, still not managing to control his amusement. "Because I gotta say, I think it needs work."
"No, I'm trying to bake a pie!" Clay snapped.

"Why would you do that?" Tom snickered, "Did the grocer run out? You could've gotten apple, you know. It doesn't always have to be cherry."

"Oh, shut up! You think this is so easy, you try it!"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to ..." Tom backpedaled furiously as he realized Clay was genuinely upset. "I was just teasing. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's just this fucking pie crust is so frustrating! I've done it five times and every time it either rips apart or just crumbles to bits."

"So what's up with this ... ," Tom tried to think of a word that wouldn't send Clay into further fits, "this sudden domesticity."

"It's Thanksgiving!" Clay answered, his tone still betraying his vexation.

"Not 'til next week," Tom returned, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. This was a Clay he'd never seen before, and he didn't quite know how to cope. What he did know was that he didn't want to rile him further.

"How am I going to make Thanksgiving Dinner if I can't bake a simple pie?" Clay's tone was a curious mix of aggravation and hysteria, further baffling Tom. "And I don't even know what to put in the stuffing! Who knew there were so many options? Bread crumbs, corn bread, oysters. Oysters? I'm pretty sure we never had oysters in it. But whatever, Mom and Whit always took care of all of it."

"Oh, hey," Tom reached out to Clay, to hold him, comfort him, something. It was the least he could do, after all the times Clay had consoled him. "I'm so sorry, love; I forgot this would be your first Thanksgiving without them."

"That's not what this is about," Clay snapped again, pulling away from him.

"Isn't it?"

"No!"

Tom just arched an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, maybe," Clay allowed, "But that's not all it's about."

"Then maybe you should tell me what it is about."

"It's about ... " Clay sputtered, "You should have a proper Thanksgiving, lots of them. But this is the first one ..." Clay trailed off, obviously having said more than he'd meant to.

"Thanksgiving should be what we make of it, not necessarily what our families have always made of it." Tom said carefully. He didn't mean it as a platitude, but he'd never really cared that much about the holidays, and was smart enough to know that now wasn't the time to tell Clay that. Fortunately, Clay ignored him and kept talking.

"Mom was always so worried about the traditions getting lost, especially after Dad left. And she always tried to get me involved too, not just Wh-" Clay's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "But I was always off with my friends, doing my own thing. I just thought they'd always be there, you know?"

"Yeah ..." Tom trailed off, not sure how to respond. He knew it was just an expression, but he really didn't know much about family traditions. Or normal families for that matter. But he did know a bit about what belonged in the stuffing. "Both. Bread crumbs and corn bread, half of each. And lots of sage and fresh cracked pepper. But no oysters."

"What?"

"The stuffing. You were asking what to put in the stuffing." Tom answered, glad his distraction technique had worked.

"I figured that out, but ... but," Clay collected himself before continuing. "How do you know how to make stuffing? You barely remember your Mom, And, from what you've said, I can't imagine your Dad donning an apron to fix the holiday meals."

"Cookie made it," Tom mumbled before forcing himself to continue in a more normal tone. "I mean, never let it be said that Eli Hanniger's son lacked for anything, even something as simple as a holiday meal." The sarcasm was automatic, but Tom was surprised to find he didn't feel the same bitterness he'd always felt when thinking about his father. Not that he'd put him back on the Christmas card list, even if he had still been alive. But some of the sting had faded since the last time he'd thought about his childhood.

"That sounds more like the Eli Hanniger I'm used to hearing about." Clay's voice wasn't nearly as wrecked as it had been moments ago. He almost managed to pull off a genuinely teasing tone. Tom was just happy enough to hear him sounding more like himself.

"But Cookie always let me help her, and told me every year that she used Mom's old recipe, the one that had been handed down through her family over the years. She just made sure Dad wouldn't be able to overhear. Is it bad I never knew her real name? I just always called her Cookie because it made her smile."

"That's almost sweet," Clay actually smiled a real smile. "It's nice to know that not all of your childhood memories are entirely terrible."

"Just so you know, your statement that I 'know how to make stuffing' overstated my competence by a country mile. But I bet we can figure something out together. Let's just let Marie Calender's make the pies this year, okay?"

"Okay," Clay snickered, tossing his latest attempt into the trash can, presumably to join the other four, "you've got yourself a deal."

"Good," Tom smiled, finally managing to pull Clay into a hug. It wasn't quite as comforting as the one he'd tried to give him earlier, but whatever worked. "And then you can tell me all about your family's holidays. And maybe even as much as you can remember about your Mom and Whitney's cooking. We'll see if we can save some of those traditions."

In the end, it was just after Thanksgiving when Tom's SAT scores were finally posted on the internet. Clay had to look for him, because he was once again curled up in the bedroom, quivering, and, when he heard Clay tell him he'd done well, he didn't believe it at first. However, it was true, and by the first week in December he'd submitted his application to CalTech.

The run up to Christmas was quiet. Neither man had family any more, and they leaned on each other as the festive season drew closer. Tom introduced Clay to decorating a tree with popcorn, even though Clay ate more of the stuff than Tom believed was good for him. Clay dug out the box of decorations that were stored away in the basement, and they spent a whole evening decorating the house ready. They each went shopping for presents, hiding their purchases from each other and pretending that they weren't going to be giving each other gifts at all.

Tom had joined a choir and was enjoying singing. Clay, whose voice would fracture glass at the best of times, seemed to think that listening to him as he rehearsed for his solos was just what he needed. Life had become settled and full of hope for both of them.
Things came to a head on the 23rd of December. Tom had succeeded in baking a couple of pies, and Clay had been out shopping to bring home all the groceries they'd need for the holiday. Tom's choir was to do their concert the following evening, and he'd sung as he worked, covering the kitchen and himself with flour before successfully producing his pies.
He'd defended the pies successfully from Clay, whose eyes had widened at the sight of so much delicious dessert right there in his kitchen. "You didn't tell me you could do stuff like bake," he said, fingers stealing towards the nearest of the pies.

"It's amazing what one can do when one puts one's mind to it," smirked Tom, smacking Clay's knuckles with the back of a spoon and threatening to do so again if he didn't back off right now.

Clay had pouted, wheedled and finally swept Tom into his arms and declared that he would be very happy to eat him instead. Finally, Tom had relented and produced the mini pumpkin pie he'd made especially for Clay, knowing exactly how this scene would play out. He'd received a declaration of eternal adoration in return.

Eventually, the pies safely in the freezer, and the kitchen clean and flour-free once again, the two had headed for bed, pleasantly tired and happy to curl up with each other and fall to sleep.

It was 3 o' clock on the morning of Christmas Eve, and both Tom and Clay were sleeping soundly when the break-in occurred. As luck would have it, it was Clay that woke up first. As he told Tom later, he'd heard the sounds downstairs and been dragged out of a deep sleep and gone to investigate. He'd grabbed his baseball bat from the closet and crept down the stairs to find a man in the act of clearing all his audio-visual equipment onto a cart. As luck would have it, the man had been bending to unplug the leads that connected his blu-ray player to the television when Clay first saw him, and by the time he realized Clay was there it was too late for him.

When Tom, who had woken to find Clay gone, arrived down the stairs, it was all over. The burglar was lying bound and gagged on the floor, and Clay was on the phone explaining what had happened to the police. Tom felt strange, almost as if someone unseen were watching from the shadows and went to search the rest of the house, unable to accept that the danger was past.

The police came and went, and the burglar was taken into custody. Tom found himself wanting to hit the detective that came to take their statements, purely because he kept on referring to the burglar as 'the suspect'. He wasn't sure why that made him so angry, but he had to sit on his hands to restrain himself, and there were images of the detective's bloody corpse flashing through his mind as the man took his leave of them.

It was almost dawn when the two of them were finally alone again, and Clay had restored his electronics to their accustomed place. Tom was pacing, anxious without knowing why. As long as Clay was in his field of vision he was able to control the need to hurt something, but at one point Clay left the room, and Tom found himself looking for a knife, an axe, anything he could use. A pickaxe, his subconscious told him. That's what you need.

By the time Clay had finished tinkering with his electronics, and they'd made sure the house was secure once more, Tom was hopping with frustration. As Clay slid his arm around Tom's shoulders and felt the tension there, Tom was just about ready to turn on him.
"What's wrong?" The soft voiced query made Tom jump.

"I... I don't really know. I feel like I'm being watched. There's... something's going to happen, and I don't really think it'll be nice." Tom took a deep breath and gave Clay a somewhat unconvincing smile. "Guess that idiot breaking in has rattled me a bit."

"Yeah. Me too." Clay bent to pick up his baseball bat. "I could use more sleep though, couldn't you?"

Nodding wordlessly, Tom took Clay's hand and made for the stairs.

They were getting settled in their bed when Tom gave a little moan. Something... something was happening to him, and he didn't know what it was. "Clay? I feel..."

Tom saw Clay turn to look at him, and he could tell from Clay's expression that there was something different about him. He tried to speak, but couldn't, and then he heard his own voice, speaking without his active participation.

"I do believe he doesn't need me any more."

"What do you mean?" Clay looked bewildered. "Of course I need you."

Tom heard himself laugh. "You need Tom, not me."

"True." It was obvious that Clay was beginning to understand. "I do need Tom. I love Tom."

"You protected him." There was a brief pause. "I would have done it; I would have killed that idiot, but I didn't need to. You protected him for me."

"Harry," Clay held out his hand, and Tom could see the other being in his body reach out to clasp it. "I love him, and I promise you that I'll take it from here. You can leave, because he's got me now."

"He never had anyone before, you know." Harry's words were soft, but Tom could hear the ache in them. "I'm glad he found you."

Tom blinked, felt his hand in Clay's and gave a little shudder. "Clay?" he whispered. "Clay, what the fuck?"

"You okay?" Clay asked gently, hesitantly. The tone freaked him out even more, if that was even possible, but Clay's strong hand in his grounded him a little.

"Yeah," Tom answered, even though he felt far from okay. "I think so."

"Good," Clay smiled slowly. Tom thought he still sounded cautious, unsure. "Glad to hear it."

"Wha-", Tom started, and then cleared his throat before continuing. "What just happened?"
"You're okay," Clay said again, pulling Tom closer.

"I just said that," Tom answered shortly, not understanding why Clay wouldn't just talk to him. "What happened just now?"

"You ... we ... you've been ... um," Clay obviously didn't know how to answer him, where to start. Or maybe even what Tom was asking. Tom felt his annoyance slip away as he watched the man he loved try to work out how to respond. Leading the way down into the kitchen he put on the coffee maker, trying to buy himself time to analyze just what had happened, and the implications of that.

"I was talking, but it wasn't me. You called me Harry." Tom felt stupid, but hoped Clay would understand anyway. "Who were you talking to?"

"You remember that?" Clay asked, nonplussed.

"Yeah," Tom answered slowly. "Why wouldn't I? Have I done stuff before that I don't remember?"

"No," Clay answered automatically, and then stopped. "Well, yeah. At least, I think so."

"You're making less sense than I am," Tom joked, trying to reassure Clay that he really was all right, that he wasn't in danger of breaking, at least not in the next two seconds. "And that takes some doing, right now at least."

"Okay," Clay visibly gathered himself, clearly trying to work out what and how much to say. Tom let it go for now; he needed to show Clay he could take it before he could expect him to stop filtering everything he said, worried that he might upset Tom's precarious balance. Tom was amazed all over again at everything Clay had done for him, how he'd loved him when he was so undeserving. "I've never seen it before. But I know, we both know, that you've done things you don't remember, that weren't you."

"Yeah," Tom agreed.

"So," Clay drew in a deep breath before continuing. Tom squeezed the hand he was still holding in silent encouragement. "I told you before that I'd made some calls, asked some questions ..."

Clay paused again, seeming to need something from him. Tom remembered how he'd gotten annoyed with Clay when he'd found that out and realized Clay probably wanted to make sure Tom wasn't still mad, that he wasn't going to upset him more by talking about it now. "It's okay, Clay, I know. You just needed to find out what you were getting yourself into."

"No," Clay disagreed. "More to try to figure out how to help you. How we could get through this together, without making things worse."

"Okay." Tom still didn't understand, but he'd worry about the past, maybe talk to Clay about it, later. Right now he needed to figure out what was going on in the present.

Clay nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. "Anyway, I came up with a theory ... I wasn't sure or anything, and you have to understand that I'm far from being an expert, but I think I was mostly right. At some point -- from what you've said, I think it was probably that night in the mine all those years ago -- your mind couldn't deal with what was happening to you. So another ... personality sort of took over, and dealt with the trauma for you." Clay paused, tentative.

"So you were talking to that other ... person ... personality just now? You were talking to Harry?"

"Yes," Clay answered hesitantly.

"So this Harry, he's the one who killed all those people, back in Harmony, and that poor girl in Lakeville!" Tom heard his voice rising, getting more shrill as he went on, but another part of him was acknowledging, realizing that he'd actually known all along; he'd known since he'd walked out of that mine for the last time. He may not have remembered doing any of it, but he'd known. "But that wasn't really Harry who killed those people; it was me, wasn't it?" Tom tried to pull away from the comfort of Clay's arms. He felt undeserving, but even more than that, he was afraid, afraid he'd hurt Clay. He panicked, thinking of all the opportunities he'd already had to hurt Clay. He couldn't hurt Clay; if something happened to Clay he didn't know what he would do. He had to leave; he had to get away before it all started again. But Clay just pulled him closer, held him more firmly.

"Just listen a minute, okay?" Clay soothed. "It was your body, but it wasn't really you. Do you remember doing any of those things?"

"No," Tom answered slowly.

"I didn't think so. Because it wasn't you, it wasn't Tom. It was Harry."

"But Harry doesn't exist, I'm Harry. "

"No, you're not, and you're not responsible for the things he did." Clay argued reasonably.
"But I could've hurt you!" Tom protested.

"Maybe," Clay answered evenly. "But you didn't."

"But I could've!" Why didn't Clay understand? Didn't Clay realize that by staying with him, by not turning him over to the authorities, he'd put his own life at risk? "You should've turned me over to the cops, or at least taken me back to the hospital, as soon as you found out!"

"You were better by the time I found you."

"I think I killed a girl in Lakeville because you danced with her! How's that better?"

For some reason Clay's reasonable tone only infuriated Tom more. The thought that something might've happened to Clay, might still happen to Clay, frightened Tom immensely. It wasn't the "Oh my god, I'm gonna die" fear that precipitated his emotional collapse all those years ago, but it was fear all the same. It was almost worse, because it was Clay that was in danger, not himself. Tom knew his doctors from that old hospital would tell him that because he didn't know how to process the emotion, it was coming out as anger. But all this analysis was going on in some part of Tom's brain that wasn't in control right now. The part of Tom that was in control was angry that Clay would put himself in jeopardy.

"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. But whatever happened, you didn't run from it; you stayed to see things through first."

"Only because you were there to calm me down. You know I'd have run in an instant if you hadn't have talked me out of it. Why did you do that, Clay? Why didn't you just let me leave? Your life would've been so much easier if you'd have just let me go." A horrible thought occurred to Tom. It was so simple he didn't know why he hadn't realized this a long time ago. "You just wanted to fix me, didn't you? Your own personal little lab rat with more psychoses and neuroses than you could ever wish for."

"No, Tom, of course not!" Clay protested. "I was grateful that I had the training, because it made it easier for me to help you, but that's all. I just wanted you better."

"Then why?" Tom persisted. "It sure couldn't have been the sex, because just then we weren't having any. At that point, you still thought I was straight."

"I don't know. I just didn't want you to leave." Clay paused, and then continued slowly as if he were just realizing it himself. "Even if all we'd ever be was friends, I couldn't imagine not having you in my life."

Somehow that got through to Tom, and his anger evaporated. "I think that's the sappiest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Like you've got a whole list of sappy things people have said to you?" Clay joked back automatically, clearly relieved that Tom seemed to be calming down.

"What makes you think I don't?"

"Only that you've told me your life story, and it didn't sound to me as if sap was something you had to put up with every day."

"You're probably right," Tom replied ruefully.

"Hey, seriously," Clay pulled Tom closer into his arms. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," Tom replied cautiously. "Do you think ... do you think I'm fixed? That Harry's gone for good?"

"Maybe," Clay answered. "I think so. I mean, when I was talking to Harry just then, it was like he was saying goodbye, turning things over to me. He said you didn't need him anymore, because you had me. That I would take care of you. So, yeah, maybe. I hope so."
Tom searched that part of his mind where he'd always sensed a ... presence, watching, waiting. There was nothing, just emptiness. It was almost frightening in a way, as if his vengeful guardian was no longer watching over him. But at the same time it was a huge relief. "I think you're right; I think he's gone for good."

"That's good. I'm so glad." Clay's face lit up with one of his huge grins, and he hugged Tom fiercely.

"You know, what I said earlier, about us not having any sex?" Tom had been thinking about this for a while now. He thought maybe Clay just didn't want him in that way, but if Clay wanted him around for a long time, Tom should probably find the courage to ask him about it. And now seemed as good a time as any. "Well, we're still not. Not really."

"What do you mean? There was this morning in the shower, and last night ..." Clay trailed off. Any other time Tom would've laughed at the befuddled look on Clay's face, but right now it just seemed to confirm his fears. Clay really didn't want him, not like he wanted Clay anyway.

"That's just ... That's just blow jobs, and hand jobs and stuff." Tom knew his face was burning, but swallowed and forced himself to continue. "It's not real sex."

"What do you mean, it's not real sex? Oh! You mean ... " Clay got this dumbfounded look on his face, then grinned and joked. "You do know it's still sex even if there's no penetration? Despite what Bill Clinton might want you to believe?"

"Well, yeah, obviously." Tom knew his cheeks were blazing even redder, but pressed on, determined to talk this out, especially now that he'd brought it up. He couldn't let a little embarrassment - or Clay's jokes - deter him. "But ... do you ... I mean, if you don't want to ..."

"Of course I want to," Clay reassured him. But now it seemed it was his turn to blush. "I've just never ... I've never bottomed for anyone before."

"You want me to ...?" Just the thought of Clay wanting that from him made him flush even deeper, but that wasn't what he really wanted, not right now at least. "Some other time for sure, but right I'd much rather you did me."

And Tom's own words, low, and dirty, and thick with want. sent sudden shivers of lust along his own spine, drying his mouth and pulling at something low in his gut.

"Tom... Tommy?" Clay managed to ask, voice rasping low and shocked. "I don't... I never..."

"Neither did I." Tom was smiling now, the little, lopsided, self-deprecating smile that was his first method of defense, but he reached out to cup Clay's cheek, anyway, wondering if he could have this, or whether he should back off again. Clay's stubble was scratchy on Tom's palm, chased by the faint whisper of his breath as it set his fingers tingling. All of a sudden, the world seemed to mute itself, as if this were the very thing it had awaited, and he saw Clay swallow, bent forward and licked his lips, tasting salty skin and the faint flavor of coffee. "I really want you..."

Clay didn't speak; he just gave a groan and opened his mouth to Tom. Splinters of lust pierced Tom, and he melted against Clay's hard body as his lover took over the kiss, upping the ante as if he were suddenly desperate too. Mouth to mouth, shared breath and a violent crush of lips were as heady as wine, the slick-sweet tangle of their tongues making Tom harder than he'd ever been in his life.

Fingers sliding under Clay's T-shirt found and skidded over warm flesh, solid and muscular and every inch of it his. "Fuck, Clay!" he whispered against the press of lips, and Clay's answering groan sent trembles of delight through him, shivers that began somewhere deep inside and worked their way out along the fine hairs at the back of his neck. Clay had reached down to cup Tom's buttocks and pull him tight against his body, thick, hard pressure and sticky wetness against his belly showing him how much he truly was wanted.

"Back to bed," growled Clay, turning him suddenly, hands rough on his shoulders as he propelled Tom ahead of him. Tom was shaking a little, aroused, and terrified and so damned horny that he couldn't walk a straight line, feeling somehow as if he were drunk.

Their bed was rumpled anyway, the blankets pushed back, and the sheets exposed. Clay pushed him down, clumsy and panting, pressing his shoulders to the mattress, then frowned and bent to lift his legs up onto the bed as he gave a snort of laughter. "Rule 1: the human male loses all thought processes when sex is imminent."

Tom gulped and swallowed, Clay's eyes on him felt hot and heavy, and his body was ready for fight, flight or preferably fucking. He reached up to tug Clay down on top of him.

"Gabby sonofabitch," he growled. "Fuck me, before I get old."

And Clay took him, hands huge on him, pulling him into position, pressing his legs apart and reaching down with long fingers to caress. His cock jumped and tingled, a spill of thick fluid pooling on his belly, not come yet, but heralding it. He felt Clay reach to rummage around for lube and raised his head to bite one succulent pec, worrying it with his teeth as he tasted salty skin and heard Clay yelp.

And then there was slickness, and pressure and finally a piercing of him as Clay pressed his fingers deep inside him. He couldn't breathe; it was as if the air had thickened around him to hold him still. Soft, whimpering sounds were all he could manage, and Clay dipped his head down to kiss him again, tongue tracing a tender line along the roof of his mouth before curling around his own. Fingers pressed and rubbed, and it felt... odd. Not sensual, not painful, just strange. And then there was another finger, widening the breach, delving deeper, and a sudden starburst of something electric that set his cock jerking, drooling pre-come again as he moaned.

Clay was hard; Tom could feel the prod of his lover's erection against his thigh, painting sticky wetness of its own along his leg, and he wanted this done, so he'd know what it was like to be owned. He pulled away from the mouth that was trying to devour him whole. "Now, Clay," he mumbled, voice gone deep and throaty. "Fuck!"

There was a moment, and Clay froze, then growled deep in his chest and lifted Tom, pushing him into position with one leg over his shoulder and the other spread wide. The fingers slid away to be replaced by the blunt, silky head of Clay's cock, snuggled up tight against his hole. It pushed, but didn't go in. Clay growled and pushed again, forcing him open, forcing the thick, slick hardness against him, until there was a sudden give, a sharp, stinging burn, and he was filled, keening as Clay flexed his hips and held him steady, cradled tightly and oh, so warm.

It hurt. Clay's hips stuttered, and he pulled back, trying again, and this time got in a little further. Tom was mesmerized by the sight of him, too busy adoring Clay to pay attention to his pain. Clay was there above him, neck arched and mouth agape as he panted out his breath, the narrow, slanted eyes glazed as he stared into Tom's soul.

If ever Tom earned his way to heaven, he thought that heaven would be living in this moment forever. Clay gave a huffing groan as he eased his way still deeper into him, and the burn of it was cut by a dull feeling that wasn't exactly pleasure, but which promised it. His cock had gone down, deflated by the initial entry, but as he gazed up at Clay, felt Clay forcing himself deeper and deeper into him, possessing him, it began to fill again, entranced by the idea of Clay and the intimacy of this.

"I... God, Clay, I love you." He sounded harsh to himself, voice shot as he put it all out there.

Clay's eyes filled with love, and he drew back, thrust in and bottomed out as he gasped a slurred, "Love you too."

And the burn was an ache now, low, and heavy and somehow wonderful. Clay began to move, eyes still locked on Tom's as he fucked him, and the ache became a glow that started to spread, heating his blood and making him moan.

"You okay, love?" Clay peered into Tom's eyes. "You'd tell me if I hurt you, wouldn't you?"

"I'm good." He was surprised that his voice worked. He wanted to close his eyes and feel, but that would mean losing Clay's steady eye contact. "M... move, dammit!"

"Oh, I'll move," murmured Clay, throaty purr reverberating through to send prickles along Tom's skin. "Feel me move." He drew out, thrust in, and there were sparks that made Tom shudder as his cock nudged deep to find his sweet spot. Tom cried out, fingers reaching, clutching as the sizzle crept along nerve endings. Body sweat-slick, he strained to feel it again, and Clay obliged, a smile slowly creeping over his face as he watched Tom start to fall apart.

It was astonishing how rapidly the slip and glide of Clay's cock had begun to ignite sensation inside him. Tom thought he'd never felt anything like this before. He'd had his share of blowjobs, fucked Sarah, long ago when he'd still been himself, before the world had turned feral on him, and been fucked once or twice by an attendant at the asylum where he'd been placed after he'd stared Death in the face and agreed with him that it was his time. It had never felt like this.

Each slide of Clay's cock felt like a caress along the length of his own dick. Each motion took him higher, set fire to a new place inside him, until pleasure was licking along his thighs, stroking up his spine and starting a fire that engulfed his cock so that every movement Clay made built the pleasure higher, deeper, hotter. It wouldn't last; it couldn't. The feel of Clay, and the sight of him were enough to overthrow him. Clay drove in deep and hard, and the conflagration he'd started suddenly flared out of control. Tom felt himself lose it, body convulsing as his vision whited out. His body locked up as the curls of bliss flooded his synapses, and he could only feel, lost in what was the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced.

It seemed to last forever. He could hear Clay yelling something incoherent, and then he collapsed as his body went limp, flickering aftershocks convulsing him and making him gasp and pant. Clay kept moving, teeth buried in the skin of his lower lip as he drove in again and again. Tom whispered out soft words of adoration as Clay let out a soft cry and came, his own body shuddering in sympathy with Tom's as he spurted his seed into him, collapsed onto him and groaned as his body melted against him. "Amazing," he said, when he could. "Totally amazing."

Later - much later - they lay, exchanging kisses and softly spoken words of love, and Clay lifted himself up onto one elbow to look down on Tom, one finger tracing kiss-plumped lips as he smiled. "I guess I lost my sister, but I found you, and that's given me a good reason to keep going. I wasn't a great son, and I was a terrible brother, but I hope that you'll let me be the best mate I can possibly be, for the rest of my life."

Tom gave him a smile as his heart beat in time with Clay's words. "Yep. I think I can deal with that, love. I found you when I couldn't find myself, and you've changed my whole world. Thank you."

Epilogue

Clay couldn’t help but smile as he watched Tom walk across the stage to get his diploma. There was no sign of the nerves so evident earlier. Clay had Tom’s anti-anxiety medication in his pocket just in case, even though Tom hadn’t needed to take any in nearly a year. If he hadn’t lived through it, Clay would scarcely believe how far Tom had come in the last four years. How far they’d both come, for that matter.

Tom had once asked him why he’d stayed, that night when it became obvious just how sick Tom was. Clay hadn’t had an answer for him, still didn’t, really. In retrospect, by all logic, he probably should’ve gotten Tom back to a hospital. Maybe gotten him transferred out here, since there was no one to look in on him back east.

But the truth was, it had never occurred to him to do anything other than what he’d done. He’d known enough about that sort of thing to know exactly how risky it was, taking on a person with a dangerous psychiatric condition by themselves like that. It should’ve sent Clay running as far and as fast as he could get, or at least had Tom committed again. But one look at Tom’s face, Tom’s scared, innocent-looking face, and he couldn’t do it. All he could do was his best to contain the situation and try to keep others from happening.

When Tom had learned the truth about what had been going on, he’d been upset about the people who’d been killed, of course, but the thing that had upset him the most had been the possibility of Clay being hurt. Looking back, Clay probably should’ve been more worried about his own neck, but at the time that had been the last thing on his mind. His focus had been on watching Tom, learning his tells – when he was starting to get upset or feeling unsettled. Tiny, little clues told Clay how Tom was feeling, before Tom even knew himself, and soothing him was almost instinctive, right from the start. As long as Tom felt secure, he was usually fine. And it seemed that Clay provided just the sense of security that Tom needed.

That was unless something happened to make Tom doubt that security, of course. The first thing that had happened was the innocent dance with that girl. Clay had known at the time that Tom wasn’t exactly stable. Hell, he hadn’t been exactly stable himself, either. What he hadn’t known was how much Tom had come to depend on Clay, what exactly their relationship meant to him. And he’d had no idea just how badly Tom would react if something threatened that relationship, even if the threat was only in Tom’s mind. Maybe Clay should’ve told Tom sooner that he was gay, that he had absolutely no interest in the girl. Maybe he should’ve told Tom that he was interested in him. Or maybe he just should’ve said ‘No, thank you’ when the girl asked him to dance. But would’ve, could’ve, should’ve … nothing changed in the end.

After it was over, and Clay had helped Tom clean the blood away and tucked him into bed, himself right in with him, he’d found he couldn’t sleep right away. Not that that surprised him, but it hadn’t been images of Crystal Lake, or even the blood all over Tom, and worry over what they might find out the next day that kept him awake. It had been the look on Tom’s face when Clay agreed to that dance, a look of disappointment, and … resignation. Like Tom was convinced he hadn’t deserved whatever it was he’d wanted. Like he should’ve known better than to even hope. Looking back, Clay thought that was when he’d begun to suspect, but he’d already been so gone over Tom that none of it had mattered except making it better.

After that, Clay had known to look for those tells. He hadn’t known exactly what he was looking for, but he’d learned. That next week, when the homophobic asshole started yelling at them at lunch, Clay had been afraid Tom would react badly. He’d been concerned, and a little confused, by Tom’s hysterical laughter. But while the crazy had been clear on Tom’s face, Clay’d been sure it wasn’t that kind of crazy. And he’d been right. Other incidents, little things, had been more cause for concern. On the road back, Clay’s need to piss a little too soon after a waitress’s too blatant flirting with him had brought that hurt, vulnerable, resigned look back to Tom’s face. Clay had made sure to reassure him, giving him a quick peck on the lips before heading to the bathroom. Again, when a clerk’s hand had lingered a bit too long when handing back his change, Clay had tucked his hand into the small of Tom’s back on the way out of the store.

So, yeah, Clay had learned. He had learned so well it was second nature to stake his claim, even before Tom had a chance to feel the flash of disappointment, resignation. He’d let Tom know that Clay was his, that he had nothing to worry about, ever. And Tom had begun to trust in that, believe in him, have faith in them.

Then Clay had learned – again, as if he could’ve ever forgotten, after Crystal Beach – that he wasn’t always in control. He couldn’t forget that crazy day at the gas station in Connecticut, the day that Harry killed again. And Clay had been angry; he’d been angry that fate might tear them apart after everything they’d been through, angry all over again about Whitney and Crystal Lake. At that point, Clay hadn’t been sure that they weren’t more likely to become serial killers than college graduates. But he’d managed to hold it together, keep himself sane enough to get Tom out of there, to calm him down afterwards.

Somehow, they’d managed to get back, to get home. Having Tom in his family home had made the loss of his own family somehow bearable. Not easy, never easy, but bearable. Sometimes it had even been Tom’s turn to keep him sane, to get him through the days when the pain, the guilt, had been too much for Clay. Tom had kept reminding him that he’d done all he could with Whitney, even though it hadn’t been enough – never enough. Tom had helped him to remember the good times, and that, in its turn, had helped him to realize that his mom had always loved him, and that she and Whitney had known that he hadn’t really abandoned them in the end, that he’d always meant to come back. Until it was too late.

It hadn’t always been easy, being back in the house. But Tom had been there for him as much as he’d been there for Tom. And somehow, they’d both come through. Not undamaged, or maybe even sane, but … together. And that was what really mattered.

It had been an ending of sorts, that Christmas Eve, when Harry had passed the torch to Clay. It wasn’t the end, of course, they both had still had a long way to go. There had been a lot of therapy for both of them, along with time, distance, routine, and faith. But that had been the turning point, the moment when Clay was sure that they’d make it, both of them, together.

And now here they were. This was another ending, of sorts. It was a huge achievement for Tom, something he had once insisted to Clay was impossible for him. But here he was, graduating summa cum laude with his Bachelor of Science degree in Bioengineering. There was still grad school, and who knew what to follow from there, but this was something Tom had been sure he’d never achieve.

Watching Tom talk and laugh with his friends and classmates after the ceremony, Clay felt like the luckiest man in the world. It wasn’t just that Tom was good looking – wasn’t that the understatement of the year – he was smart, funny, witty, and just fun to be around most of the time. And his.

Seeing Tom interact with his peers, it was clear how much they liked and respected him. Clay was sure many of them would love to trade places with him, but no-one seriously believed that would ever happen. Tom and Clay were a sure thing, solid. And Tom’s blinding grin when he caught sight of Clay watching was just more proof.

The two of them had come through the darkness together, and the day had just begun.

---

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