Title - Back To Life
Author - Sabrina Cross
Pairing- Smythe/McNiel
Rating - NC17!
Summary - After the events of Buried, Sabrina simply couldn't resist.
Disclaimer - Not mine! Not mine! No money! Don't sue! Henry and
Chandler belong to Sci-Fi, and Vincent and Jules, what little use I
make of them, belong to Quentin Tarantino. Bad motherfucker that he
is.
Notes and Categories - Categories…Drama, I guess, a little angst, of
course. Romance, mainly. And a little mush. This turned out to be
much longer than I'd intended it to be. And a little angstier, too.
Wasn't it a great episode, though? I'd change only one thing - when
Henry pulled him out of the ground, I'd love to have seen a little
resuscitation scene. Maybe a little mouth-to-mouth… I'm totally
screwing with canon here [what else is new, right?] The only info I
know of about Chan's family was that his mom died when he was little.
So far, his dad's free game. Same goes for Henry's dad. Wasn't
Nichelle Nichols his mom, or am I imagining things? The title, and
the lyrics within the story are from the song "Fix Me Now" by Garbage
- the lyrics of which I've included at the end, in the interest of
clarity. This little bugger turned out to be the longest story I've
ever written in any fandom. So far, of course. I have not yet begun
to slash!
A Note of Thanks - Must go out to Xen, faithful [not to mention
really patient and wondrously helpful] beta. You da man! In a manner
of speaking, at least…
Feedback - You have to ask? Furrygirl@usa.net

Chapter One
Bury me above the clouds
All the way from here
Take away the things I need
Take away my fear
Hide me in a hollow sound
Happy evermore
Everything I had to give
Gave out long before

It started on the ride back to the Ravenswood, but Henry attached no significance to it.

Why should he? Chandler touched him all the time, it was the way Chandler communicated. So _this _ touch - his partner's hand resting lightly on his shoulder as he drove - was nothing out of the ordinary, and therefore no cause for concern, or even speculation, for that matter.

It wasn't until they stood in Chandler's apartment that he realized his partner was still touching him, and had been touching him since they left the car - walking so closely that their arms brushed together, standing that way in the elevator, and now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in Chandler's living room.

The back of Chandler's hand brushed over the back of Henry's, and Chandler jerked away as if struck. Henry swore he saw his partner shudder as he moved away and collapsed into an armchair.

//He didn't know,// Henry thought. Chandler hadn't _ realized _ he'd been clinging to his partner like a barnacle. Suddenly, Henry was intrigued. The electricity of the touch was nothing new, either. He'd noticed it before, when they were working together, or hanging out after hours. It was nothing they had ever - or would ever, Henry suspected - verbally acknowledge, and it certainly wasn't anything Henry had imagined they would ever act upon.

They had chemistry, it was as simple as that.

But this time, it was different, somehow.

It was different because this time, Chandler had _ reacted _ to the connection.

(puzzling)

Snagging two beers from the fridge, Henry handed one to Chandler and sat down on the sofa. Propping his feet up on the coffee table, he gazed at his partner.

"Are you okay?"

Chandler raised his eyes slowly, and looked at Henry. "You want honesty or social niceties?" he asked, the barest shadow of a smile passing over his face.

"In this instance," Henry said, "I'm gonna have to go with honesty."

"Repeat the question."

"Are you okay?"

Chandler nodded. "No."

They stared at one another while they sipped their respective beers, and when the silence between them was only a hairsbreadth away from becoming uncomfortable, Chandler said,

"You know what the worst part was?"

Henry frowned uncertainly, but Chandler didn't wait for a reply, only continued talking after the briefest of pauses.

"It wasn't the claustrophobia, it wasn't the water or the cold or the dark. It wasn't even knowing that I was gonna die." Here, he paused again, then continued, eyes averted. "The worst part…was how fucking _ alone _ I was in there."

Reflexively, Henry's mouth opened, intending to say…what? //No, you weren't alone. You were never alone, Chan// ? But he _ had _ been alone. He'd been just about as alone as any guy can get. What the hell could Henry say to that?

But Chandler still appeared uninterested in any reply.

"I think…I think that's what would drive a guy utterly nuts," Chandler mused aloud, his tone contemplative and strangely wistful. "That…solitude. That emptiness that comes with 'alone'. I'll bet that type of thing could even kill you. Not just drive you out of your skull, but actually _ kill _ you." He paused. "And it would have ended up killing me, H, just as much as the water would have, except for…"

He fell silent, a far-off look in his eyes.

"Except for…?" Henry prompted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Slowly Chandler turned his gaze onto his partner, and when their eyes met, Henry felt a current of …something sweep over his skin.

"Except for you," Chandler said. "Knowing you were out there, looking for me, but mostly just…just the sound of your voice, I guess. It…anchored me, H. _ You _ anchored me."

Almost on instinct, Henry leaned closer, reaching out his hand. "Chan - "

Chandler stood up at the moment Henry moved forward. "Look, uh - would you mind crashing here tonight?" he asked, sounding almost…bashful as he did.

(curiouser and curiouser - they'd stayed over at each other's apartments a hundred times before, why sound so hesitant now?)

(just another piece of a growing puzzle)

"I just don't feel like…"

"Being alone," Henry finished softly. "No problem, man." He got up. "You want me to take the sofa?"

Chandler nodded. "Nah. I'll take the sofa. You can have the bed." The smile on Chandler's face was half-hearted at best. It wasn't anything like his usual confident grin. It was simply sweet. It was…a stranger. A stranger that Henry wanted very much to hug, because of the underlying sadness in that smile.

He didn't, of course. He just watched Chandler stand there, gazing at his surroundings as if he'd never seen them before. Turning suddenly, he rooted around in a cabinet until he found what he'd been looking for and drew it out. Jack Daniels. A full bottle.

"I need a drink," he said. "I need twenty drinks."

An hour later, the bottle was very nearly empty, and Henry grabbed it away when Chandler reached for it again.

"You're drunk," he said. "Congratulations. Go to bed."

"I'm not drunk," Chandler said with deeply inebriated dignity. "And I'll have another. It's _ my _ booze."

"Why not?" Henry said, refilling his partner's glass, then his own. "The sooner you're well and truly shitfaced, the sooner I can put you to bed."

Chandler scowled. "Bed, bed, bed, is that all you think about? You saved my life. You're wonnerful. An' I resent you like hell. Why're you always around, doin' this, doin' that?"

Henry blinked at him, momentarily speechless. "You don't know? You dunno." He sighed. "You're the only one in the goddamn division who doesn't." Henry's tone was morose. "They all nudge each other when I go by - 'There's that lovesick jackass who don't even got the balls to tell the guy how he feels.'"

"Love." Chandler repeated dully. "Love? Who? Me?"

"Son of a bitch," Henry said mournfully. "Never thought a couple drinks'd go to my head like that." Again, he sighed. "I'm tired. I'm tired and I think I'm getting the flu and I'm still cold inside when I think about how close you came…Yes. Love. You."

He gave a short, barking little laugh. "Shit, ain't this the love scene of the century. Here I am, drunk off my ass, makin' my declaration of undying passion to a man who's even drunker'n me. You sober enough to wonder why I never said nothin' before? I was scared you'd kick my ass across the state line. Or at least ask for another partner. You don't want me. You don't want anybody. There's no room in your mind or your heart for anybody except - no, not your wife, this warped image of her you've got set up as your idol and your cross." Henry's frown turned to a strange, pained expression. "Shit, man, can't you see what you're doin' to yourself? And to me?"

The only emotion left in Chandler's drained mind was a dull sort of shock. The speech was so out of character for Henry - or what he knew of Henry - that he felt like his partner'd changed shape, like a werewolf. Knowing nothing else to do, he finished his drink.

"Fuck. Catharsis ain't all it's cracked up to be," Henry said, his voice closer to normal. "What a night, huh? Near tragedy followed by howling farce…How do you feel?"   Chandler just looked at him, eyes wide and owlish. "I don't know."

"Huh. That makes two of us." Henry stood up.

"Will you be - " Chandler began, but Henry cut him off.

"I'll be in your room," he said. "Right down the hall. You call me if - "

"I will."

Henry moved unsteadily towards the hall. He turned. "I'll talk to you in the morning," he said ominously, and reeled through the door.

Chandler covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, but it would have been hard to say if he was laughing or crying.

**

Lying on his back, eyes wide and staring into the darkness of Chandler's bedroom ceiling, Henry was doing something he had claimed he did not do:

Pondering the impossible, unanswerable questions of Eternity and Fate.

Although, he thought, probably not in the way Chandler had meant it.

From the other room, he could hear small rustling sounds as Chandler shifted around on the sofa.

Henry thought back to the

(gravesite)

place where he'd found Chandler, allowing his mind to go over something he had, thus far, steered clear of. Terry had been yelling, the sound of the torrential rain and his own frantic heartbeat had filled his ears, had filled his whole _ mind _ .

And yet - and yet - he'd still heard Chandler's screams, heard them clearly, despite the fact that they were muffled not only by the coffin, but by the six and some feet of dirt on top of it.

But Henry had _ heard _ it, heard him, plain as day, clear as a bell. Now, what the fucking hell did that _ mean _?

//Why the hell does it have to _ mean _ anything, huh?// asked a small inner voice.

Sometimes that voice was his own, sometimes his father's, sometimes it was even Decker. Tonight, it sounded like Decker. Henry thought that a little of Decker's no-holes-barred realism-bordering-on- cynicism would be a good thing right now, even if it was just his own subconscious.

//I'll repeat the question. Why does it have to _ mean_ anything, pally?//

_ I guess it doesn't…but I really feel like it does._

//It was a fluke, it was blind fucking luck. Get over it, okay? You're a professional.//

_ No. No fucking way, man. Because I _ know_ it meant something. I just don't know _what _.

Then, the voice in his head spoke again, and it wasn't Decker anymore. It was Chandler.

//What do you think it means, Henry?//

_ You want honesty or social niceties?_

His partner's ironic grin was as vivid in Henry's mind's eye as it had ever been.

//Honesty. What do you think it means?//

_ I think…I think I was meant to find you._

//Meant to find me?// The smirk on his ghost-partner's face deepened. //I'm pickin' up vibes here, man. Vibes that say 'existential crisis'.//

Henry sighed to himself. Existential crisis? Not as such, no. Crisis of faith? Maybe. Maybe that was a better term for what he was currently engaged in.

He felt, unequivocally, that he had been _ guided_ to Chandler, led to his partner by some…Unseen Hand. But if that were truly so…why go to the trouble?

Agents were imminently expendable, he'd known that since the beginning, and he believed it. //Sooner or later, we all go down in the line of duty. That's the way it is. That's the way it's supposed to be.//

Why would any…Higher Power, for lack of a better descriptive, want one, ultimately expendable man to be saved?

Henry nearly laughed derisively at himself. //I sound like Jules Winnfield,// he thought. //Gotta admit, though, he was one bad motherfucker.// What was it he'd said…?

"It's not about _ what _. It could be that God stopped the bullets, he changed Coke into Pepsi, he found my fuckin' car keys. You don't judge shit like this based on merit. Whether or not what we experienced was an according-to-Hoyle miracle is insignificant. What is significant is that I felt the touch of God. God got involved."

"But why?"

"That's what's fuckin' wit' me!"

The question of _ why _ was what was fucking with Henry. That, he realized, plus the dawning realization that he'd seen Pulp Fiction _way _ too many times. But it rang true. He had felt the touch of God out there that night, and that wasn't something that was easy to walk away from.

Adding to his already adamantine confusion were the memories of Chandler's behavior since he'd dug him up. Henry thought of all the times and ways his partner had touched him since they met, then thought of the way Chandler had been touching him tonight, in the car and in the elevator.

Even earlier, in the living room, when they'd sat opposite each other, legs up on the coffee table. Chandler had, so subtly that Henry wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for it, made sure his feet rested against his partner's.

There was something different in those touches, an air of…need.

Of needing reassurance, somehow, and Chandler hadn't even _ realized _ he'd been doing it. The only touch that had gotten an out-of-the- ordinary reaction was that brush of their hands as they stood inside the door, that touch which had seemed so suddenly to be dizzyingly intimate - far moreso than any touch they'd ever shared.

Fishy. Very fishy.

And stranger still was Henry's own reaction to Chandler's - presumed - death.

There had been pain, of course, but none of the anger that he knew from experience usually accompanied such a loss. No anger, and no real denial, just a dull, aching emptiness, a grief so deep he seemed not to feel it at all. It was because of that non-feeling that he'd gone into Chandler's apartment, hoping that seeing it, seeing his partner's things and the space in which he'd lived would spark some kind of reaction.

But it hadn't, not really.

And to call what he had felt upon opening that goddamned coffin "relief" was to do the emotion a great disservice. No, what he'd felt when he'd pulled Chandler - living, breathing Chandler - out of that fucking hole in the ground was a flood of something so deep and vast as to be unnamable, an emotion beyond his own comprehension.

Again, Henry sighed.

What did it all _ mean _?

He was still trying to figure it out when he fell asleep.

**

Henry was dreaming.

He didn't know this, of course. The dreamer seldom knows the dream for what it is.

In this dream, Henry ran.

He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, ran until his legs ached and the pain in his side finally forced him to slow to a limping walk. But the thing he ran from would not be escaped so easily. It went with him, every step of the way. He flopped down on the ground at the edge of the woods

(woods? apparently)

in a tangled heap of arms and legs. The wild wind whistled through the trees above.

His brain was boiling like a cauldron. A hodgepodge of mixed ideas and emotions and fancies bubbled and seethed. One thought popped to the surface, and he was just beginning to see it clearly when it burst and sank, and another took its place.

He sprawled in a pile of leaves. as his frantic breathing slowed, so did his thoughts; but the mental terrain that now lay open to him was as unfamiliar as a landscape after an earthquake has tumbled mountains.

For a long time, he lay still. How long, he didn't know, but when he finally sat up and opened his eyes, the sun was sinking westward and the shadows had lengthened considerably. Out of the jumble of emotions, one predominant feeling stood isolated and unshakable.

He marveled that he had not recognized it long before.

And with that, Henry woke, just in time to see Chandler - clad, as Henry was , in boxers - slink into the room, and pause just inside the door.

He simply…stood there, and Henry gazed openly at him, taking in the sight, the way the shadows sculpted his body, stood in contrast to him the way all darkness must. The moment stretched, and stretched, and the extended silence began to make Henry vaguely uneasy.

"Chan?" he whispered, and his partner turned towards him. "What's wrong?"

Chandler didn't reply, and it was too dark for Henry to see his face, so he watched his body, the way he was standing, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and then back again.

Henry wanted very much to reach out to him, to soothe his sadness away, but he held that desire in check, sensing a strange fragility in his partner, as though Chandler were poised on the very edge of panic, and the last thing in the world that Henry wanted was to push him over that precipice.

Then Chandler took a cautious step towards him. Then another. Henry's heart was in his throat. Slowly, wordlessly, Henry reached out and pulled the blankets back, holding them open in silent invitation.

It was accepted. One more step and Chandler was there, with Henry, next to Henry, draping one arm across his partner's waist, resting his head on his partner's shoulder as Henry wrapped one arm around him to keep him there.

"I don't want to dream tonight," Chandler murmured, his breath warm and gentle on the skin of Henry's throat. "I don't want to dream at all."

Chapter Two

Crashing silent broken down
Falling into night
Who gave out and who gave in
I'll go without a fight
Cut me down or cut me dead
Cut me in or out
Kiss me blind time after time
Take away my doubt

The next day passed as most days did.

Routine cases, routine paperwork and routine office small talk. Around 2 pm they broke for lunch - take-out from the Thai joint down the street - and Henry had the pleasure of seeing Chandler eat a prawn that was a bit spicier than he was used to, then turn purple and begin to sweat while he gulped down about a gallon of milk and devoured two apples.

It wasn't until around five thirty that departmental unrest reared its ugly head, in the person of one Justin Grey, a smarmy little bastard who did mostly wiretap and computer work. The weaselly little peckerhead came sauntering in, grinning in a self-satisfied manner that made Henry immediately wary.

"So, Smythe," he said, perching on the corner of Chandler's desk, "I hear you managed to get - " here, he very pointedly suppressed a snort of laughter " - buried alive?"

Sighing tensely, Chandler ignored him, but that sort of thing (ie, the High Road) was never enough to deter acerbic morons like Grey.

"Y'know, even Decker blowing the hostage to smithereens - that can be excused. Those things do have hair triggers, but to be _ buried alive _, I mean - "

"Shut the fuck up, asshole," Henry had snapped before he even realized he was going to speak. "Your record ain't exactly stellar, is it?"

Grey turned his beady eyes on Henry.

"Come on, McNiel," he drawled. "Don't get your panties in a twist just cuz your partner got hoist with his own petard…"

Here, the smirk took on a distinctly superior air, and that was it for Henry. He _ hated _ it when people underestimated his intelligence. He stood up and walked over to the worm who'd insulted both he and his partner, drawing himself up to his full height. (He wasn't _ that _ tall, really, but compared to Justin "Five foot two and a half" Grey, he was a fucking giant.)

Looming over him in a way he could tell was making Grey really nervous, he said, with great deliberation and aplomb,

"Direct thy feet/ Where thou and I henceforth may never meet."

It worked. As Grey slunk out the way he came, Henry saw Chandler's singularly charming - and equally disarming - grin light up his face. Unable to do anything else, he grinned back.

"You have a gorgeous nose," Chandler said irrelevantly, and heard his partner snort with amusement.

"You ready to call it a day?" Henry asked.

Glancing around at the unfinished paperwork on his desk, Chandler shrugged.

"What the hell," he said. "You only live twice."

It wasn't until Henry was driving them back to the Ravenswood (Chandler's hand resting once more on his shoulder) that Henry began to suspect that he had been suddenly and inexplicably transported into … (his inner voice took a definite Rod Serling turn) The Twilight Zone.

It was all happening again…but how much of it was going to happen again? And then, very softly, another question rose in his mind, a question whose answer he feared as much as he desired.

//How much _ more _ will happen?//

And on the heels of it…//How much more do I _ want _ to happen?//

But he had no time to ponder. They were home.

"You bought lunch," Henry said without planning to. "What do you say I cook us dinner?"

Chandler grinned.

**

With a deep sigh of utter contentment and satisfaction, Chandler collapsed onto the sofa.

"Henry," he said. "That was spectacular. I may never be the same again."

Smiling, Henry flopped down beside his partner. "I've just got the cookin' gene," he said, managing to sound humble while looking rather smug. "My dad was a chef."

Letting his head fall back against the couch, Chandler gazed at Henry. "Yeah? My dad was an archeologist."

"No shit?"

Chandler nodded. "No shit. He went all over the place. Digging."

"Excavating," Henry corrected almost reflexively.

"Whatever."

"Did you ever go with him?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes I did."

And Henry noted how, when Chandler said that, his face took on a far- off look, leaving him with a tranquil, introspective expression, his narrowed eyes thoughtfully examining some private phantom. Henry considered his profile, dark against the light from the other room.

//Chandler,// he thought. //Chandler.//

He needed him - they needed each other. That was the thing. He was

(what?)

(in love with - ?)

dependant on him. Without Chandler, he felt that some unidentifiable part of himself would be lost.

"We went to this cave once," Chandler said suddenly, startling Henry out of his reverie.

"What cave?" he asked.

Chandler shrugged, a graceful undulation of chest and shoulder. "I don't remember the name. It's in Greece. Some ancient cave."

"Was it scary?" Henry asked jokingly. "Cuz if it's scary, I don't want to hear about it."

Chandler chuckled, elbowing his partner in the ribs.

"It wasn't scary," he said after a moment. "It was…I dunno, weird, but it wasn't scary, really. There was this god that was supposed to live there."

"God?"

"Not _ God _ god. _A _ god."

"A Greek god."

"Yeah." Chandler shifted, almost tentatively resting his head on his partner's shoulder. "People used to worship him, they built an altar outside the cave and made sacrifices and stuff. I knew about the cave and I wanted to see it, so I figured I'd walk out and see if I could find it. I was…about 13, I think. It just looked like a big mouth in the ground, it got really big inside and it was dark as hell."

"Did you see the god?" Henry asked, half-teasing.

"I don't know," Chandler said after a moment. "Maybe."

It wasn't the answer Henry'd been expecting. "What did you see?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Chandler replied slowly, seeming to sift carefully through the memories. "I was disoriented. I mean, I was walking back into the cave to see if I could find the end, and my flashlight wasn't working cuz it had these crummy Greek batteries, and I kept walking back and back and back and it got darker and darker and I thought I saw something move." He paused, chuckling a little at the memory. "It scared the shit out of me. I turned around and ran, but I couldn't see the light from the cave opening anymore, and I stopped feeling like it even _ was _ a cave anymore, that it was just this big blackness that went on and on forever. But I did get out eventually. Stephanos, this guy my dad knew said it might have been the god. He said some people thought the god still lived there, but since nobody brought him sacrifices anymore, he didn't come out too often."

They fell silent, enjoying the closeness they were sharing - physical and emotional. It was a good moment. Then Henry said,

"Trippy." And they laughed. "You wanna stay here tonight?" Henry asked, feeling strangely nervous about it.

After a brief, heart-pounding pause, Chandler said,

"Yeah. I do."

"You can have the bed this time," Henry told him, overriding him as he tried to protest. "Fair's fair, man. I'll take the couch."

Again, silence descended, sudden tension coiling in the air between and around them. Henry didn't like to think of himself as a coward, but when he broke that silence a moment later, it was because he had to. He _had _ to, or…something would happen.

"You wanna watch TV?" he asked. "There's this special on - Unsolved Mysteries of History - Easter Island, Nostradamus, the Pyramids - "

"The only mystery about the pyramids," Chandler said deliberately, "is why a bunch of idiots think there's a mystery, and Nostradamus was a con man with a great press agent."

"But that's what makes these shows so fun," Henry countered with a grin. "They round up a few idiots who rant in this pseudo-scholarly language about Martians and ancient prophecies. I love it, man."

"Then yuk it up, Mystery Man," Chandler said amiably, rising from the couch and studiously avoiding his partner's gaze. "I'm turning in."

**

Despite the fact that his declaration of love for this type of drivel was entirely factual, Henry couldn't concentrate on Madame Nova and her alleged conversations with the long-dead (but still incredibly beautiful, she claimed) Nefertiti.

He kept thinking of Chandler. Chandler lying in his bedroom. In his bed. Did Chandler sleep on his side, or his back? His stomach, maybe? Did he flail around and kick off the covers, or mummify himself in them, making a cocoon out of the blankets?

What did it matter?

Henry remembered little of his drunken declaration the night before. He remembered that he'd made it, but the specifics were fuzzy. Probably for the best, anyway. It wasn't like it was going to change anything, was it?

Shit. Well, so he was an idiot. What else was new, right?

If anything was going to come of it, it would have already, he decided. //Just be happy he didn't deck you, and get on with your life.//

He still felt like he should _do _ something, though, he just didn't know what.

Wait a minute.

Wait just one fucking minute, here.

And he knew.

It was like a speck of dust drifted down and went into his eye, and when he looked up to see where it had come from, he was hit by this ton of bricks; it hit him hard. He lay there for a moment, thinking, //No, it can't be…// But it was.; it wouldn't go away, it was there now, and it _ wouldn't go away_ and he knew. He didn't know _ how _ he knew, and he sure as hell didn't understand it all, but, goddammit…he _ knew _.

Unfortunately, before he could pinpoint exactly _what _ it was that he knew, or what he should do about it, Henry fell asleep.

He dreamt of the Salem witches. He was one of them, accused by hysterical children of bartering his soul and body to the Prince of Darkness, in exchange for pleasures beyond human imagining. And he was guilty. As he lay bound, awaiting execution, he laughed and licked his lips, remembering those dark carnal raptures. He went on laughing even as the first weight came to rest gently, almost softly, on his body; weight after weight followed, crushing his ribs and lungs, stopping his breath; and still that vicious laughter filled him.

Gazing out across the bloodthirsty crowd that had gathered to watch him die, it seemed to Henry that he could see the Other One's face, and it was Chandler's face, and Chandler was whispering something, whispering to him, and Henry heard him clearly, even over the din of the crowd…

(I met the Love Talker one evening in the glen…)

(He was handsomer by far than all our handsomest young men…)

(His eyes were blacker than the sloe, his voice was sweeter far…)

Henry thought again of that Dark Man's unearthly embrace, and he knew, even in death, that it had been worth it…

**

Chandler sat up in one convulsive burst of motion.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he tried to calm his erratic breathing.

He had been dreaming about the cave. In the dream, though, the cave hadn't been dark. There had been a light far ahead of him, so bright it was nearly blinding him. He walked through the light and emerged in a wood. Olive trees.

A wind from the sea lifted their leaves, flashing their silver undersides. Something was moving through the trees, he could see it in the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look at it, it slipped away. At first he thought it was Henry, but soon became aware that Henry was standing beside him, holding his hand.

"Do you see it?" he asked. "What is it?"

Henry said something, but Chandler couldn't understand him. There was something wrong with his ears, they were full of a roaring sound, like the ocean, but different, too.

Awake, elbows on knees and head in hands, Chandler tried to discern just what Henry might have been trying to say, but he couldn't understand. Had he been afraid? Had Henry? Chandler couldn't even be sure of that.

**

Henry wasn't sure what woke him. He stood up, cracked his neck, rubbed his eyes, and stood, waiting.

At first, the voice was indistinguishable from the normal sounds of the night, breathy as the movement of air in the leaves, wordless as wind. Then he heard, or thought he heard, words.

He stopped in his bedroom doorway, every sense on the alert. Not a breath of air stirred. A good thing too, he thought distantly, trying to keep his composure. He was too damn nervous for no damn reason - if a board had creaked, or a curtain moved, he would have dropped in his tracks.

Soon, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw his partner sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed.

"Chan?" he whispered, stepping into the room. No response. Moving closer, Henry put a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Jeez," he muttered, "You're freezing. Put this around you." He grabbed an afghan off the foot of the bed and threw it clumsily around the other man's shoulders. Chandler rose to meet it, feeling the warm blanket settle around him like an embrace.

The movement brought him so close to Henry that his face became a patchwork of isolated elements - the dark eyes, wide with surprise or some other, deeper emotion; the vein throbbing in his forehead; his lips, so damn close…

Chandler's hand moved of its own volition, fingertips tracing over the sharp lines of temple and jawline then sliding down to cup the back of his neck.

Henry's paralysis broke and he pulled Chandler roughly into his arms, pressing the folds of cloth tightly across his back and hips. Henry's mouth fumbled over his partner's eyelids and along his cheek until it found Chandler's with a violence that would have snapped the smaller man's head back, had he not met it with equally jarring force.

How long it went on, neither of them knew - a breathless, immeasurable eternity, a few seconds of actual time. It was Henry who drew back first.

"Feel better?" he asked, feeling inane.

"Yeah," Chandler grumbled. "I don't know why I should, but I do."

"You're shivering," Henry noted. "Still cold?"

"Can't seem to get warm."

"Get back into bed and scoot over."

When he had, Henry got in with him, and Chandler snuggled close, resting his head on his partner's chest. Henry held him against his body, and after a little while, Chandler stopped shivering.

"Tell me more about Greece," Henry said softly. "Not the cave. Nice stuff."

"The cave was nice."

Henry shrugged. "But it was funky. Tell me some non-weird stuff."

Chandler seemed to think it over. "Well, one day my dad and I walked all the way from Delphi to the sea. I think that was the best time I've ever had."

"Until now," Henry said, so quickly it surprised them both. Henry swallowed awkwardly, but Chandler only nodded.

"Until now."

"What was so great about it?" Henry asked, trying not to sound too interested. Failing.

"I'm not sure, really," Chandler replied. "Some of it was just getting to spend some time with my dad, I think. I didn't get to very often. But he wasn't busy that day - I don't remember why - so we took this walk. We had a really old map that didn't really do any good anyway. We didn't take the roads - we just walked straight down this mountain and through a grove of olive trees. He told me it was a sacred wood - holy ground. If you killed anything there, it pissed the gods off." He shifted a little, sliding his arms around Henry's waist. "You wanna hear something nutty?"

"Do I hear anything else from you?"

Chandler let it pass. "When we were walking through the grove, I got the weirdest feeling…like…like the gods were still there, in the woods."

"Fucked up."

"No," Chandler said softly. "No, it wasn't. I was…so happy. Everything was so clear all of a sudden." He paused. "Did you ever have glasses?"

"Yeah," Henry said, vaguely confused at the departure. "When I was a kid."

"Well, remember when you first got them? And you put them on, and for the first time, you could see?"

"Yeah," Henry said, sounding a little wistful. "I read all the street signs on the way home from the doc's. I read 'em out loud, and I think my mom thought I was nuts. I guess I thought nobody could read street signs."

Chandler was nodding. "That's what it was like. Only it wasn't just signs - it was _everything _. I'd look at a tree, and I'd go, 'Oh, wow. So that's a tree.' Then I'd look at a leaf - "

"And you'd say, 'Oh, wow. That's a leaf.'"

"Yeah. It was…amazing, I guess. And I could smell everything, too. The sand, the grass. Even the sun."

Henry smiled and hugged him a little tighter. "What does the sun smell like?" he asked.

"Like fire," Chandler said promptly. "Like charcoal when the fire's died down."

Henry shook his head. "No. You know when you've been swimming, and you lie down on the dock with your nose to the wood? That's what the sun smells like."

"That, too," Chandler agreed softly. "I wanted to stay there forever."

Henry picked up one of Chandler's hands and studied it, curling his fingers around his partner's, one finger at a time. "I'm glad you didn't," he said, feeling quite uncharacteristically shy about it. He touched the tip of his tongue to Chandler's palm, experimentally.

"Hey, that tickles."

Henry held up their hands, palm to palm. His fingers were longer than Chandler's. But Chandler's hands were broader.

"H?" he asked after a little while, his voice soft, nearly hesitant.

"Yeah, man?"

"Would you kiss me again, please?"

Neither of them were entirely prepared for what happened.

The gentle touch of Henry's hand stroking his cheek and throat, brushing the hair back from his forehead, made Chandler feel like a contented kitten. He yielded readily when Henry tilted his face toward his, then giggled a little when the stubble of beard pricked his cheek. A breath of soft answering laughter warmed his parted lips just before Henry kissed him.

Gentle at first, then more demanding, the kiss roused feelings so long denied that their presence filled Chandler with a vast astonishment. Turning, he strained against his partner, holding him. Long - so long, so cold, starved and forgotten…How was it possible to forget? Or had it ever happened at all? No…not like this. Never like this.

Henry was the first to pull away. He had to free Chandler's clinging hands; raising them to his lips, he held them clasped in his for a moment before returning them to his partner in a grave, almost ritualistic gesture of relinquishment.

Breathless and dazzled, Chandler reached for Henry again. But he had moved away a little, leaving an empty space between them.

"Why did you stop?" Chandler whispered. "Why don't you…"

Henry was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly,

"It has to be your decision, man. Reasoned and deliberate. You know I love you." He paused, studying his partner's face. "Maybe now you know how much. Too damn much to fuck you while you're in a mellow mood then have you regret it in the morning."

Chandler recognized the quality of his caring but denied its wisdom. The dictates of the mind and the demands of the body were irresolvable; reasoned passion was a contradiction in terms.

"Henry - " he began, and was cut off.

"You need to think about this, that's all."

Chandler closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reached out and took his partner's hand in a grip as strong as steel.

"What I need, Henry," he said in a reasoned, deliberate tone that still managed to sound breathless and enticing, "is to know that I'm not alone." He twisted his fingers into the fabric of Henry's tee shirt. "That's all I need right now," he whispered as he pressed closer to his partner, leaning into him.

"You're not alone," Henry said, his voice nearly breaking. "Believe me, you're not." Taking Chandler in his arms again, Henry leaned down to brush kissed over his closed eyes. Chandler needed this. Chandler needed _ him _. And God help them both, that was the one thing Henry could never resist, the one thing that, truth be known, he had never even tried to resist.

Chapter Three
Fix me now I wish you would
Bring me back to life
Kiss me blind, somebody should
Turn hollow into light

Things don't have to be this way
Catch me on a better day

Fix me now…

Seeing the compliance, the complete unspoken surrender in his partner's eyes, Chandler surged forward, covering Henry's parted lips with his own, his tongue seeking and gaining immediate entry, tasting the other man deeply, trying to discover and stimulate every pleasure point in his partner's mouth.

Henry had not been prepared for this - this sudden, nearly overwhelming intensity. He gave a ragged, choked-off gasp as Chandler's mouth descended upon his own, devouring him, obliterating him, _ owning _ him with that heady caress of lips and tongue.

Sweet. Fucking. Christ.

He thought he'd known, before, what he had wanted, he had thought he knew what "want" meant. With this touch - this lightning-hot, scorching-bright connection - came the undeniable fact that, before this moment, this kiss, he hadn't had even the slightest conception of what the word truly meant - like heat without combustion, fire without flame, action without reaction, he had diagnosed himself as "wanting" without even the barest idea of what it truly was.

He knew now, with a soaring, euphoric certainty, just what it was to _ want _. He also knew that apart from being woefully understated, his

(admittedly countless)

fantasies had had much more to do with _ fucking _ than with _ making love _. And that's what they were doing - what they were going to do - Henry felt no doubt about that. This kiss, this elemental joining of mouths and

(souls)

intentions, was showing him all that they could have, all that was theirs for the taking, all that they could be, here and forever, if they would but reach out and embrace it.

Which was exactly what Henry did.

With no attempt at finesse, Henry struggled out of his tee shirt and boxers, nearly gasping aloud with the touch of the cool air on his skin, and distantly noting that Chandler was doing the same.

When they came together again, it was with nothing between them - no barriers, physical or emotional - only the silken-hot, sweat-slicked slide of skin-on-skin, the flame of this passion, incinerating them. Purifying them - cleansed by the fire.

When Henry rolled, reversing their positions so that his partner lay atop him, Chandler went along with a gratifying lack of hesitation. Their eyes met - both of them, so _ sure _, so willing to follow where the other led, even now, even in this.

Delicious weight, heat and silk and steel and when Chandler bent to kiss him, Henry wholeheartedly, with no reservations, embraced the theory of spontaneous human combustion, because that's what this was, a lava flow, a towering inferno of tender desire and demanding need, and as Chandler began to rock against him, Henry shuddered, certain for the first and only time that _ anything _ was possible.

Chandler wasn't even able to gasp the pleasure was so very great. Henry cried out, a ragged sound of such pure, voluptuous surrender that Chandler felt it in every cell, every synapse and nerve in his body. His eyes snapped open

(when had he closed them?)

and he watched the man beneath him with something like awe. Henry's eyes were closed, but his face was beautiful in its revealing vulnerability.

"Henry," he heard himself say, something in his voice speaking of revelation, something else speaking of his own surrender. It was a raw sound, naked and yearning.

The unwavering movement of their hips sped suddenly, considerably, in tandem, and Henry writhed, panting with the strange, painful pleasure of it all, and when the revelation came it was all the more painful for that very pleasure.

It was horrible - it was all so utterly horrible there were no words for it, no words at all. He knew now why this sort of love was called a sin, an abomination, why it was shunned and shamed and forbidden, why we have all been taught to hate it and fear it, warned about it all of our lives.

Because it was beautiful.

Not just beautiful, but Beauty itself - Beauty personified and made manifest, Truth and Freedom incarnate, wound together and epitomized in with one simple, primal, ancient and instinctive glorious act, and yet it was horrible, because he knew now - with the same faith with which a blind man knows it's midnight - now that he had tasted of this love, tasted that Truth, now that he had been taken into him, and he into it, he _ knew _ :

He would always want this, he would always want what he had felt here with Chandler. He knew now, and he would always know and there would never be another feeling to rival this feeling; there was nothing that ever could. He wanted - suddenly, with a yearning that took his breath away - he wanted more than anything to go back, back into that time of Not-Knowing, to that ache of desire, that ignorance and jaded sort of innocence that was his alone.

He didn't know how he could go back now - how he could ever go back - back to playing the role that Fate had cast him in, now that everything he had ever known, or thought he had known, had been torn so suddenly and completely away.

"Is this how you imagined it?" Chandler hissed, his breath hot against Henry's cheek. "Is this what you saw when you closed your eyes and thought of me?"

"God!" Henry heard himself cry out, not knowing if it was a prayer of thanks or a plea for mercy. And then it was there, the orgasm rushing upon him with crushing, merciless power, sparking like lightning through his ever nerve, cell and synapse, racing like wildfire up his spine and finally ending with explosions of sensation so vivid they flared like coloured fireworks behind his tightly closed eyelids.

The sound Chandler made as he came - low, rough, seeming somehow angry, yet eloquently vulnerable as well - was the last thing Henry heard before he fell - fell without reservation - into the waiting embrace of oblivion.

A moment later, ever-faithful, Chandler followed with him.

**

Chandler Smythe woke slowly, unsure of just what had lured him from his dreams of warmth.

/Not alone,/ his brain supplied, and he came the rest of the way into wakefulness.

/Henry./

He turned his head slightly on the pillow, and his partner was there, less than a foot away, his smooth, pleasingly leonine features relaxed, softly beautiful.

Turning on his side to gaze more closely at his partner's sleeping countenance, it occurred to Chandler that he had not often seen Henry sleep, and had never before seen him sleeping the way he was now - such peace on his face, such pure serenity.

Chandler's eyes traveled over all he could see of Henry, while his thoughts strayed to earlier times. It was like looking at photographs in an album: the corners neatly glued down, the images preserved and captioned, a little dust or an imperfection on one, another slightly faded.

Mentally, Chandler thumbed through the pages, pausing to review familiar scenes.

"The Big Day": Bonnie resplendent in her shell-white bridal gown. From beneath her veil her eyes shining out at him like emeralds. Later, in their desperate wedding-night zeal, that veil had been torn rather badly, but Bonnie kept it anyway. A reminder, she said.

"The Darkest Hour": The weeks following Bonnie's death. ben, who - like Chandler - had been sleeping less and less, would come and put his ear to what had been mom and dad's bedroom door several times a night, trying to discover and perhaps ease the ghosts that haunted his father's sleeplessness, but never daring to open it and go in. At times, Chandler thought he heard, "You okay, pop?" but it must have been his imagination. When one does not sleep, everything - that very wakefulness most of all - becomes dreams. Bad ones.

"A Second Chance": Standing side by side, Decker smiling his deceptively benign little smile, Ford's craggy face as expressionless as a brick, the two Corps agents had reminded Chandler of those unparalleled salesmen, the Walrus and the Carpenter. He supposed that made him one of their naïve little oyster pals. It was no funnier to him now as it was then.

"In The Coffin": Cold and dark, dark and cold. His only light the certainty that they - no, not the ubiquitous "They", but Henry - that _ Henry _ would find him, Henry would save him. His only warmth the sound of Henry's voice, assuring and reassuring, Henry's voice soothing away his panic, Henry's voice grounding him in his remaining remnants of reality, the only thing that kept him from shattering, _Henry _, his rock, his anchor, his fucking _ lifeline _…

Then came quick, rapidly successive flashes of more recent imagery - Henry stealing glance after surreptitious glance at his partner as he [Henry] cooked dinner, doing the same thing all through the meal. The warm, undemanding pressure of Henry's shoulder against his as they sat on the couch, the overwhelming peace he had felt the night before, when he had slept - and slept dreamlessly - in the gentle safe haven that was Henry's embrace.

And before that, Henry's confession, his declaration of love, the visceral truth of it in his eyes and in the soul that shone out through them belying the drunken, almost off-hand tone of those words. Those three perfect words

(Yes. Love. You.)

which, while just about as far from any storybook romantic scene as one could get, still filled Chandler with a slow, glowing warmth, spreading through his body as he gazed at his partner, infusing his limbs with the lax, golden lethargy of post-coital euphoria.

And that was when it came to him in a cataclysmic flood - he loved Henry. Henry made him whole, Henry gave him what he needed, gave him what he lacked, a deep stability when Chandler would run off wild and frantic.

"I love you, Henry," he whispered into the darkness, and slept.

**

Again, they stood in the grove of olive trees. To their left was the black mouth of the cave, stretching on into infinity. To their right, the ever-elusive Something slipped almost soundlessly through the trees, always on the edge of their vision.

Chandler felt the warmth of the sun on his face, felt the sweet solidity of Henry's hand in his. Slowly, they turned to gaze into the inky blackness of the endless cave, each of them feeling, in his own way, the inevitability.

Chandler stood very still, but he was not afraid. He knew he wouldn't walk through the darkness alone.

Henry would come with him if they had to go.

***

This is The End…beautiful friend, The End…

"Fix Me Now", by Garbage:

Things don't have to be this way
Catch me on a better day

Bury me above the clouds
All the way from here
Take away the things I need
Take away my fear
Hide me in a hollow sound
Happy evermore
Everything I had to give
Gave out long before

Fix me now I wish you would
Bring me back to life
Kiss me blind somebody should
From hollow into light

Crashing silent broken down
Falling into night
Who gave up and who gave in
I'll go without a fight
Cut me down or cut me dead
Cut me in or out
Kiss me blind time after time
Take away my doubt

Fix me now I wish you would
Bring me back to life
Kiss me blind somebody should
From hollow into light

Things don't have to be this way
Catch me on a better day

Fix me now I wish you would
Bring me back to life
Kiss me blind somebody should
From hollow into light

Things don't have to be this way
Catch me on a better day

Fix me now…