"If you make any trouble tonight, Adams, I swear I'm going to call the cops!"

Hunter smirked at the warning and grabbed his beer off the bar, splashing it onto the concrete floor of the club in the process. "Whatever," he answered, trying to sound nonchalant, and then walked over and stood in front of the small stage at the back of the club.

"So Joe, who's playin' tonight, anyway?" he called out to the surly older man.

He waited a minute for an answer and then turned back toward the club owner. seeing the scowl on Joe's face, and the huge hands planted firmly on the stocky hips, he raised his brows questioningly. "Not talking to me?" he asked and then forced a laugh.

Joe walked from behind the bar, went to a corner, and picked up an old broom. Holding it in one hand he turned his frowning face and looked directly at Hunter. "Look, the club opens in an hour. I'm busy here. Whyn't you just be a good drunk and finish up your beer and then scram!"

With trembling hands, Hunter took a big gulp of his beer and then looked back at Joe, his eyes snapping with anger. "What's your deal, Joe?" He asked as he swayed slightly. "Did I do something to piss you off, or something?"

The club owner sighed deeply. "Don't you start!" He warned as he took a step closer to Hunter, still holding the broom.

"Start what?" Hunter asked too loudly. "I'm just trying to find out why you're so fucking mad at me!"

"All right Hunter, what did I tell you I was going to do if you started any trouble?" Joe asked crisply, as he narrowed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his neatly trimmed beard. "I want you to go now."

Hunter stared for a minute, his large blue-eyes glossy with outrage, and then stumbled nearer to Joe. "I don't get it, man. I thought we were friends! Now you're kicking me out? Why?!"

"We were friends," Joe answered in a tone reeking of disgust. "Until you started drinking like you've been doing." A flicker of what might've been sadness passed over the older man's face, died out quickly, and was replaced with a stony glare.

"Oh, a fair weather friend, huh Joe?" Hunter asked, bitterness clear in his slightly slurred voice.

"You're the one that threw away our friendship, Adams, don't forget that." Joe pointed a thick index finger at Hunter as he continued. "You're the one that trashed my club. Not once, but three times, in your stupid drunken rages. But let me ask you one thing, before you go. Is there even one hour of your day when you're not completely wasted? 'Cause in the last few months, I've never seen you sober."

Hunter's breath hitched in his throat as he tried to answer, and then alcohol-laced tears unexpectedly filled his eyes. "You don't know what it's like to-"

"Stop making excuses!" Joe interrupted quickly. "You made the decision to crawl into a bottle, Adams. Everyone has bad things happen to them, but they don't all just give up, you know." The older man shrugged almost savagely before continuing. "You've made your choice, but I'm not going to watch you self-destruct, and I'm not going to let you ruin my business either, so get out." With those words Joe turned his back on Hunter.

Hunter felt a huge wave of frustration coursing through him, making his upper lip twitch uncontrollably. This was so typical, he thought bitterly. Always someone willing to twist the knife. Didn't matter what you'd been through, or how much you were hurting already. Maybe, he thought as he stood there, impotent in his rage and hopelessness, there was some kind of negative force at work in the universe. A force that was drawn to suffering. A force that couldn't help but add more chaos and pain.

His mouth twisted as he looked at Joe's broad back. "Oh, that's so easy for you to say. So easy to judge me when you don't know," he ground out, his voice breaking raggedly on the last few words.

Hunter watched as Joe shrugged slightly at his words, and then continued sweeping the floor, as if Hunter wasn't even there.

Impulsively, Hunter threw his beer at the back of Joe's head, and watched in fascination as the amber liquid spattered everywhere. The plastic cup clicked almost delicately to the floor, and bounced a couple of times, breaking the stillness. His heart pounded as he watched, mesmerized, while the liquid dripped down the back of Joe's dark hair, and a slow stain spread across the shoulders of the big man's denim shirt.

"Can I have another beer Joe?" he slurred, feeling a hollow sense of satisfaction. "That one kind of got wasted."

Before he had time to do anything, Joe had turned and was charging at him. Hunter'd had so much to drink that day, that he barely felt the punch when it landed, and split his lower lip neatly down the center. He fell heavily onto the concrete floor and licked at the trickle of blood on his mouth. 'Doesn't hurt,' he realized as he slowly tried to sit up.

Awareness returned to Hunter, and he looked blankly into a pair of dark eyes, only inches from his own. He realized that he must've had a black-out. It wasn't the first time, and he accepted these little amnesiac periods as a kind of blessing. Sometimes he wished he could be in perpetual black-out. The only problem was confusing moments like these. Moments when he had to piece together the empty spaces in a given situation. He realized he was sitting on the floor and leaning against a wall.

Bringing his blurry vision into clear focus, he studied the face before him. It was a strong, handsome face, with a square jaw and a straight, classic nose. The man's eyes were deep set, and so dark they were almost black. Hunter allowed his eyes to leave the compelling face, and travel down to the man's chest. It was a broad chest, with well-defined muscles, but that wasn't what drew Hunter's attention. On the side of the man's chest was a gleaming, silver badge. The guy was a cop.

"I'll just go now," he said shakily as he started to try to get up, and then woozily sat back down, his head throbbing painfully.

He felt strong hands on his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall. "What happened to his mouth?" the deep voice questioned as fingers carefully probed his puffy lip.

"I had to clock him," Joe replied matter-of-factly from where he stood beside Hunter. "He's wrecked my club three times in the past, and he threw his drink at me tonight, after I told him to leave."

Hunter forced a smirk, and felt his lip cracking painfully with the effort.

The dark eyes of the policeman looked deeply into his own. "What's wrong with you?" He asked Hunter gruffly. "Why'd you cause trouble here?"

Hunter thought he could see genuine interest in those eyes. It was almost as if the cop really wanted to understand why he had acted like that. Almost like he thought Hunter was a human being or something.

Hunter furrowed his light-brown eyebrows and studied the face before him. An uncertainty began to grow within him, and suddenly he looked away.

"He always makes trouble, he's just a drunk. Could you get him out of here, officer? I have to open my club." Disdain and impatience were evident in Joe's gravelly voice now.

"Yeah, OK, the best option would probably be to take him to detox for the night, unless you want to press assault charges," The cop said with a hint of impatience in his own voice.

"Just get him out of here," Joe replied harshly. "I don't care where you take him." He then walked over to a door near the front of the club, opened it, and disappeared inside, slamming the door behind him.

The policeman pressed his lips together in a firm line as he knelt beside Hunter. "Looks like you picked the wrong guy to mess with, kid," he finally said, inclining his head toward the door that Joe had disappeared behind. "Does your mouth hurt?"

Hunter shook his head and felt woozy all over again.

The dark-haired policeman put a strong hand on Hunter's arm and began to slowly help Hunter to his feet while explaining what was going to happen. "I'm going to have to cuff you," he said calmly, "and that's for both of our protection. Do you understand that?"

Hunter nodded as he stood up and tried to get his balance.

"OK, then I'm going to drive you downtown to the detox unit so you can dry out," the policeman continued, as he put a steadying hand on Hunter's shoulder.

Hunter looked into the policeman's face and suddenly felt ashamed. His cheeks reddened under the calm, steady gaze of the other man, and he dipped his head, not understanding what he was feeling.

"I need for you to put your hands behind your back for me. OK?" The policeman's steady voice was so calm, so sure.

Flushing even more, Hunter did it. He wobbled a little in the process, but managed to keep his balance, as he put his thin hands behind his back.

Within a few minutes his hands were cuffed securely behind him, and he was reeling in the knowledge that for the first time in months, he could feel the ground beneath his feet. He stumbled a little as the realization hit him. The handcuffs were a real and physical containment. He couldn't lash out at anyone now, couldn't put another drink to his lips. A shuddering sigh escaped his lips, as he felt the acknowledgement that the cool metal on his wrists made. The policeman placing him in restraints acknowledged him somehow, but he couldn't understand completely the meaning of it, or why he felt peaceful all of the sudden.

On the drive to detox, he pushed at, and ground his pale wrists into the cold, uncompromising metal, and was reassured.

Cold, sharp slivers of light made Hunter groan and open his sleep-crusted eyes. He sat up on his bunk in the drunk tank, and peered around him, his head throbbing painfully with evey movement. The cell was empty except for him, and he figured it must be because he was brought in a on a week night. He sniffed at his t-shirt and wrinkled his nose. Holding his head to lesson the pain, he got up off of his bunk and walked over to the door of the cell. "Excuse me!" he called out loudly, "Can someone let me out now? I'm sober."

Tilting his head, he listened for any signs of movement in the corridor, then sighed and sat back down on his bunk. He fumbled around in his jeans' pocket trying to find his cigarettes and then realized they'd probably taken them when he was brought in. He tried to remember last night with some kind of clarity, but couldn't remember anything after the ride to the station.

Leaning his back against the cold stone of the cell wall, Hunter pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. Ignoring the stale alcohol smell that emanated from his clothes and body, he dozed.

When he opened his eyes again a feeling of deja vu made him feel uneasy for a moment. There were those dark, steady eyes--The same ones he'd seen last night--looking into his own. "You about ready to go?" The cop asked and then grinned at him. "You look like you could use a bath and some food. How's that sound?"

Hunter shook his dark-blond hair out of his eyes. "Thanks for your concern," he said warily. "I'm guessing though, that it isn't usual procedure to check on your arrests the next day. Mind if I ask why you're here?"

"Well, I've been on the force for a while now," the dark-haired man explained," and I have pretty good instincts about people. You seem like a decent guy, and from the looks of you, I'd say you probably don't have anywhere to stay. So, I thought you might like to come back to my apartment and get cleaned up, and have breakfast with me."

Hunter bristled as he looked this guy over. "Ah, so you want to do a good deed?" he asked, feeling a bit angry that the policeman obviously felt sorry for him, and also that it was so obvious that he was in such dire straits.

The officer smiled at him then. A genuine smile full of good will. Hunter couldn't detect a trace of condescension in that smile, and in spite of his best intentions not to, he found himself smiling back.

"There's something about you that I like, kid. So what do you say? Are you going to let me feel good about myself for doing a good deed or not?" The words were spoken playfully, but there was something in those coffee-colored eyes that Hunter recognized immediately. A hint of sorrow. This guy had obviously lost something just like Hunter had, and because he felt a sort of kinship with that look, he agreed.

"OK then, I'll let you feel big about playing the good samaritan," he replied. "But don't forget it's really me doing you the favor."

"I won't forget," The other man answered, as he gazed seriously at Hunter.

Hunter squirmed slightly under that look, and then stood up. "So do you have a name, or should I just call you Officer?" He asked with a smile.

As he unlocked the cell door, the larger man looked over at Hunter. "Oh yeah, sorry about that. My name's Paul Bradley."

"Nice to meet you," Hunter said politely as he held out his hand to shake. "I'm Hunter Adams, but you probably already know that."

Paul's grip was strong and warm, as he grasped Hunter's icy hand, and a fleeting image of Paul hadcuffing him and how he'd felt, went through Hunter's mind. Then he remembered what Joe had callously said last night. "And I am just a drunk," he murmered as he looked down.

Paul chuckled at that, and Hunter looked back up, wondering why he'd felt the need to say that. Maybe it was because he felt attracted to, and liked Paul, and wanted him to be warned. He didn't want to hurt anyone, least of all this friendly guy who'd offered him breakfast, but he didn't have any friendship to offer. He didn't have anything to offer at all.

Paul's apartment was spacious and attractively furnished. The first thing that Hunter had noticed when they'd stepped inside was the overstuffed cream-colored couch in the living room. That and the stone fireplace. There was something very warm and inviting about both of those objects. He gazed at them for so long that Paul finally cleared his throat loudly.

Hunter turned to his host and smiled a bit nervously. "This is a really nice place," he remarked, with a touch of unconscious wistfulness in his voice.

"Thanks, it's comfortable." Paul said as he led the way to the bathroom. "Take as long as you want," he said as he got a towel and handed it to Hunter. "My bedroom is the first door on the right and there are some clean clothes in the closet, if you need them."

"Yeah, I pretty much reek, don't I?" Hunter asked with an embarrassed laugh.

Paul smiled, and winked at him in reply. "Well, I guess I'll start making some breakfast," he informed Hunter, seeming slightly uneasy.

Hunter nodded, and then watched as Paul walked down the hall. He admired the broad back and the firm muscular butt, that strained against the fabric of Paul's uniform. For a minute he wondered if Paul might be gay, but then chided himself for even caring.

As he undressed, and stepped into the shower, he told himself he was going to shower, eat, and then go. He didn't need any new aquaintances to let down. Didn't need any more complications in his life. And in the back of his mind he also realized that he didn't need anyone interfering in his downward spiral, either.

With a white towel knotted firmly around his waist, and his filthy clothes and sneakers in hand, Hunter walked into Paul's bedroom. Opening the door to the walk-in closet, he was amazed at how large it was. Stepping inside he started rummaging through the multitude of clothing, smiling at the neatly creased jeans hanging on hangers. Hunter knew Paul's clothes would be too large for him, but anything would be better than his filthy rags. He pulled a pair of Levi's off a hanger and then snagged a blue-flannel shirt.

Just as he was turning to go, something at the far corner of the closet caught his eye. He reached over and pulled it down off a hook and carried it out into the light of the bedroom to get a better look. Brushing the black leather tails across his palm, he realized that it was some kind of a whip, and he flicked it through the air, as he knotted his brows in confusion. Deciding this was definitely something private, he turned to put it back where he'd gotten it, but stopped short when he saw Paul standing in the doorway.

"Sorry, but I just saw this hanging there, and wondered what it was," Hunter said as he unconsciously twisted the black tails around the base of the whip. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy. I'll put it back."

Paul's face was almost impassive as he looked at Hunter, but two small splotches of color on his cheeks gave away his embarrassment. "Do you want me to explain that to you?" he asked, sounding a little sullen.

Hunter forced a laugh as he started walking back inside the closet. "You don't need to explain anything to me, Paul. It not my business, and I shouldn't have picked it up to begin with."

"But, what do you really think, Hunter? Does it bother you that you found that?" Hunter heard the tension in his host's voice, and he sighed, feeling suddenly tired.

"You know, I kind of wish it did evoke some kind of feeling, Paul, but it doesn't," he said honestly. "I can tell that you're feeling a little uptight about it, but I wish you could forget about it. I know I will."

Paul looked at Hunter for a long moment. "Oh," he finally said.

Was that a trace of disappointment in that deep, sexy voice? Hunter wondered.

Hunter looked at the food-laden table in front of him and nearly groaned. His stomach was churning from his hangover and what he really wanted was a drink. "This looks good," he said politely as he sat at the oak kitchen table.

"I hope you like pancakes," Paul said as he poured some orange juice into Hunter's glass and then sat down opposite him.

"Absolutely," Hunter lied, as he tried to keep from gagging at the nauseating smell of maple syrup.

He watched as Paul dug in, and then toyed a little with the huge stack of pancakes in front of him.

After a minute Paul stopped shovelling in his food and looked questioningly at Hunter. "Everything OK?"

Because he didn't want to hurt Paul's feelings at rejecting his hospitality, Hunter decided to be honest. "My stomach is a little upset from last night, and I'm not used to eating breakfast anyway." Hunter smiled wryly at his host. "Actually, I usually drink my breakfast."

Paul didn't smile back. "You drink in the morning?" He asked and then brought his glass of juice to his finely chiselled lips.

Hunter maintained eye-contact as he answered. "I drink all of the time."

Do you mind if I ask why you drink all the time?" Paul asked in a casual tone as he continued to eat.

Hunter pushed his chair from the table and stood up. For all of Paul's good-intentions, and the gentle nature of the question, he felt himself getting mad. "Yes, I do mind actually," he said indignantly, as he felt his face growing hot. "What business of yours is it anyway? I appreciate you letting me use your shower and all, guy, but that doesn't give you the right to start questioning how I live my life." Hunter paused to catch his breath before continuing his lecture. "Surely you can't be deluded enough to think you're going to discourage my drinking. That you're going to talk me out of it?" Hunter realized that he was overreacting to a simple question, and decided that he'd better go. It just wasn't worth it, getting worked up like this. He didn't need any more hassles.

"I'm going to change into my clothes and go now," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Thanks for the shower and the food."

He had made his way to the kitchen door when Paul's contrite tone stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry Hunter. You're right, it's not my business. I understand if you want to go, but I also want you to know that if you ever need a place to crash or if you ever just need a friend, you'll always be welcome here."

Hunter turned and looked at Paul, his head cocked to one side, trying to figure out what this guy's deal was. "Tell me why you're offering that," he demanded imperiously.

Paul cleared his throat and hesitated for a minute. "There's something about you that I like..." his voice was hesitant now. "...and you remind me a little of someone I used to know...someone who died.

Hunter smiled bitterly at Paul. "So you've got guilt. Join the club, dude. Everybody-"

I didn't say I felt guilty!" Paul interrupted impatiently.

"No, you didn't say it, but why else are you trying to help me out?" Hunter shook his head almost mockingly. "And I thought I was fucked up. At least I don't start messing around in other people's lives to make myself feel better. Live with it guy. That's all you can do."

"Maybe I'll just drink myself to death then!" Paul retorted, his voice full of scorn.

Hunter shrugged. "Whatever," he said trying to sound blase. It occured to him, that for someone who cared so little about things, that he was caring too much about this. What did he care what this guy--a guy that he didn't even know--thought?

"I don't need this," he said quietly, and then went to change.

A few minutes later, he was outside in the glaring sunlight. His head throbbed as he shaded his eyes, and made his way to a nearby bar.

Later that evening after having begged drinks off of anyone he could, Hunter stumbled back into Joe's club. He wasn't intending to cause trouble, he just wanted to know something. He saw the heavyset older man before Joe saw him. "Hey Joe!" he slurred out cheerfully. "Can I just ask you something?"

The look on Joe's face was a mixture of rage and astonishment when he looked over at Hunter. "What are you doing in here, Adams?" he snarled. "Didn't I make myself clear last night?"

"Crystal," Hunter responded as he swayed slightly. "I was just wondering how you could be such a son-of-a-bitch like you were, when I used to help you out and stuff. You know, before I fucked up our friendship and all." Hunter's lip curled as he finished saying what he felt he needed to say.

"Look asshole," Joe hissed, "I know what you're doing. You're here to make trouble again, and I'm warning you that I'm just going to call the cops, like I did last night!"

Hunter shook his head, and wooziness made him put his hands out involuntarily to steady himself. "OK Joe, but first why don't you split my lip again? It's so funny, but I can still remember how you came to me when the club was going under, and you asked for money. Now I'm not even welcome here. Don't you think that's kind of funny Joe? Seeing as how I helped pay the rent? I was your buddy then, when my pockets were full...I mean before I messed things up by drinking." Hunter's slurred voice dripped with sarcasm as he started weaving closer to the bar, almost as if he were being pulled by some sort of cosmic magnet.

"Look, if you want to talk to me when you're sober, fine. I'll discuss it. But if you aren't out of here in thirty seconds, I will call the cops."

Hunter saw the look of indifference on Joe's face, watched as the burly man folded his massive arms over his chest, and his eyes filled with tears, blurring his vision. "How can you be such a self-righteous asshole!" he cried out as he lunged blindly at the club-owner. "You won't you even listen to me!" He roared.

He collapsed to the floor as the air rushed out of his body. Then there was a long, sickening moment when he didn't know if he'd ever be able to breathe again. Finally, his lungs expanded painfully with air as he rolled on the concrete floor and clutched at his belly.

Joe stood over him, rubbing at his still clenched fist--apparantly sore from the rabbit-punch he had just delivered--and panted loudly.

Hunter moaned and twisted on the ground. He felt like he was hurt. Really hurt. He scraped his fingernails across the concrete, and then everything went black.

His eyelids flickered open and there were those eyes again! He focused on Paul's face and then groaned as he moved. "What're you doing here?" He asked in confusion, only aware that Paul was supporting his weight--was holding him by the upper arms.

"Are you hurt?" Paul's concerned voice reached his ears, and Hunter tried very hard to clear his head, so he could answer. "Joe hit me in the stomach," he finally managed.

"I think you need to go to the hospital," Paul's voice was steady and firm sounding.

Hunter tried to pull out of Paul's grasp, but the bigger man had a strong hold on him, and Hunter was too weak to struggle very much. "No hospitals," he slurred, "I'm all right!"

He followed Paul's gaze as Paul looked across the club at Joe. "Do you know if he hit his head?" He asked the club owner, his voice sounding angry.

Joe made his way over to Paul and sneered. "No, he didn't."

Hunter could feel Paul's grip tightening on his arms, and he winced.

"Do you make it a habit of beating up on all the patrons of your club, or just Hunter?" Paul questioned Joe brusquely.

"Look, he lunged at me. What was I supposed to do?"

Hunter watched as the muscles in Paul's jaw tightened. "It'sss OK, Paul," he slurred, still trying to regain his equilibrium.

"Shut up," Paul said gently, as he looked back at Hunter and deftly felt all over his head.

Hunter then felt himself pulled to his feet and Paul put an arm beneath his armpit to support him. Hunter was amazed at Paul's strength as Paul half-carried him to the door.

"I don't want to get another call like this one," Paul said brusquely to Joe, as he paused, holding Hunter up. "There is no reason that you have to solve every problem with your fists, and beating up on someone who's this drunk, is just cowardly. If I get another call and find Hunter, or anyone else, lying on the floor of your club, you're going to jail."

"Make sure he doesn't come back into my club, and you won't get another call!" Joe flung back, obviously unimpressed with the threat.

Paul nodded tersely, as he helped Hunter to the patrol car.

"No, Jeff, let me drive, you're drunk!"

A face that sort of looked like Jeff's but not really, smiled at Hunter. "No way! My dad told me not to let anyone drive his car. I'd be toast if he found out!"

Hunter looked at the navy BMW and shrugged. "Yeah, but how's he going to find out? You can drive the last block or so. C'mon, you're too wasted." Jeff shook his head as Hunter held his hands out for the keys. "No, I'll be careful. It's not a problem."

Hunter looked over at the frat house, to see if there was anyone he knew that might be able to talk his friend out of his stubborn attitude, but noone was outside. He could hear loud music and even louder laughter coming from inside, and he shivered and pulled his jacket closer to him. The laughter got louder as he slid into the passenger seat.

There was blood and a tremendous screech, or maybe it was the other way around. Hunter peeled himself off of the windshield and asked Jeff if he was OK. He knew before he looked over that Jeff was dead.

Hunter's voice roared and roared as he looked at the open, glassy eyes of his friend. And over the roar he heard another voice--one he didn't recognize--"It's your fault," the voice accused

Hunter felt a hand shaking him; vibrating him, as he sat in the totalled BMW and roared. His whole body vibrated with the shaking until he couldn't stand it anymore.

He opened his sleep-blurred eyes, and saw Paul looking down at him with concern, a hand on his shoulder.

"You were yelling. You must've been having a pretty bad nightmare." The voice was comforting and steady, and Hunter's heartbeat slowed down with the words.

He sat up in the bed and coughed, his throat feeling raw, and tried to smile as he looked around to see where he was.

"Easy," Paul murmered as his strong hands steadied Hunter. "Do you want to talk about your dream?" Hunter shook his head and then pulled out of Paul's grasp. "No," he said hoarsely as his coughing fit passed leaving him teary-eyed and exhausted. "I just want to get out of here."

"So, where will you go? Do you have some place to stay?" Paul's voice was casual sounding, but Hunter could sense the anxiety beneath the question.

"Stop caring," Hunter replied.

Paul pushed a strand of dark hair off of his forehead. "I wish I could."

"That's not my problem." Hunter, feigned indifference as he spoke.

"It kind of is though, since I had to come and pick you up twice, and you're in my house now."

Hunter chuffed. "So, what's that supposed to mean?" he demanded haughtily.

Paul looked steadily into Hunter's eyes. "It means I think you want someone to help you. You put yourself in these positions where you have to be rescued, and-"

"Bullshit!" Hunter burst out furiously. "That's what you want to think, so you can justify your sick need to use me to atone for your guilt." The look on Paul's face made Hunter cringe with shame. The older man looked as if Hunter had slapped him.

"I'm sorry," Hunter said quietly, and put his feet on the floor. "You seem like a decent guy, you really do, but I just don't need any complications right now."

"I understand," Paul answered quietly.

"OK, I'm glad," Hunter said quickly as he stood up. His head was spinning and he put a hand down to his abdomen at the jolt of pain that standing up had caused him. He stifled a moan and glanced at the clock on Paul's bedside table. It was eight AM. "Thanks for everything, Paul," he said distractedly as he made his way to Paul's front door, his mind on nothing but finding some booze.

Just as he was turning the knob, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he jumped and spun around. "What??" he asked impatiently as he glared at Paul and tried to shake the intrusive hand off his shoulder.

"I'm worried that you're going to leave here and get yourself hurt again."

Hunter's mouth twitched uncontrollably when he spied the open cuffs that were dangling from Paul's hand, but he forced his voice to come out steady and strong in spite of the shock. "I don't know what you're thinking, but you need to reconsider what purpose those are going to serve."

There, Hunter thought a little smugly, he'd shown he was in control, not afraid, and surely Paul would see now that those open handcuffs were not intimidating him. He looked into Paul's eyes even as his legs trembled beneath him, betraying him, and he willed himself not to blink. "What are you doing, Paul?" he asked calmly as the memory of the small leather whip he'd found in Paul's closet came rushing into his mind, making him blink three or four times quickly. Hunter didn't know exactly what Paul was into, but he was worried now. The handcuffs continued to dangle benignly, as Paul looked back at Hunter, and Hunter could see that Paul was really upset. Paul's cheeks were flushed and a trickle of sweat ran down the side of his strong, square jaw, as he stood there completely motionless.

And then a flurry of activity. Paul lunged forward and grabbed Hunter by the upper arm, as Hunter tried to pull away, and firmly clicked one of the handcuffs closed. The cuff was too tight and was pinching his wrist. Frantically Hunter tried to slide under Paul's strong arm, tried to keep his other wrist tucked close to him.

And then a flashback hit him, and he froze, feeling the familiar terror wash over him. The car was careening, out of control, and then the crash. Blood was all over! All over the place! In his hair and his eyes and then...the car was careening, sliding out of control and the crash and the blood. The crash and then glass all over and then the blood matting his hair and dripping into his eyes. Hunter roared in terror, knowing what was going to happen next. He tilted his head slowly to the side, his eyes darting back and forth at the sound of the car screeching and the shatter of glass. He felt totally disembodied, reliving it in slow-motion..

Mercifully, it faded before the part where he looked into Jeff's empty eyes. He felt strong arms around him, nearly engulfing him, and he allowed himself to rest his head on Paul's shoulder for a minute. Just for a minute.

Panting, he wrenched away from Paul, and as he saw the stunned look on the older man's face, he struggled with all of his might, fighting to get out of the locked handcuff.

"Stop it, Hunter!" Paul yelled, as he retained his grip on the chain that linked the cuffs. "I can't let you leave when you're like this! Stop pulling or you're going to hurt your wrist!"

The authoritative tone enraged Hunter, and he twisted and jerked. Suddenly, he saw Paul's free hand flash out, and he felt a hard swat on his backside. Shocked, he stopped struggling, and stared at Paul wide-eyed.

"I'm sorry, but-" Paul began.

"Don't you ever hit me again!" Hunter interrupted through clenched teeth, as he began shaking. "Don't ever hit me again." Hunter rubbed at his wrist where the handcuff had dug into his flesh, and his fingers came away smeared with blood. "Look what you did!" he accused Paul. "Why didn't you just let me go?!"

Paul took a step toward Hunter, and when he spoke his voice was deep and steady. "I can't let you leave here right now," he responded as he tentatively reached his fingers toward Hunter's wrist. "You aren't in any shape to be out, and I'm afraid you'll go back to that club and get beaten up again. Can't you understand that I feel responsible for you?" He asked as he gently captured Hunter's blood-smeared wrist in his large hand.

Feeling exhausted, Hunter allowed the contact. "I'm so tired," he admitted in a monotone, and then looked away, ashamed of his confession.

"I know," Paul stated simply, then moved closer to Hunter and embraced him.

"I don't need any help," Hunter said gruffly, as he tried to avoid the arms that encircled him.

"OK, just stay for a little while." Paul responded as he held Hunter's shaking form firmly.

The jangling of the cuff that dangled fron Hunter's wrist, was the only sound in the room for a moment.

"I'll stay, but just for one day," Hunter acquiesced as he heaved a huge sigh, which was a mixture of extreme tiredness and massive relief. He didn't know why but there was a part of him that was glad that Paul wasn't going to let him leave today. As he gazed at the handcuff that was still locked on his wrist, he realized that it was symbolic of something. He didn't know exactly what it represented, but he knew it was something he needed, if he was going to survive.

"OK, deal," Paul answered as he pulled back and looked seriously into Hunter's pale and sweaty face. "Just one day."

Paul then slowly led Hunter to the bathroom, and unlocking the cuff, carefully and capably cleaned the tender skin where his handcuffs had bitten in.

Copyright © 2004 Tris