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Chapter Text

Frank Pritchard's building hunched on the edge of the industrial sector, shedding roof tiles into its collapsing gutters and occasionally sneezing occupants out through the broken lobby door.  The placard facing the street identified it as a property managed by Mountainhead Group, a company currently embroiled in several lawsuits regarding the unlivable state of their apartments.  Jensen had known Pritchard wanted to move, but not that it was this bad.  

It had taken him an embarrassing few hours to put together what the issue was.  Francis made plenty of money, so income wouldn't disqualify him.  His credit was in good standing, if he was to be believed the last time he'd felt like bragging about how Jensen needed to get his life together and pay off the rest of his student loan interest.  No, what kept Pritchard on the fringes of rough neighborhoods was his the several felonies on his criminal record.  

Adam had gone to school for this.  Studied the ways that crime perpetuated crime: once your hands were dirty, you were marked and barred from 'proper' society.  If you lived in a violent neighborhood, both encounters and involvement with crime became more of a 'when' than an 'if'.  He knew this.  It was just... jarring, watching it happening to someone he knew.  

As he slipped into the dark lobby, he realized that the reasons Pritchard slept in his office so often might have less to do with an unhealthy work-life balance than he'd thought.  It smelled like mold, here, and the air was cold and damp.  Quietly, Jensen opened the inner door into the stairwell.  

Rotting garbage assailed his nose.  The unit closest to the door had a pile of trash outside it, nearly clogging the entire stairwell.  Jensen clenched his teeth and stepped gingerly around it.  The carpet was stained and sopping.  Another smell, urea, greeted him as he made it onto the second floor landing.  

Francis looked red-eyed and his throat was hoarse whenever he showed up at work after going home on weekends.  This was why.  Jensen kicked himself for not noticing.  But what would he have done?  It wasn't as if he and Pritchard were on amiable enough terms for Jensen's couch to be anything appropriate to offer.  And besides, the hacker refused to speak to anyone outside of genuine necessity.  He didn't want help.  

Until today, apparently, when he'd emailed—emailed; Francis refused to text coworkers—Jensen a request.

On the third floor, a radiator coil wound its way into the wall: a snare of piping that fed into the unit behind it.  Crouched in front of it, door to the unit open beside him, was a lean figure.  

"...All right.  You said there's a cat in there?"  

"Yes.  Stuck.  Has been for hours.  See him?"  Pritchard hadn't looked up at Jensen's arrival; the footsteps had been notice enough.  Slowly, Jensen got down on his hands and knees and peered through the dark tangle of metal.  Sure enough, wild, yellow eyes were staring back at him.  "I can't get him.  It's not safe."  

Jensen had volunteered enough at animal shelters to know about cat scratch fever.  Francis risked serious illness if a stray or feral cat broke skin.  But Jensen didn't have skin.  Not on his arms, anyway.  

"I see him.  Step back.  I don't want him running at you after I get him out."  

"He's not friendly, Jensen.  He won't approach anyone.  Not even the neighbor who feeds him."  

"Yeah, well, sometimes people act out of character when afraid for their lives," he grunted as he crawled close enough to feel fur under his hand.  The creature screeched at his touch.  "Hey-"  

"People?  He's a cat."  

"You know what I meant, Francis.  He's scared out of his fucking mind, he's gonna be weird."  Another horrific yowl as Jensen tried to tug on the animal's neck.  "...He is really in there."  

"The pipes are warm because they feed the radiators.  It's the same appeal as crawling into car engines," was the bitter explanation.  "Poor bastard."  

"Didn't take you for the type to take pity, Francis."  

"Well, I did take you for it, so at least I'm less predictable."  

"Remains to be seen if that's a good thing...  Ah!  Shh...!  Hey, hey.  Hsspsspsps...  Calm down..."  The cat slashed at his hand again, and he winced.  

"Oh, don't be dramatic."  

"Not...  Tactile sensors still simulate pain at sharp objects.  He can't damage me, but it does hurt; on the fingers, at least."  

"Sarif didn't grace the rest of your arms with such perception, hmm?"  

"No, the better for punching through walls with.  ...Hey," Jensen said again, shifting his voice higher and softer, "hey, handsome...  Don't be scared.  I'm not gonna hurt you.  ...See?  Now, let—"  Both men winced as the cat screamed.  "...Fuck.  Francis, do you have food or something I can try to calm him down with?"  

"You think I keep cat treats in my apartment?"  

"Canned fish, yeah?  Or butter?  Cream cheese?"  

"I know I live in a shithole, Jensen, but I don't eat spam and sardines for every meal—"

"Did I fucking say that?  Do you have something he can eat or not?!"  

"...No.  There's nothing cat-safe in there."  

"That's all you had to say, then.  ...Fuck," he exhaled, turning back to the cat.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry, I'm not angry at you.  It's not your fault.  I have to grab you, little guy.  I'm sorry, but I do—"  

His skull was ringing by the time he let go, and the cat wasn't any less caught: it had begun thrashing so much that he'd released it out of fear that it might hurt itself.  

"Please.  I know, honey, I know...  It's scary...  I'm scary.  But I need to get you out."  

"Clearly this isn't working.  I'm calling animal control."  

"Francis, will you just give me a minute...!  Let me see your little foot...  No, don't—"  A long, demonic growl, peppered with hisses.  "Hey—"  

The sound of the cat's claws against metal and frayed carpeting had become more frantic than ever.  

"I'm trying to help you—"  Jensen screwed up his eyes against the torrent of feline screams, and then, abruptly, snapped his hand away.  "Shit.  Shit, he's bleeding.  You didn't tell me there was anything sharp under there!"  

"You think I spend my time inspecting the boiler pipes?!  As if I knew!"  

"Fuck, that's a bad cut, too...  Sweetheart, honey, please, please stop...  He's making it worse, Francis, I..."  All at once, Jensen withdrew into a ball, dragging his hands down his face, covering his eyes.  Slowly—raggedly—he inhaled.  "Fuck...   Fuck!"  

On top of everything else, he'd lost it.  He could keep his head on in a hostage situation, but now, in this condemned nightmare of a building, in front of the least-sympathetic person alive, he was having a meltdown over a fucking feral cat.  

"...What the fuck?!  Are you fucking crying?  Oh my god, this always happens to me.  Did they listen, when I told them he was emotionally unstable?  No!  Nobody listens to me!  Nobody!"  

Jensen felt like throwing up.  Icy hands were dragging through his organs: Francis could film this.  Francis could ruin him, even more than he already was ruined by every fucking article about Mexicantown.  He wanted to bite his arms, like he'd done in college, but that was a no-go for obvious reasons.  He couldn't talk—couldn't reason with Francis—and couldn't stop thinking about the poor bleeding cat he couldn't save, just a few feet away and meowing desperately.  He lay there, crushing his knees to his chest, and bawled.  

Other variables filtered into his awareness, behind the scenes: he hadn't slept right in... months, really.  He was starving, hadn't realized what time it was and how hungry he'd gotten.  His failures were right there for the man who most wanted him fired to collect like gunpowder.  

That poor fucking cat.  That poor cat was so scared of him that it would rather die—

He managed to stop sniffling and huddle up against the wall by the time animal control arrived.  He kept his face covered and breathing even.  Hide.  Hide, hide, hide.  As much as he could without moving.  

"What's with him?  He get scratched?"  Oh god—

"...Allergies.  He's waiting for his girlfriend to bring his inhaler."  

"Ah.  Okay."  

As they were putting the cat into a carrier for transport, Jensen's body finally began accepting commands again.  Silently, he rose to his feet and descended the stairs, staggered out into the brewing storm, followed sidewalks to the train in a daze.  His hands were ringing with the horrible phantoms of thrashing, warm paws.  

Chapter Text

He knew he looked awful when he showed up to work the next day.  He was cranky and sluggish through his meetings, and couldn't focus on any of his background checks or leads into his investigation.  At least Sarif was out of town until tomorrow. 

He avoided Pritchard.  Didn't even want to be seen by him.  Jensen almost put tape over the lens of his office camera, but that would be even more damning behavior for his coworker to add to the file.  

He was not so lucky the next evening.  Unfortunately, Francis had also been requested at Sarif's debrief upon his midnight return from California.  The hacker was leaning on the inside of the elevator when the doors opened.  Jensen froze.  

"What's wrong?  We're both going the same place, aren't we?"  

Despite his resolve, he took a step back.  

"What, have I offended His Majesty?"  

"...No," he forced out.  "Not dealing with this today."  Turning on his heel, he headed for the stairs.  

He climbed three stories before calling the elevator again; that was long enough for it to make it up and for Francis to leave.  When Jensen stepped out at the pent house level,  Athene waved mildly at him, and gestured that he enter Sarif's office.  

The information was a whole lot of nothing.  No new leads, not on the mercenaries nor Tai Yong.  Jensen felt his hand shaking as he resisted the impulse to scratch at his beard and pace.  He couldn't show that kind of emotion around Sarif.  Or Francis, for that matter, who was being mercifully less combative than usual.  

"Adam, I don't know why you're not further ahead on this," Sarif grumbled, seemingly out of thin air.  "I thought your contacts in DPD might be more useful than this."  

His brain was skipping, lagging: he had no response, and wouldn't be able to speak beyond a wretched croak even if he did.  His chest erupted in palpitations.  

"You really think they'll play ball with him after that stunt with the morgue?  Sure, there was no evidence, but they know it was him, after how he spoke to that dolt at the desk.  We used up our goodwill on that hail Mary.  Plus he had over twenty staff background checks for the new people you're bringing on at Milwaukee, that I grudgingly allowed him to complete so that I could focus on our firewall security.  Which, I'll remind you, would not have been compromised if you hadn't gone digging where you weren't supposed to."  

He was dimly aware that Francis had taken a step forward, angled himself between Jensen and Sarif.  

Much like the way Jensen had body-blocked police whenever they had to meet in person, and officers stopped to leer at Francis from the tech lab threshold.  

What's wrong, Jensen?  I thought those were your people.

I consider them 'my people' about as much as you do the folks you were in prison with.

Anything to bring up my record, isn't it.  Get better material.

You bring up my record, I bring up yours.  

"Well, if that's the case, then we need to open some new avenues of investigation.  Adam, head to the courthouse tomorrow morning.  Maybe there's some documents available for public review.  Frank...  You know what you're supposed to be working on."  

"Oh, don't I."  Pritchard turned, gaze dragging over Jensen, as if trying to pull him along.  

Come on, you can't stay here with him.  

"...Sure thing, boss."  He let Francis's slipstream guide him out past Athene and into the elevator.  He didn't realize that they were both in it until the door closed.  

Francis angled his head at the camera above them, and twitched an eyelid.  The red "recording" button switched off.  

"Normally I'd assume you're just fucking wasted or something, but I don't think that's what this is."  

"...Going to threaten me with medical leave, Francis?  We both know Sarif doesn't believe in it.  Pulling me back in last month was a pretty good indication."  

"If it's that bad, you need to go to a clinic.  You can't rescue anyone in the shape you're in." 

"Spare me the concern."  The elevator chirped as it settled at the third floor.  

"...My office."  

"What?  No."  

"Your glass frost is more obvious than mine."  Pritchard inclined his head.  

Only as the doors slid closed again did Jensen realize he had missed his floor.  

Might as well go and see what his colleague wanted, then.  

"No comments from you?"  Jensen stared for a moment as the statement processed.  Francis was stepping away from where he'd switched the glass to opaque.  

"...Figured you have a lecture for me."  

"...Look.  I didn't want you to see... what you saw.  You didn't want me to see what I did, either.  Call it even, then."  Cold rushed over Jensen's shoulders.  

"Somehow I don't feel like this is over."  Pritchard narrowed his eyes.  

"What."  

"You gonna try to blackmail me, Pritchard?  Sarif knows where you live.  You're the only one with anything to bargain with."  

"What would I have to gain?  Sarif made up his mind about you when he brought you on board.  He won't hear any criticism.  No, I have no intention of blackmailing you, Jensen."  

"...You want me to call you a saint for that?"  

"I want you to either go home or go to a LIMB clinic.  You're going to make both of our jobs harder if you don't. "  

"...Sure."  Sighing angrily, Pritchard stalked over to Jensen and leaned into his space.  

"We work together on important enough matters that we have to trust each other."  

"Well, we don't, so I don't know where that leaves us." 

Francis's face shifted, something writhing in his eyes.  

"...I think you need a smoke and a stiff drink."  Jensen snorted.  

"First you call me an alcoholic and then you tell me I need a drink?"  

"I'm fairly certain those two go hand-in-hand."  

"Not very nice, are you."  

"Jensen, you need to go home, and if you walk there alone, you might stop on the way and drag yourself into another heroic sidequest."  

"Call me a cab, then."  

"Get your coat."  

"Wearing it—"

"Your winter coat.  Go upstairs and get it."  Silence, for a moment.  "Can you get up there yourself?"  

"Yes, I can.  Not sure where all this concern is coming from, Francis.  Not your style."  Something in Pritchard's demeanor snapped, and he wheeled, grabbing Jensen's shoulders.  

"I am not good at having friends or being nice, Jensen, but I know I have slightly more goodwill with you than I mentioned Sarif Industries has with DPD.  I'm not about to lose that resource because you're too thick-skulled to keep yourself alive.  Get.  Your.  Coat."  

Francis' hands were warm.  

The streets were full of snow by the time they left.  Jensen could feel the ankles of his pants getting wet, slush wedging into the tops of his boots.  Pritchard was walking gingerly beside him, occasionally lifting a loafer and shaking it disgustedly.  The Chiron building had never felt so far away.  About two blocks from Sarif Industries, Francis fell behind for a moment, clawing at something in his jacket pocket.  

"Here," he grumbled, hunching over an orange glow, shielding it from the wind.  

Jensen took the lit cigarette wordlessly.  It was the kind he smoked, not Pritchard's preference for occasional slip-ups.  

The streets nearest to Chiron had been plowed, but in such a way that mounds of snow were pushed onto the sidewalk.  Jensen awkwardly climbed over one, grateful that there wasn't much traffic this time of night, and he could take his time.  Pritchard slipped and swore, catching Jensen's arm for balance.  Neither of them commented on it, or that he preemptively leaned on Jensen when following him over the drift on the other side of the street.  

The Chiron lobby was deserted: no greeter this late.  The two of them waited for the elevator in soggy silence.  

"...You did this because you live an hour out from work and wanted to couch surf, didn't you," Jensen remarked once the door slid shut behind them.    

"...If you're asking whether I knew that you're polite enough that you wouldn't want me waiting for the train in the snow, after I did you a favor by walking you home, the answer is a resounding 'yes'."  

"...You're almost sweet, aren't you," growled Jensen as they stepped out onto his floor.  

"Well, we can't all be crystalized honey like you."  

"...That's what I'm talking about.  If I squint, there's almost a compliment in there."  

"Are you disappointed?  Did David Sarif's very good boy want a real compliment?"  Jensen turned away from where he'd unlocked his door and stared balefully at Pritchard.  

"...I really need to stop giving you grace.  Go home."  Pritchard blinked, lip twitching toward a sneer.  

"Did I hurt your feelings—"

"I said go home!  If you're going to talk to me like that.  I'm too tired for this, Francis!"  An icy pause.  

"...You're serious."

"Of course I'm serious, Francis!  I've been serious for a long time!  I just had to eat my words or get fucking fired.  I don't know what kind of fucked-up idea of camaraderie you think we have, but it's entirely one-sided.  I don't fucking like you, never have.  Go away."  He stepped into the dark apartment and started pulling off his shoes.  

"...Jensen—"

"I don't know how you get away with it.  You're such an asshole to everyone, and you know exactly how much to dial it back when you need something.  You're great at pretending the snappiness is a front.  But I know better.  This is the front.  The real you is everything else."  

"Jensen, I didn't—"

"Why are you still here," Jensen hissed, arm plates rattling in a cybernetic threat display.  "I said I'm done being bullied."  

Pritchard was staring at him, something strange and haunting behind his eyes.  

"Go."  

Swallowing, Francis turned and shuffled back to the elevator.

Despite himself, Jensen opened the visitor camera.  All units could see the entryway, to be able to identify visitors who pressed their bells, and that meant he had a full view of Francis pacing back and forth for several minutes.  He probably knew that there were cameras in the lobby, but whether or not he knew that Jensen had access to them was less clear.  

The more he watched, the more Jensen leaned toward the idea that Pritchard didn't know he was being observed.  The man turned in several shaky half circles and dug his nails into his neck, wrung his hands.  After a few moments, he shook his head and stumbled outside, onto the sidewalk—Chiron had cameras there too—and lit his own cigarette.  The cold meant Jensen could tell how fast Francis was breathing.  

He was either extremely good at acting, or extremely upset.  

It hurt to watch, he admitted to himself.  Not because Francis was pathetic, but because it gave Jensen the sense that maybe, beneath radioactive heaps of mixed messages and self-sabotage, the man did want connection.  

He was pacing outside the building now, and shrinking into himself.  

Jensen didn't have to cloak much to get up to the door: he already moved silently, and he had a good grasp of how to hide his shape in partially-lit environments.  Francis was sitting on the concrete, a rideshare app open on his phone on the ground next to him.  His arms were resting atop his knees, and his face buried in his elbow.  

An alert flashed on the screen, and, slowly, Pritchard picked himself up, dragging a hand down his face.  He tossed his smoke on the ground and glanced up the street, watching for a car.  Turned, slightly, to poke at the smashed cigarette with his foot...

And spotted Jensen in his peripheral vision.  Francis did a double take and scrambled away, out from under the awning and into the falling snow.  

Slowly, Jensen opened the door and slipped outside.  

"I'm going...!  I'm waiting for...!"  He pointed at his phone.  

"...What the fuck is your problem."  

"I said—"

"No.  Why the fuck do you say that kind of shit."  Pritchard's eyes darted, saucer wide.  

"...I don't know," he mumbled.  

"Yes, you do.  I can see it on your face.  You just don't wanna say."  

"It doesn't... explain—"

"If you want to be on speaking terms, you'd better give me something—"

"I grew up fucked up, Jensen!  I'm a loss!  If I had friends, it was a fucking joke: that anyone would willingly spend time with me.  Or somebody told them lies about me, and they never spoke to me again!  I can't be nice, Jensen!"  

Headlights turned the corner.  

"...Or I'll hurt you?"

"Or I'll hurt me!"  

"...Like you just did?  Like you hurt both of us?"  

"Exactly," Francis snapped, turning toward where the car was coming to a stop.  

"...Fine.  If you pull your head out of your ass sometime, come find me.  Could really fucking use somebody these days.  I hear I look terrible and I've got an alcohol problem.  And I fucking lose it over stray cats."  Almost dizzy, Jensen turned back to the building.  

"What do you expect me to do?!  Hug away your problems?!"  

"How should I know, I try to drink them!"  

"How would I be any help, then?!"  

"So I don't sit up there, and rot!"  Jensen snarled.  

Somehow it was only just sinking in: how lonely he was.  How badly he wanted somebody else nearby, some kind of anchor.  It was a role Francis had already been filling, in a dysfunctional way, and Jensen just wanted it to be real.  

Slowly, Francis took a step closer and opened the rideshare app.  

"...Do you want... to talk, Jensen?"  

"...Yeah."  

Francis dismissed the self-driving car.  

...

"...Do you always keep guns on the couch?"

"Since this mess started, yes."  

"Do you think you could move it?  I don't want to accidentally—"

"Uh-huh."  Awkwardly, Pritchard sat down and began pulling off his wet socks.  "Hang on."  Jensen returned from his room with a clean pair and a towel.  "Here.  Bathroom is through there."  Slowly, Frank wandered through the bedroom and washed up.  When he returned, Jensen was sitting at his workbench chair, bottle of whiskey in hand.  Upon seeing Pritchard, he immediately stood up.  

"Before you drop some quip: I know about the mirror, and I know the whiskey shouldn't be out this late, but it is what it is at this point."  

"...Doing my job for me, aren't you.  Been alone so long that you're having conversations with yourself?"

"Can you act like maybe you give a shit, just for one night?  Knock it off with the deep cuts.  I'm letting you sleep here; it's the least you can do."  

"Jensen."

"What."  

"...I do give a shit.  And.  I shouldn't have said... what I did earlier."  

"What, where you called me Sarif's bitch with a praise kink?  Yeah, you shouldn't have."  Silence, as Jensen frowned at Pritchard.  

"...Is there something else?"

"No, I was waiting for you to add 'even if it's true' or some bullshit.  Which you didn't.  So thanks for the bare minimum."  

"...Do you want to sit down?"  

"What, on the couch?  That's yours for tonight."  

"I'm not going to be able to sleep, at least right away.  Turn on some sports shit or something.  Whatever straight men do."  He suddenly froze and frowned at his hands.  

"...Liking baseball doesn't make me straight, Francis.  But I'll spare you the woes of sports."  

Pritchard snapped his head up and stared at Jensen for a moment.  

"...Oh, thank god.  I thought I was going to have to pretend to be interested in women around you."  

"Francis, even if you liked women, I wouldn't want to hear about it."  

"Oh, you think I have bad taste, do you?"

"You play Final Fantasy."

"Who was it talking about deep cuts?!"  But he snorted.  Slowly, Jensen eased himself onto the couch next to Pritchard.  

"That's okay.  So do I."  

"What?"

"Have terrible taste.  You've met Megan."  

"...That's not fair."

"To who, Megan?"

"To you."  Jensen laughed.  "I'm serious.  I saw how she kept you coming back."  At the comment, something alien crossed Jensen's face, and he flicked his eye shields away.  

"...So he can be nice."  

"He is...  Trying."  

"Succeeding."  Pritchard flinched.  "Don't back out now, Francis.  You've almost got me."  

"That's... what I'm worried about."  

"I'm not gonna hurt you."  

"I can't make that promise."  

"You can promise to try."  Jensen slowly laid his head down on the back of the couch, smiling at the ceiling.  "Tell you what, this sure beats drinking alone.  That's the alternative."  

"...You're miserable."  A sigh.  

"Bingo."  

"I'm terrified."  

"Of what?" 

"Everyone, ostensibly."  

"Subtract one from that."  

"...My god, you are desperate if you've really decided to befriend me."  

"Terrible taste, remember.  ...I lied.  Earlier.  I do like you."  

"Whiskey talk."  

"Only a little."  He took a long swig.  

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're halfway through that.  I think you've had enough."  

"I'll be sober real fast once I stop."

"Jensen.  Enough."  Carefully, Francis put a hand around the bottle and tugged it away.  Jensen stared at his fingers for a moment afterward.  "You'll survive."  

"I'm not half as pleasant."  

"Still a far cry more palatable than I am."  

"Not when you're trying."  

"Trying what."

"To be nice."  

"...It's all alcohol.  Any positive impression of me."  A chuckle.

"Why'd you take it, then?"

"Both of us need a reality check."  

"You need a few drinks yourself.  God, you are terrified."  

"I don't like people, Jensen."  

"Lucky for you, I'm a robot."  Frank exhaled, pressing his head into his hands.  

"...You're dead set on this."

"Guess so."

"Idiot."  

"Francis."  

"What."

"I am... so tired."  

Some of the facade sloughed off, and Jensen gazed at his guest, seeming almost wounded.  

"...Go to bed, then."  

"Somehow I doubt you'll be here when I wake up."  

"...Probably not, no.  But I won't be dead or anything.  You'll see me at work."  

"You'll tear me a new one, after this, I'll bet."  

"I'll... try not to."  Jensen's eyes slowly focused onto Francis' face, and his lip twitched.  Heaving himself to his feet, Jensen stumbled off into his bedroom and sank into bed.  

Chapter Text

The missions were getting to Frank.  The police station was bad enough, but for Jensen to be physically caught breaking into the office of a direct competitor?  And then the world's largest global news network?  It was still extremely lucky that he'd escaped at all.  The rougher edge on his voice the times he'd spoken over infolink were a constant reminder that he'd been exposed to fucking tear gas.  

It was only a matter of time before the company as a whole faced retribution, whether via cyber threat or physical was anyone's guess.  There were already augmentation protesters in the streets outside: this would only make things more volatile.  

Caffeine was no longer helping.  Frank couldn't think straight for five minutes: his debugging tasks weren't done, his finance reports were half-started, the words dissolving into mush in front of him, and more coffee had burned like coals in his stomach.  He wanted so badly to be in bed, to be resting, but the way home wasn't safe due to the protests, and the air itself in his apartment was poisonous.  Head spinning, he hurried down the hall to the bathroom.  His face was hot, he needed to cool off.  

Instead, he threw up what little dinner he'd had.  

Afterward, he stood leaning over the sink, face dripping water he didn't want to dry, staring at the porcelain.  How much longer until one of the conglomerates that Sarif Industries had antagonized brought out the big guns?  How much longer before everything went up in flames?  Frank had barely kept it together after the attack eight months ago, so terrified that he'd be held responsible that he hadn't slept for days afterward.  This time was somehow worse, because nobody else seemed upset.  It was just him and an uncaring void of a high-rise, the presence of the CEO like wind in a subway tunnel, threatening to pull him onto the tracks.  

After what felt like a few minutes, he gathered himself and trudged back to his office.  

A tall, shadowy figure was standing over his desk.  

Freezing, Pritchard considered his options.  This time of night, the nearest security guard was out on the helipad or upstairs, watching the lobby from above.  None of them hung around the tech lab.  What was usually a relief—wannabe cops with a hankering for control were not especially good company—was now a serious disadvantage.  

He'd been stock still in the middle of the hallway for too long: the shape looked up and spotted him.  Frank took a shaky step backward.  

There was probably no point in running.  Not if this person was one of those involved in the attack...

He recognized the jacket first, as the figure stepped out of the dim lab and into the better-lit hall, the subtle floral accent across the shoulders.  Frank heaved a sigh, feigning irritation to hide his relief.  He'd made it back in one piece.

"Leave it to you to bother me at inhumane hours."

"Where have you been lurking?  I've been waiting here for almost thirty minutes."  That was a long time.  Definitely not how long he'd felt he stood staring at the mirror. 

"...Do you need something?  Or can I be left in peace."  Jensen glanced around.  "Don't tell me there's more we're not supposed to know," Frank groaned, unable to hide the exhaustion.  "Who has a target on us now?"  

"...No, that's...  It's.  I think it's time to go home."  

"Go home, then.  I'm not Sarif.  Since when have you needed my seal of approval on your punch card?"  

"...You should, too.  You don't look so good."  

"So kind of you to pay me a compliment.  Go away.  I have work to do."  Huffing, Frank ducked past the other man.  

"...Francis—"  A robotic hand had brushed Frank's arm.  He halted.  

"What."  Audibly swallowing, Jensen stared at the floor.  

"...If I go home right now, I am going to make... bad decisions."  

"Personal problem."  

"You don't want to go home at all."  

"...Also a personal problem, but that one's mine, Jensen.  Leave it alone," Frank growled, a warning note entering his voice.  

"...You can have the couch, if you keep my head on."  It was a half-hearted statement.  He didn't expect Pritchard to really consider it, was already shifting his weight and shying away, ready to be cuffed upside the head for entertaining the thought.  Frank wanted too, wanted to continue fighting back against the false image of himself that lived in Jensen's head.  It would be easier that way, and then everything would be over, he could stop being afraid of an eventual fallout...  But he also desperately needed sleep.

"...Wait here while I get my coat."  Jensen whirled, blinking, eye shields gone.  "Don't invite people over if you're not prepared for them to say 'yes'."  

"...Fair enough."  

The two of them left via a back exit to avoid the protests.  A Friday night had a much different energy than a blizzard.  Crowds of people mobbed the sidewalk around bars, here and there a bottle shattered.  Frank flinched when they approached where a black-and-white cruiser was idling.  The driver was talking to someone and eyeing the two men walking up the street.  Fluidly, Jensen shifted to walking on Frank's left, shielding him from the policeman's view.  

Chiron's lobby was as deserted as it had been before.  Frank found himself relieved.  He didn't like being seen in public, especially not with coworkers.  For his part, Jensen seemed calm, if a little clingy: he'd been standing closer to Frank since they'd passed the cop, and while it wasn't exactly unpleasant, it was something of a surprise.  The only person Frank had ever seen Jensen touch, or even be physically close to, in the workplace was Megan.  

"What does 'keeping your head on' entail?  Hopefully not guarding your alcohol.  I don't think I could stop you if you decided you wanted it, anyway."  

"Just... keep me talking," Jensen mumbled, lowering his head.  

"So I should start an argument; easy enough."  Jensen turned to say something, and then realized from how Frank was smirking at him that the comment wasn't serious.  "Oh, come on, Jensen.  You're just so easy to tease."  

"Yeah.  Always have been."  

Something blistering bolted down Frank's spine at that, and visions of himself as a pre-teen, backed into a corner, either conversationally or literally, flickered on the backs of his eyelids.  

"...Really.  I'd have thought you were about as well-liked as you were at Sarif."  

"Not that well-liked at Sarif, first of all.  I know you don't talk to people, so I'll give you a pass.  But no.  Mostly in the principal's office for screaming at people who wouldn't leave me alone."  He unlocked the door and waved that Pritchard go ahead.

"They certainly picked on someone their own size, at least physically.  ...Really, they weren't scared off by that?"  

"By what, Francis?  They'd known me since I was eight.  They knew I wouldn't do shit besides get loud.  And that was funny."  

"Ah.  So the 'workplace violence' comment was all empty air."  

Silence.  

"...I don't know if you've noticed, Francis, but I'm doing pretty fucking shit right now.  Maybe don't."  Jensen was staring at a bottle of scotch on the counter.  

"...I meant, ah...  I meant you have more self-control than I give you credit for."  

"Don't think it's self-control.  Just have a hard time touching people.  Unless it's life or death."  

"That's self-control, in my book.  I was almost expelled for fighting back.  I was an easy target—look at me, it's not like I could do any damage.  But I refused to just take it.  I'm too vindictive for my own good."  Frank typed an order for pizza into his phone.  

"That's why you get the quiet office."  

"No, that's because Sarif wants me to think of the windowless cell he pulled me out of every time I go to work.  I'm not sure why you think he's especially kind to me.  I'm a tool, even more than you are.  He just doesn't have to keep me on a leash because he knows I have nowhere to run."  

"...Well.  There's windows here."  

"Don't pity me."  

"It's not pity."  

Frank almost argued, but the softer edge on Jensen's words was enough to dissuade that impulse.  

"You talk a lot about how nice people are, but they really can't match you, can they?"  

"...Is that a compliment?"  

"Yes."  

"I'll be riding that high all week."  Despite the sarcasm, a ripple of warmth had passed through his face.  

"Who's pitiful now?"  

"Sarif's good boy does like his compliments."  Frank choked on the glass of water he'd poured himself.  

"Did you drink something when my back was turned?!"  

"Trying out being better-spirited.  Let me know how it goes over."  

"Like whiplash, but maybe I'll get used to it."  A nod of acknowledgement.  "I ordered pizza.  Since you don't have anything workable in this kitchen."  

"Oh, that's...  My bad."  

"That's 'you've been risking your hide for Sarif for the last two weeks and didn't have time for shopping', if I'm interpreting correctly."  

"More or less."  He settled gingerly on the couch, shoulders hunched.  

"...Don't tell me I make you uncomfortable in your own home."  Jensen visibly jumped as he twisted to stare at Frank.  

"What?  No.  You don't."  

"You're sitting like it."  

"I can't even sit?"  

"Evidently you feel like it.  Loosen up."  

"The couch is yours.  I don't want to impose."  

"Jensen, this is your apartment.  I'm imposing."

"I invited you."  Sighing, Frank leaned up against the wall.  

"Hopeless, I tell you...  Do you really think I, of all people, would hesitate to pitch a fit if it bothered me?"  No response.

Mercifully, the pizza was delivered at that point.  Frank went downstairs to get it, and when he returned, Jensen had settled more comfortably into the couch.  

"Here.  Help yourself."  

"...You.  You didn't have to get me anything."  

"You never eat, Jensen; you're a dehydrated, hypoglycemic mess.  I'd bet your ribs show.  Take it."  Groaning, the man sat up and opened the box.  

Frank smiled to himself.  Good.  Jensen needed the calories for his augs, and he'd probably feel a hell of a lot better with a full stomach.  

Based on how his host started falling asleep around ten minutes after he'd eaten, Frank would say he was correct.  He leaned over to take the empty box from the coffee table.  

"Go to bed."  

"...Mrrrmmm."  

It was such a vulnerable purr that Frank's stomach twisted.  He didn't deserve that level of trust.  He shouldn't know what he did, he shouldn't be here.  

He almost mocked Jensen, almost yanked backwards against the growing affection that was knitting them together, but at the last second, acid burning on his tongue, he swallowed.  

Don't you want this?

"...Do you need a hand up?"  Metallic eyes fluttered open.  

"...No, I'm good.  ...Thank you."  

"...I hope I kept your head on."  

"You did, you did."  Jensen stretched, catlike, and Frank bit the inside of his mouth.  

He didn't exactly find Jensen attractive in the stereotypical sense: that had always been something oddly distant for him.  But this, the interpersonal intimacy of the man stretching, shirt untucked and eyes lazily tracking Frank, this was turning him to jelly.  

"What do I owe you?"  

"...Wh... What?"  

"For the pizza."  

"Oh...!  Don't be ridiculous; my rent is a far cry lower than yours, I have enough."  

"...Forty Fifteen."

"That pizza was not forty dollars."  

"No... the door code."  Frank's organs dropped out of his ribcage.  "Your place is a shithole; you can sleep here, if you want.  If I'm out, and you need the code, it's 4015."  

"...I..."

"Just don't invite other people," he rumbled, hauling himself to his feet and staggering out of the room.  "'Night."  

Chapter Text

It was about two weeks before Frank caved and decided to take Jensen's offer.  The other man was out on Sarif business, and wasn't answering his infolink.  Frank had the code, he was expressly allowed.  Pushing down his nerves, he made his way up to the familiar unit.  

There was no answer when he knocked, so Frank took a deep breath and unlocked the door.  

The lights were dim, but on—Jensen kept them like that when he might need to see if he got home at night, Frank assumed.  Everything was dead silent, and Frank peeled off his snow-crusted jacket and boots, sighing to be somewhere warm.  He undid his ponytail and stepped down into the living room.  

And froze.  There was a figure draped over the couch, half-open eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.  Simultaneous embarrassment at entering when Jensen was, actually, here, and horror at his nonresponse held Frank in place for almost thirty seconds.  Eventually, he shook himself and hurried over to the couch.  

"Jensen?  Jensen?!  ...Fucking idiot, you'd better be alive—"  

A weak grumble.  Jensen's face was bruised, bleeding a little, and his dark gray sweater sported several blood stains.  

"Jensen, please; say something."   A quiet inhale, and then the steel irises tightened, focused.  

"...Francis..."   A slow, wide smile bloomed across Jensen's face.  Now, with some of the panic abetting, Frank noticed the two empty whiskey bottles at Jensen's feet.  

"You bastard; scared me senseless."  

"Y'can... stop worrying.  I'll be fine..."  He winced at an attempt to sit up.  "...Horrible day..."

"I can see that—"

"...Better now."

"What, after you've guzzled a gallon of whiskey?  I'm sure it is."  Frank pretended he didn't see the slight head shake or recognize the implication, and started toward the bathroom.  "You look like hell.  I'll be back."  

"Hold still," Frank grumbled as he ran the washcloth over Jensen's cheek.  The soft moan was simultaneously deeply unsettling and euphoric.  "...Oh, don't be dramatic."  Nervously, Frank sat down next to Jensen for better access.  "Can we get this off?  Or did you already—"  With obvious effort, Jensen grabbed at his sweater and pulled it over his head.  "...My god.  ...Are.  Are these..."

"GSW...  Three.  Nonlethal..."  He rolled his neck to look at Frank.  "Please...?  Too tired..."  

"...Ah... yes.  Hang on, let me get...  Something."  

"First aid..."  A wobbling polymer hand pointed at a box.  Inside was, as promised, a first aid kit.  Frank unwrapped several alcohol wipes and gently brushed them over the wounds.  

The man exhaled, but didn't comment.  He was quiet, despite his obvious pain, until Frank had finished applying gauze.  

"...Do I want to know how often this happens, if you're this well-trained?"  

A bashful smile lit Jensen's face.  

"I'm being good...?"

Frank swallowed a sigh.  Jensen wasn't going to have a very effective filter right now.  

"...You are doing fine."  A hum, and then Jensen slowly leaned closer.  "You are drunk, though."  

"Little bit...  Please...  I'm cold..."  

"Of course you are, you've lost how much blood?  Here."  

Jensen purred as Frank draped the blanket over him.  

"Jensen—"  The man stared vacantly for a moment, and then heaved himself into Frank, shivering.  "H...  I...  Uh..."  A contented moan.  Mechanical fingers closed around Frank's waist, and Jensen nuzzled the good side of his face into the other man's stomach.  Speechless, Frank sat there, trying to decide how to react.  Jensen only sighed, and by the time Frank had even remotely come up with a response, the man on his lap was lightly snoring.  

Hoping to stave off terror, Frank looked up some of the specs on the Sentinel system, trying to figure out how long it would take to recover from injuries such as these. 

It was close to two when Jensen stirred.  After blinking wearily for a moment, he stiffened.  

"...What the fuck...?"  

"...Before you panic," Frank interjected, "you were very, very drunk.  I won't hold it against you, but you should really watch yourself."  

"Oh... no.  I am.  So sorry," he mumbled, pushing himself away, and then gasping and grabbing at his bandages.  

"Careful!  Here, lean...  All right, there."  Frank left a palm on Jensen's shoulder, even after he was sitting with his back against the couch.  The man's eyes were ringed in deep circles, and his face was pinker than usual.  "You should eat something.  Sentinel has its work cut out for it."  

"Francis, I..."

"You're.  Unwell," Frank said evenly.  "It's not your fault."  

Neither said much as they waited for another order of pizza.  When Frank set it down on the table, Jensen didn't react.  He was staring at nothing, jaw working and shoulders lifted.  

"...Jensen?"  The man muttered something inaudible.  "Jensen."  Frank snapped his fingers in front of his host's face.  Shuddering, Jensen leaned away.  There was something familiar about that behavior...  

All at once, Jensen crumbled.  Eyes screwed shut, chest shaking with bit-back sobs.  Frank stared for a moment, mortified.  He wanted to run, afraid to engage.  But something, a wild bravery he'd been feeding since that first night in November, gritted its teeth against the impulse.  

"...Hey.  I.  We're still friends.  You didn't hurt me."  Slowly, he held out a hand.  "...You're almost as scared as I am, aren't you...  Don't be.  Jensen, I can't afford to be picky...  ...I'll tell you a secret," Frank whispered, mind made up.  "It's not even that I've latched onto you.  You're... very kind.  I really can't believe more people don't like you."  A shaky inhale.  "Sometimes—all the time—I wonder why you waste your care on a rat bastard who can't give it back."  

The two of them sat, silent, for maybe twenty minutes, Frank's hand still offered, resting on the couch cushion.  

The brush of palms made his hair stand on end for a moment.  

"...'S not a waste," croaked Jensen.  

"...You need to eat.  Now.  Go on," Frank urged, "you'll feel better."

"Not hungry..."

"Bullshit.  You might have no appetite, but you're hungry.  Eat."  Frank opened the pizza box and set it on Jensen's lap.  The man stared at it for a moment, gaze empty.  "...Go on.  You... trust me, right?"  

Slowly, he picked up a slice and took a bite.  Swallowed.  A few moments passed, and then he sighed, and finished the piece.  Casting a sidelong glance at Francis, Jensen took another slice.  

"...Thank you."  

"...Jensen, I told you.  I have problems.  I learned, over the years, that sometimes you don't realize when you need food."  

"Little extra caffeine, huh..."

"A comical understatement."  

"Yeah..."  He handed the other half of the pizza back to Frank, and accepted a napkin. 

"...All right.  Now.  You need to rest.  Really rest, Jensen.  Don't come in tomorrow."  

"Sarif..."  

"I'll handle him.  You...  Rest."  

"You'll be... okay?"  

"I've worked for him for years, now: I like to think my risk assessment is well-honed."  Inhaling, Frank stood up.  "You.  Bed."  

"...Help me up?"  

"Here.  Ready?  Urfh!"  Jensen stumbled into Frank, swaying.  "...Lean."  

"...Thank you," the man hissed between deep breaths.  

"You started it," muttered Frank, his heart aching.  

"...The hell I did...  Mr. 'walk you home'..."

"Mr. 'kept the cops out of my office'."

"Mr. 'tried to keep me from being alone with Megan'..."

"...I didn't realize you knew what I was doing..."

"Oh please," he wheezed into Frank's shoulder, "you're the only person who made me think, damn, maybe I'm not crazy..."  

"You're not crazy."  

Jensen all but collapsed into dead sleep the moment he touched the mattress.  Frank draped the blanket over the man, palm lingering almost protectively on his shoulder.

"...Look what you've turned me into.  I'm never this friendly.  You, though... for some reason, you didn't believe that.  And you were right.  You sap.  Rest well."  

Chapter Text

Sarif was not happy.  Frank had to navigate more than a few veiled threats and furious demands for information that the hacker had to make up on the spot.  Athene smiled grimly as Frank finally shuffled out of the office, exhausted and head ringing.  He'd slept at home after Jensen had gone to bed the previous night, despite what he was sure would have been insistence that he stay.  It had felt... wrong, sticking around after that.  But being in his own apartment was wrong in other ways: his eyes were red and his throat ragged.  

Frank wasn't used to being wanted.  It didn't matter how: even just in the context of a friendship felt alien.  Needed was different, was what he was used to.  He was a valued contributor to Sarif Industries despite his personhood.  The entity that was Francis Wendell Pritchard was tolerated so that cyber threats were guaranteed to be remedied without incident.

Perhaps that was why he'd been able to navigate this connection with Jensen in a way he'd failed to develop others.  Jensen needed him.  The ex-cop was a wreck, drinking himself to sleep and barely keeping his energy converters fueled and sliding dangerously close to a complete mental breakdown.  He might not survive much longer without a capable person's intervention.  Frank was just the one that fit the bill.

But then Jensen had started uncovering his eyes.  He'd called Pritchard nice.  Told him that he'd almost got Jensen, whatever that meant.  Frank didn't know what to do with any implication of belonging, especially in a positive light.  

He also didn't know what to do with the stickers of Sephiroth and Angeal that had appeared on his desk after the night Jensen had invited him over.  On some level, Frank understood, but he couldn't accept.  

Several hours of Jensen burrowed into him, clinging to him like he was a source of comfort, had forced some of those musings into conscious realization.  Jensen liked Frank.  Trusted him.  Didn't just need him, but wanted him there.  Cried over the notion of scaring him away, just like Frank had that first night in November, because Frank wanted Jensen, too.  He'd carried the man's favorite cigarettes because it created a dynamic where Jensen needed Frank, but their closeness had sent ripples through that distant dependency and turned it into Pritchard stalking cameras to see when Jensen went to the canteen for coffee, Frank suspending every running task on his computer and shoving his way between coworkers he didn't like to "give Jensen an update", to revel in a gaze laced with affection.  He was a stray cat seeking out sunbeams to lie in, relishing how Jensen would take a half step closer, only when he spoke to Frank.  

There was a special place for him in Jensen's miserable, horrifically traumatized life, and, unlike near everything else, it was of the man's own choosing.  Being used as a pillow wasn't so much mortifying as it was life-changing.  Frank had given up on relationships early on, and lost interest, to put it lightly, in sexual engagements after his imprisonment, but whatever this was, he could do.  Wanted to do.  He wanted to lie in a heap, Jensen pressed up against him, the man's breathing an anchor, an assurance.  

His feet brought him back to Chiron.

...

Jensen blinked awake as the bolt snapped.  Sarif, come to yell at him for calling out, probably.   

Instead, he heard hesitant footfalls, the floor creaking just at the doorway to his room.  Cold trickled across his back.  He'd lain awake for almost an hour between four and five, after he'd woken up alone in the apartment.  The dark ceiling had seemed to press closer, a manifestation of sheer terror that all of it was over, that the fragile warmth they'd cultivated had been drowned in blood, suffocated by his delirious embrace.  

"...Is that Francis?"  

"It's me, yes.  Who else."  The man shuffled over to the bed.

"Listen, if you don't want to sleep here anymore—"  

"...Are you all right?"  Francis cut him off, completely ignoring the words and leaning over to look at him.

"...I'm fine.  Bleeding stopped hours ago.  Just sore as all fuck."  

"Do you eat sandwiches?  I brought you one."  

"...Not... if it's got vegetables in it.  I don't really eat lettuce.  Or tomato.  Gesture's nice, I guess, but..."  

"...Do you eat cheese?  Besides on pizza."  

"...Sometimes.  Why."  

"Ham?"  

"Maybe, yeah.  What are you getting at?"  

"I'll be right back."  

A moment or two passed, and then the kitchen sink was turned on.  About a minute of clattering and washing, and then quiet.  Jensen stared at the wall, half-asleep, only partly aware that a sizzling sound had begun in the next room.  More clatters, and then Francis padded into the bedroom.  

"Here.  Eat."  

He was holding out a submarine sandwich, bread toasted, cheese melted and oozing down onto the plate.  

"...The fuck is this for?"  

"For your poor, neglected sentinel, which needs to eat to repair that damage."  

"Only you could make it seem like an organ is unlucky to be part of my body," Jensen grumbled, but slowly pushed himself up.  

"Treat yourself better if you want me to knock it off."  

Either the kindness had gotten to him, or the sandwich was unbelievably delicious.  

"I brought more." 

"...What the fuck...?  Who made you king of worrying after me—"  

"You did, after I found you lying half-dead with no medical support."  

"Francis, I was—"

He broke off as the hacker's palm slid across Jensen's back, settled on his opposite shoulder.  Squeezed softly.  

"...What's your angle, here?"  

"You're hungry.  You're going to eat."  

"...Threat?"

"Promise."  The hand jostled him lightly.  

Every inch of Jensen was pleading, begging for contact.  He wanted skin and fabric in his arms, was desperate for the heat of another body.  Or maybe not just any other body, but specifically...

He stared at the floor in a senseless daydream until another plate was in his lap.  Francis sat down next to him, looking proud of himself.

"...Think the same trick will work twice, huh."  

"Already working," was the reply as Jensen crammed the food into his mouth.  

"You're too nice.  Get yourself into trouble like that."  

"Then I have you to get me out of it."  

"Awfully confident that I come when called," Jensen snorted.  

"I'll test my theory.  ...Come here.  You need a hug."  

"Oh, do I..."  He buried his face in Pritchard's sweater.  

"...Don't you go anywhere, you.  I shouldn't be saying this, but I'd miss you.  I'd like to stay the king of worries and not become the king of grief."  

"...Yeah, you really shouldn't have said that...  Now I'll be thinking about how sad you'll be when I finally get what I deserve..."  

"For doing fucking what, Jensen?!  My god, and I thought I hated myself!"  

"Don't make me give you a list..."

"I won't hear it, anyway.  ...If not making me sad is what gets you home at night, then so be it.  ...Has it just been since your augmentation, or longer?"  

"'It'?"  

"The part where you're suicidal."  

"...Oh.  You noticed that."  

"It's from before, isn't it."  

"...Yeah.  Got worse, after... this shit, but..."  

"Mexicantown?"

"Yeah.  It was Mexicantown.  Not that I felt great before that, either."  Francis patted his back softly.  "...Are you all right?  I can feel your hand shaking."  

"...I have not had an especially easy day, no."  

"You can rest here."  

"...Here?"  

"Here.  With me.  Just, um.  ...Just a nap.  Nothing like..."  He waved dismissively.  "I'm not looking for anything more, right now."  

"...Me neither.  Move over."  

"Yeah.  Here," Jensen shoved a pillow at Francis.  

"Just for a little while.  I'm setting an alarm—"

"Shhh.  Trying to sleep."  

"Bite me."  

"Already ate."  Francis glared balefully at Jensen, but he couldn't completely hide the smile.  

When he woke, Jensen found Francis' hand was resting on his back.  The hacker was still asleep, face wedged into Jensen's shoulder, ponytail a mess.  The low rumble that formed at the back of Jensen's throat was more involuntary than anything: an old stim revived by his discovery that his respiratory augs made it sound very much like a real purr.  

Maybe twenty minutes later, Francis stirred.  Yawning, he pushed himself upright and redid his ponytail, and then turned to where Jensen was gazing at him, eyes narrowed in affection.  Something shifted; Francis' expression hardened.  

"You're completely hopeless."  

"Nothing I don't know by now."  Jensen stretched, glanced at the icy rain running down the windows, and then turned back to his visitor.  "Are you staying?"  

"What?  Jensen, I have work to do.  ...And you don't need me to look after you, like some sort of..."  

"Some sort of what."  

"...You don't need me to look after you."  Pritchard had stiffened, shrank away, and begun picking at his hands.  Eyes riveted to the floor, he moved to stand up.  

"...I do, though."  

Francis folded, covering his face.  

"You just...  You make it so hard to hide, Jensen, I..."

"Keep it together, Francis.  I'm not going to one-eighty on you.  It's okay."  Slowly, Jensen slid a palm over the back of Pritchard's hand.  "Count off every second I'm not angry at you." 

"...I'm.  I'm okay."  

"You sure?"  

"...God, you just will not...!  No, Jensen.  I probably won't be, for...  A long time.  Maybe ever."  

"...That's okay.  You take your time."  

"And what, you'll wait for me?"

"No?  I'll still be here, with you, anyway.  You want a tranq dart for that anxiety attack?"  

Silence.  

"...I would like that.  You to be here, not the tranquilizer," he added.  

"Had me worried, there."  

"Jensen.  I don't... It's not that I'm ashamed, or anything like that, it—"

"You don't know anything besides waiting for the other shoe to drop."  

"...I'm impatient.  I want it over with." 

"You want to be in control of when it happens.  I can understand that."  He squeezed Francis' hand.  "It's not that different from wanting to die.  ...I'd miss you, too."  Slowly, he put his arms around the other man, pulled him into a hug.  "Oh, I'd miss you..."  

They sat there for almost five minutes, melted into each other.  

"Stay here," Jensen whispered.  "I've got you."  

"...Okay.  Okay."