He's sleeping now, relaxed in your arms. You look down at him and you sigh a little, seeing the tension lines that even slumber can't entirely erase. When you rub your thumb over one of them, he nuzzles into your touch absently, which you take as a good sign. At least in sleep he stops fighting himself over this.

You woke up this morning a little bit after he'd left; you know it wasn't long because his side of the bed was still warm and the clock said it was only six-thirty. You decided to give him half an hour and see if he'd come back; maybe he'd just gone out for more coffee, or bagels, or something. But the clock hit seven and he wasn't back yet and you knew, just *knew*, that he was out running again.

So you got out of bed and you pulled on your jeans and the first T-shirt you saw (which happened to be one of his but that didn't matter) and you shoved your feet into your sneakers and left. You knew what route he'd take but you weren't sure where he'd end up. So you stopped for coffee and waited by the park, knowing it was a gamble but also knowing that ten miles was generally about as far as he got on mornings like this. You've played this game enough times before to know the rules.

And sure enough, you saw him. He was running hard, his shirt dark with sweat and sticking to his body, aware of nothing but the physical exertion of one foot after another. You wondered if you'd have to follow him past the park this time, if he wasn't going to stop on his own. You know better than to stop him when he's like this. You've learned.

Your hand was on the door handle and you almost had it open when you saw him stumble, but he pulled himself up and made it to the bench with no signs of limping, so you held back. You watched him catch his breath and stumble over to the bench and stretch out his legs, and you breathed a sigh of relief that at least he wasn't *that* far gone. You've had to rub cramps out of his legs before and it only makes this worse for both of you.

He fell to his hands and knees and you knew he was throwing up, because it's what he does. It's like he's trying to purge you from his body, from his life. Hey, years of therapy growing up taught you a *few* things, even if most of it was about how to bullshit the shrinks. You'd hate to think your parents' money was entirely wasted--okay, maybe you wouldn't, but that's neither here nor there. And while you want to go to him and hold his head and give him a drink of water from the bottle in the car, you can't. He'd only hate himself more if you did.

God, it was bad this time. He ended up on his side, shaking from the dry heaves, and you bit back the tears and wondered how many times you're going to have to go through this. How much more it's going to take. You clenched your hand around your coffee cup and watched it crumple in your fist and wished to God you knew what to do with him, because you're terrified this isn't working, that one day he'll finally walk away from you. And you can't, just *can't*, let him do that.

He pulled himself up and you saw him look around as the haze lifted from his brain and he saw where he was. You had to smile at the grimace he made when he realized how far he was from home. You wouldn't let him walk the whole way home, of course, but he didn't know that. He thought you were still asleep and for the moment, you were fine with that.

You let him walk about a mile, mile and a half, just to give him a chance to cool down, before you pulled up next to him and told him to get in. And he did and you drove home--because home is where he is, now, and if that means you've all but moved from your apartment in Georgetown to a house in Alexandria, then so be it.

Neither of you spoke on the way back. He was still too raw and you didn't know what you'd say. So you drove home in silence and parked the car and let him go upstairs and into the shower without you. Once the water was running, you gave into the churning emotions inside you and leaned against the wall, closing your eyes as tightly as you could to keep the tears from falling.

You don't know how much longer you can do this, how many more times you can bring him home and hold him and make love to him and try to show him--again--what he means to you. You're afraid that one of these days you just won't be able to do it anymore, but you know you can't stop because it'll kill both of you if you leave. So you listened to the water and bit back the tears and prayed that maybe this time it would be enough. Maybe this time he'd finally be able to stop fighting.

When the water stopped, you went upstairs. You undressed and went into the bathroom and took him by the hand, leading him into the bedroom. He went docilely, letting you push him down on the bed, and he let you rub out his back and his legs. You took your time, kneading out the knots, the tension, trying to show him how much you wanted him with every sweep of your hands over his skin. And when you were done, you kissed the back of his neck and slid your hands up his legs and felt him respond to you, the way he always does, and you thanked God that at least you had this.

You don't think anyone's ever taken the time to learn his body the way you have. You're absolutely certain no one's made him feel the way you do. There's always that hint of surprise in his reactions, like he's never expecting it to feel this way. And that alone is enough to make you want to weep. How could no one ever have taught him to feel pleasure like this? How could he have gone through his entire life without learning his body the way he's studied yours?

He groaned when you slid into him and you felt him tremble when you stretched out on top of him, pressing your whole body against his--torso, legs, arms, your head tucked into his shoulder, fingers laced through his. You wanted him to feel you, every inch of you, inside him and on him and around him, as if your body could convince him what your words can't.

You began to move, slowly and easily, not wanting to lose the connection of your body against his. Not enough for either of you; just enough for you both to feel it. It wasn't about orgasm--hell, you didn't even think it was about sex, not right then. You just wanted him to *feel* you and know you were there and weren't going to leave.

But your body had other ideas, as it so often does, and you couldn't ignore them forever. So you began to move a little harder, a little deeper inside him. And you slid your hands up to his wrists and gripped them tight. *Mine*, you were saying, with your hold on his wrists and your cock inside him, and it startled the hell out of you when he moaned and pushed back against you, wordlessly pleading for more.

He'd never done that before, but then again, you'd never tried to claim him like this before. You gave him what he wanted, your thrusts becoming just that much harder, just that much *more*, until you felt him getting close to coming. Your grip on his wrists tightened and you kissed his throat, tongue flicking out over the pulse beating strong and steady there. "Do it," you whispered against his skin, your body moving strong and steady. "Come."

He gasped something you didn't quite understand and came with a groan, his whole body shaking with the force of it. You couldn't hold back anymore and you didn't want to try. You wanted him to know that he was yours, that you had him and weren't going to let go. So you gave up on everything but the need to *take*, over and over again, all but pounding into him until your orgasm rushed through your body and you groaned as you spilled yourself inside him.

Carefully, you pulled out of him, lying down next to him and gathering him into your arms. Your chest pressed against his back, your wrapped your arms around him, and you closed your eyes. But it didn't last--you felt him tense, just that little bit, so you tightened your arms to try and get him to relax. You wanted him warm and pliant and comfortable in your arms, not thinking about how this was going to end in disaster.

And once again, he surprised you. He sighed a little and pressed closer, tension seeping out of him like a punctured tire. You could tell he was exhausted; his breathing was already starting to even out and his whole body was lax and heavy against yours. You kissed his throat, curling up around him as much as you could. "Sleep," you whispered. "I'll keep you safe." Even as you said it, you knew you had no idea how you'd do it. But you also knew you had to try.

He sighed a little, already drifting off. But you heard him whisper one word before sleep completely dragged him under. Your name.

He's sleeping now, relaxed in your arms, and you hold him and look at him and wonder how much longer the two of you can keep doing this. Something has to give. Something's *going* to give, and you have no idea what it'll be or when or if it'll tear you two apart for good. You pray it won't, but you just don't know. All you can do right now is hold him and keep watch over him as he sleeps in your arms.

Maybe this time it'll be enough.