Just run, run hard, feet pounding the pavement and blood roaring in your ears. Forget jogging, forget pacing yourself, forget everything but one step after the other, sneakers on concrete on grass on gravel and back to concrete again. Don't notice, don't pay attention, just keep going, run until you can't anymore, until your breath burns in your lungs and the sweat's pouring down your face and your eyes sting from sweat and the tears you won't let fall.

This isn't about endurance, isn't about training or stamina or fitness, it's about escape, about trying to outrun the demons in your head, the visions of him falling to the ground, blood staining his shirt and his body lying still and broken in the dark. The images of him diving for cover and not making it, of him unable to scream because the bullet's stolen his air and he'll never be able to cry out again.

You don't care that it hasn't happened, that this is all in your mind. It will. You're certain of that. He takes too many risks, he's too reckless with his own life. One of these days you'll be standing next to an open grave and listening to the dirt fall on top of his casket and you'll put your arm around Abby and listen to her cry and be unable to shed a single tear.

Concrete turned back to grass when you weren't paying attention and you stumble on a rock, tripping and nearly falling to your knees. You bend over, breathing the way you were taught. In through your nose, out through your mouth, letting the oxygen flow. Your muscles burn and shake and you bite back the scream that wants to escape because there's nothing you can do about it, nothing but keep running and pray that you can drive these living nightmares away before they tear you apart.

No more tears; you don't have the moisture for them. Your mouth's dry as dust, your shirt is soaked through, and you can't run anymore. Your body's trembling like a dry leaf in a high wind and you barely manage to stumble over to a bench and lean on it, stretching out your legs automatically so they don't cramp. And you think about doing this with him in the mornings, and you think about the ways he'd rather spend those mornings and the way you always manage to 'convince' him to get up and you swallow hard.

You can't imagine waking up without him now, any more than you can imagine falling asleep without the soft sound of him breathing and the heavy comfort of his arm over you. He likes to cuddle up to you when he's asleep; you've woken more than once to go to the bathroom and had to disentangle yourself from the confines of his arms and legs. You have to smile; it's not something you'd ever have anticipated from him.

The thought of having to wake up alone, of turning over in the night and not seeing him sleep there, scares you shitless. You thought you were past that, thought you'd never feel like this again, not after Christine. Then again, you thought that after Barbara, and after Melanie, and you're terrified that he'll leave you just like they did.

He will. You know it. Whether it's him saying 'This isn't working out' or him taking a bullet for you, you know he'll leave. He won't stay. You're a fool to think otherwise and you know that, too. But you can't make yourself leave. You can't bring yourself to say goodbye, to close him out of your house and your bed and all those other places he's crept into when you weren't looking. It'll just tear you apart more when he's gone, but you can't let him go.

You close your eyes against the pain and you see him as you do so often in your nightmares, pale and cold on Ducky's table, still and silent as he never is in life. And it's too much--you fall to your knees on the grass, retching until there's nothing left to come up and the dry heaves are wracking your body until you fall onto your side, throat raw, stomach aching, and tears in your eyes from the force of it.

Slowly, you push yourself up, wrapping your arms around your legs and resting your head on your knees. After a moment, you rouse enough to look around and realize you're at least ten miles from home, from the bed where he's still probably asleep and sprawled over his side and most of yours as well. You stand up with a groan, stretching with your hands on your lower back as you remember--again--that you're not twenty-five anymore and you can't treat your body like it is.

Getting home is going to hurt. You may have run ten miles to get here but you can't run it to get home. With a sigh, you resign yourself to walking for another hour and a half, minimum. You could do it in less but you're going to hurt enough as it is. Frankly, you'd sell what's left of your soul for a hot shower and a massage at his hands, but you doubt you'd get any takers on the thing.

You start walking, letting the cool breeze dry your skin. You think you've gone about a mile when an all-too familiar car pulls up next to you and the window rolls down. "Get in," he says, giving you the soft smile that caught you, so many months ago. "I'm not letting you walk ten miles home."

You don't bother asking him how he found you--he knows you too well and for all you know, he's been following you since you left. You weren't exactly paying attention to your surroundings, something you'd smack yourself for if you could summon up the energy. Right now it's all you can do to sit there and let him drive you home and keep yourself from breaking in front of him.

He doesn't say a word when you get back, letting you go upstairs and get into the shower on your own. And you're grateful, almost pathetically so, for the space. Maybe--maybe this time you'll be able to do it, to pull away.

But he's waiting for you when you get out and he takes your hand and tugs you into the bedroom, and you can't seem to do anything but follow him. You let him push you down on the bed, on your stomach, and you close your eyes and listen to him open the bottle of oil you keep in the nightstand.

His hands are firm and steady on your back and you have to clench your teeth to keep from hissing as he works his way down your spine, to the sore muscles in your legs. You're a limp wreck on the bed by the time he's done with you and uses your towel to wipe the excess off your skin. And then he slides his hands up your legs, pushing them apart, and you bite your tongue to keep from saying a thing, because you don't know if you'd beg him to stop or not and it'd kill you if you did.

Your body responds to him eagerly, perfectly, like he's trained it to do. He's learned every inch of you, inside and out; no one's ever been able to play you like this before, like you're a Stradivarius in the hands of a symphony concertmaster. You're too worn down to do anything but give in to him, arching into his touch, body opening around him as he slides into you, and you can't hide the groan this time.

He's stretched out on top of you, legs pressed against yours, arms on yours and his fingers linked through yours. His head's tucked into your shoulder; you feel him breathe against your throat and you swallow at the sheer intimacy of this. And still he doesn't say anything as he begins to move, every measured thrust causing his whole body to slide against yours. Easy, gentle, so unlike him and yet so completely him at the same time. He knows exactly what he's doing to you and he won't stop until he's broken you under him, until you're in pieces in his arms.

As he begins to move a little harder, a little deeper, he moves his hands, wrapping his fingers around your wrists and gripping tight. You moan, pushing back against him, your body begging for more. And you realize in a flash of certainty that you'll never be able to say no to him, to this. You need him too much. Somehow he's crawled under your skin and become your anchor; you have no idea how or when but it's too late to stop him now.

He kisses your throat, nuzzling your pulse. "Do it," he whispers in your ear, tightening his grip on your wrists until it's almost painful. "Come."

Something shatters inside you and you gasp a word that might be his name or might just be a plea. Maybe it's both; you don't know. You come, helplessly, trembling under him, and hear him curse before he begins to move hard and fast, all restraint gone. He's using your body for his own pleasure now, riding you, and you're unable to do anything but yield to him. You don't want to do anything else.

He groans long and low when he comes, body going taut above you. You feel warmth fill you and shudder, closing your eyes to hide whatever it is you can't let out. He kisses your shoulder and pulls out of you carefully, lying down next to you and holding you close. His chest is pressed against your back and he's got his chin on your shoulder and you want, more than anything, to stay like this forever.

You know he's going to leave you. You know that one of these days it'll end. But you don't have the strength to say it and right now, with him holding you and your body still purring from orgasm, you can't keep from thinking that maybe, this time, it'll be different. This time it might last.

As if he's reading your mind, his arms tighten around you. You swallow, instinctively pressing into his warmth. It's been so long since you've been held like this and longer since you've been willing to let someone do it and you'd forgotten how good it feels to have someone's arms around you, supporting you. You can't remember the last time you let someone else be the strong one.

You swallow again, your throat tightening. Sheer physical exhaustion is dragging you under and sleep is becoming harder and harder to fight off. He kisses your throat again, snuggling a little closer. "Sleep," he murmurs. "I'll keep you safe."

He can't protect you from himself and that's what you need most, but you're too tired to tell him otherwise. So you close your eyes and let him hold you, unable to pretend that you don't want this, that you don't need it.

Sleep wraps around you, carries you away, and you hear yourself whisper one word before you're lost to unconsciousness.

"Tony..."