Tug O' War

He curled up tighter and tried to sink deeper into the chair. He ignored the broken spring poking him in the hip. He didn't care about discomfort.

He closed his eyes, then opened them. Laid his head back, closed them again. They opened.

He got up and walked to the window. The sky was dark with the approaching storm. So?

He didn't care about anything. He knew that was a bad thing, but he didn't care.

He walked into his bedroom and laid down, trying to find a cool spot in the rumpled sheets. They needed to be washed. It had been awhile.

He thought about his gun. Thought about the storm; wondered about a lightening strike and fire.

He thought about cutting. He understood cutting. Thought about the relief of the pressure that seemed to be building under his skin. Wondered if he could break one of the safety razors for its blade. There was always his knife.

He understood the "cry for help" thing, too. It wasn't so much that he wanted to die, although he wouldn't mind. He just wanted someone to know. Know how bad it was, and how helpless he was against it. Wanted somebody to take control out of his fucked up hands. 'Cause he couldn't ask. 'Cause he didn't care.

He knew he should go to work tomorrow. Knew he was being irresponsible, that work wasn't getting done or someone else was doing his share. About that he almost cared. Tried to care. He didn't want to lose this job. It was the greatest job he'd ever had. But he couldn't go. Couldn't face it. Couldn't do what was expected of him. Couldn't. No matter what people thought it was, couldn't; not wouldn't.

About work he cared, but he didn't, and he wished somebody'd notice and let him know it was okay to not. Wished someone would notice that he hurt so bad. But he couldn't tell them, 'cause that would be bad. 'Cause then he'd be weak. Unfit.

He tossed slowly. Turned over. Got up.

He wandered into the bathroom and took a piss, his fingers playing idly over a small bump under his arm. Just a pimple. Thick, dry, white matter leached onto his finger. He wiped it on his jeans.

His face felt hot and greasy. Dirty. Couldn't remember when he'd taken a shower. Didn't care.

The phone rang. He let voice mail pick it up. It made him anxious. He thought he should answer it. Couldn't.

They thought he had a fever at work. But he figured they kinda wondered. He never got sick and, when he did, he went to work anyway until Nathan made him go home.

He wondered who'd come by first. He hoped they wouldn't. He hoped they would. He hoped they couldn't see... Longed that they would.

He knew he should go to the doctor. Thought, maybe, she could help somehow. But didn't believe she could. He should go. But he couldn't. 'Cause he didn't care. He knew that was a bad thing. But he just didn't.

He walked down the hallway back toward the living room. He was hot and he stopped long enough to turn the thermostat down on the window unit.

He laid down on the floor. Fingered some tapes. Wondered if there would be some comfort in something familiar. Stuck in a copy of "Dirty Dancing." It played, but he didn't watch it.

He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling. Caught a whiff of sour sweat. Thought he should shower. Didn't move.

He thought about alcohol, wondered if it would help. Thought about how easy it would be to get dependent on the relief. Thought about going out for some. Stayed on the floor.

It was getting dark. Pretty soon he'd have to go to bed if he was going to work tomorrow. Hadn't decided, yet. Didn't know what to do. Knew he had to go or had to go to the doctor. But what could he tell the doc? 'Cause he couldn't admit to just not caring. Couldn't explain about not being able to move.

Never. Never in his life had he been able to explain it so anyone would understand. People said they did, asked questions, tried to help him fight his demons. But they would prescribe something or psychoanalyze him or offer to stay with him or .... Never enough.

Shit. Nobody was capable of knowing. It was too much of a tug o war. Depression versus gratitude, loss versus gain, dark versus light, paralysis versus a sense of responsibility so strong it wrung you into a used rag and hung you out to dry, only to remind you that your purpose is to be a rag and if you don't get back to it you're letting everyone down.

How do you explain you're paralyzed in the face of every day things?

Then it would go away for awhile. They didn't understand that, either. Neither did he. Days, weeks, months, sometimes years. Only to steal over him again with no warning, no explanation.

And, once again, people would worry, but not comprehend. And they'd try to make him explain. And he'd try to make them grasp it. And he'd feel guilty because they didn't and they worried and now, once again, he was a burden.

He got back up into the chair and tried to get comfortable. He tossed and turned slowly; heavily.

The phone rang again. His stomach clenched. He sparked to anger. He dissolved into despair.

He surged up and paced, his hand flying through his tangled brown hair over and over, ignoring the sweat soaked mats.

He went back to the bedroom. The window unit blew loudly in the humid heat of the July evening. That was okay. White noise.

There was a knock on the door as he reached the doorway. His body went rigid, his stomach plummeted, his heart pounded and he held his breath. He stood dead still.

The knock came again. He willed it to go away. He worried about who it was, what it was about.

It stopped. He stayed there.

When he was sure, or as sure as he could be, he went to the door and looked out. Package, civil warrant, note from a friend, bread from Mrs. Potter... But there was no one there, nothing left.

He closed the door quickly, shooting the deadbolt home and engaging the chain. Instead of relief he felt trepidation. Who had it been? Was it someone coming to make him answer? Take something away? Tell him what a bad man he was, even if it wasn't in so many words?

He went back to the bedroom and lay down. His heart was returning to normal, his head turning in other directions. He stared at the wall. For hours.

He apparently dozed off. Another knock woke him.

"Vin? It's Chris."

His friend was worried, and the Texan's heart redoubled its pounding. So the cycle moves on.

The key in the door. Tanner's heart sped up still more and he laid stock still. Nothing happened. The deadbolt.

"Vin? Tanner you in there?"

He should have known it would be Chris. But he didn't even really care about that.

He struggled up from the bed and made his way into the living room. Slowly, clumsily he unlocked the door. He had no energy.

He couldn't force his voice above a near whisper.

"Hi, Chris."

"Hey, cowboy. How are ya?" Anxious hazel eyes searched the sharpshooter's face and tried to look beyond, instinctively searching for hidden danger. Something was terribly wrong.

"I'm okay, thanks. Just restin'.

Chris nodded, still cataloging the dark circles, tired eyes and tangled hair. It hadn't escaped his notice, either, that he hadn't been invited in.

"Can I get you anything, partner?"

"No, thanks, Chris. I got ever' thing I need. Just need to rest. But I'll be at work, tomorrow." God, he didn't know if he could actually do that.

"Hey, no rush. Your health is what's important."

"Yeah. Thanks." Vin wanted him to come in. Wanted him to make it all better. Wanted him to leave.

Larabee's expression tightened and he suddenly, yet gently, pushed his way into the apartment. The smell from dirty dishes in the kitchen, unwashed clothes piled in the hall and trash gathered in the bathroom shocked him to the core.

He turned to look at his friend. Vin's eyes were focused on the floor, his hand still on the doorknob, his sweaty, ripe body unmoving. Placing two fingers under the younger man's chin, he lifted his face. Vin's eyes remained down, but he knew Chris could see them. See them filling with tears and anger simultaneously.

Chris meant well. Vin knew that. But the inevitable questions began. At least his voice was quiet.

"What's goin' on, cowboy?" Not just quiet. Gentle. And not just asking out of habit.

"I ... I just haven't been feelin' well. Sorry ‘bout the mess." His reply was a mutter.

Chris looked around again, wondering if he had missed something. The cobwebs on the walls, the dust on the table, the filth on the counter ... they told a story that began long before the last week or so.

"Vin. Talk to me."

"I'm depressed." Vin shrugged, his tone indifferent.

Chris nodded matter of factly. "How bad?"

"Bad."

"Should I secure your gun?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it?"

"Bedside."

Chris made an affirmative gesture again and walked into the small room. He took the service weapon from the sharpshooter's holster and cleared the chamber, popping the clip out and slipping it into his pocket. He wedged the gun into his waistband laid the holster back onto the nightstand.

Grabbing a grubby pillowcase from the bed, he began stuffing clothes into it, choosing t-shirts, jeans and shorts over things more work appropriate. Turning off the window unit, he closed the bedroom door and went to gather Vin's toiletries.

The Texan stood in the same place, waiting. His eyes burned with tears of shame.

Chris walked back into the living room and picked up Vin's keys. He stopped near the silent man and held up the case he carried.

"Got clothes and toothbrush. Anything else you wanna take?"

"I don't wanna go."

"I know. "

Vin nodded and looked around. Nothing else called to him.

"Nah...that's all I need."

Chris nodded again and waited for Vin to proceed him from the apartment. He closed and locked the door behind him, noting that the Texan seemed to wait for direction even now.

"Let's go to the truck. How does pizza sound for dinner?"

Vin shrugged. "Whatever you want."

The ride to the ranch was entirely silent, each man lost in thought. The small, clean, cool cab of the pickup was soothing to the rattled nerves of the overwhelmed man.

Entering the large, quiet house, Chris led Vin to the guest suite. Within the small wing Tanner'd have his own space; a sitting area, bedroom, bath and small refrigerator. He placed the bag on the bed and smiled at his friend.

"I'll be in the barn. You let me know if you need something specific."

Vin nodded.

Chris returned an hour later, a pair of sweats and oversized t-shirt in his hand. Vin sat where he left him, looking at his hands.

"Get a shower, Vin, and put these on. I'm gonna do your wash. You need help?"

"Nah. It's not that bad. I can do it, if I can just get started."

"k...You do that and I'll pour you a beer. Pizza in the kitchen when you get done. If you don't show, I'll come get ya, okay?" Not a threat; a reassurance.

Vin nodded again, tried to smile, and disappeared into the bathroom. Chris took the clothes to the laundry room, then set about making a salad to go with dinner.

Dinner eaten, Vin walked to the sink and started to wash their plates. He stood there for a minute. Chris walked up behind him, taking the stoneware from his hand.

"Thanks, cowboy. I'll take it from here."

Chris made quick work of the clean up and picked up a couple more beers, wandering into the living room to locate the wounded man. Vin sat on the couch, watching the TV and seeing nothing.

Chris tapped Vin's shoulder with the ice cold can and smiled when the Texan reached for it. Coming around the sofa he settled on the other end and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

"So...tomorrow we talk about bills, the doctor and anything else needs doing." Chris offered succinctly. "Tonight we talk about whatever you want, or we don't talk at all."

"I... Work."

"You're on vacation for a week, starting tomorrow. We'll see after that."

They sat in silence for awhile. Vin drained his beer and stood.

"I'm gonna go to bed."

"Night, cowboy." Chris answered quietly. "You know where I am if ya need anything. Whatever I have is yours."

Vin looked at him for a minute. He lowered his eyes again, then headed to his room.

Chris finished his beer, heading to the small bar for something stronger. He sent up a small prayer to whatever was out there on behalf of his hurting friend.

---

By the slant of moonlight, Larabee knew it was the dead of night. Something shifted in the doorway and his hand inched toward the holster beside the bed, but his instincts weren't screaming danger. He finally fixed on the lean form of the sharpshooter.

"Hey." His voice was quiet, soothing.

Vin didn't move, didn't speak.

"Come're"

The Texan hesitated, finally moving into the room. He sat down on the far side of the bed.

"Can't sleep?" Chris asked carefully.

Vin shook his head. "Nah."

Chris reached out and laid a hand on his arm. "Plenty a' room"

Vin smiled for the first time since his arrival. "Plenty? Geeze it's the size' a Texas, Chris."

The blond smiled back and waited. Never would he treat Vin like a skittish colt, but he knew better than to push, too.

Tanner shifted his weight and pulled the covers from under him. Slipping in, he curled up on the edge of the mattress. Chris settled back down and closed his eyes..

He was dozing off when he felt Vin shift, moving closer. Before long, he heard a shuddering breath. Turning and leaning up on his arm, he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from Vin's face. His whisper both soothed and strengthened.

"It's gonna be alright, now. I'll take care of everything until you're ready. We'll beat this thing, cowboy. No worries, Vin. I've got the time, the money and the love for you to handle anything."

Vin turned luminous eyes to the best friend he'd ever known, wanting to believe. What he saw in the moonlit green gaze thrilled him to his very soul and, for the first time in weeks, gave him hope. Someone finally understood. Maybe miracles do happen.

Chris moved slowly, shifting closer and pulling the unresisting man into his arms. Tanner sighed softly and tucked himself against the strong, capable body.

Vin's mind whirled for a moment, implications and complications vying for a place in his troubled heart. But it felt too good, and he'd hurt too long to deny himself. Snuggling deeper under the arm of his rescuer, he drifted into an untroubled sleep.

Chris gently kissed the top of the tousled head and closed his eyes. The battle had just begun, but Vin no longer fought it alone.

The End