When the phone rang JC grabbed at it frantically – they’d just gotten the baby to bed a few minutes ago and Chloe was already asleep. If either of them woke he’d never get any rest tonight at all.

He wasn’t surprised by the voice at the other end, just irritated.

"I’m sorry to call, JC, but it’s closing time and there’s no one to take him home."

"How long’s he been downstairs?"

"Since openers. I called Shane at tea time, but he didn’t answer. I need to get home to the missus, y’know. I can’t get him to go up ta bed."

"I know." Rolling out of bed, he crept toward the bathroom as quietly as he could. With any luck he’d be to town and back before Chloe noticed he was gone. "Hang about till I get there?"

"Aye." a disgusted sound, and then the line went to static.

Cursing silently to himself, JC dressed quickly. It was cold in here, with the fire down. He let himself out of the house and grabbed his motorbike, which ran quite well now that Chloe wasn’t sabotaging the carb on a regular basis. Pushing it down the hill, he waited until he was out of earshot to kick her into starting.

Town was silent and dim. The fog hung heavy, blanketing the street with ghostly damp. He stopped the bike and pushed it through the streets, not wanting to wake everyone.

At the Keel-and-Crown, the pub his friend Ollie had bought a couple of years ago, there was a light out front and a heavily layered person standing in front of the door.

"This hasn’t ‘appened in a while," Ollie observed as he pulled up and parked the bike. "He’s right in back."

"Okay. I’ll lock up, then." They exchanged nods. JC watched Ollie hurry off down the street, where his own wife and babe were waiting.

JC walked into the darkened interior of the pub, and stopped to watch for a minute.

Dean slumped in a booth at the far end, beside the ancient jukebox. There was a herd of empty pints glasses on the table, and he was clutching yet another.

His head was bowed, blond hair hanging, hiding his face. His hands held onto the glass like it was a lifeline.

"Dean..." JC sighed. He hated it when the man got this way. He understood it, to some degree. Despite making great progress over the past year, Dean still carried the scars of his childhood and the lack of esteem that had led him the wrong way so many times before. At least he was clean and working at a job he actually liked. Shane was good for him, and JC almost believed Dean was good for the older man. The local guru had needed someone to take care of.

Usually Dean slept at Shane’s place, but it would do no one any good to take him home like this and upset Shane, too. JC had to get him upstairs and into one of the pub rooms, which were all empty this time of year.

He walked over and realized, as he got closer, that Dean was shaking. Sadness filled him. So much pain, in such a short life. Though they were the same age, he still felt like Dean was a younger brother, someone to be protected. Comforted.

The way he hadn’t been when he actually was a child. Maybe he was just trying to make up for what he hadn’t been able to do when Dean was little - they’d barely known each other then. If he’d known what it was like, for Dean to go home every night, he would’ve done something about it. But he hadn’t known. No one had. Not until the day the coppers arrested Dean’s father for killing his mum, and social services took him away from their housing unit.

He’d been gone until they all turned seventeen, then turned back up again without explanation. They’d welcomed him back with open arms, and joined in his adventures willingly. Until they grew up and he, probably predictably, did not.

The rest of them had achieved success of one kind or another. A famous record producer. A wealthy pub owner. A renowned surfer.

And Dean. Smalltime drug-dealer, wannabe journalist with no hope of getting the credentials to pursue the dream. Self-proclaimed and publically acknowledged loser.

JC locked the pub door behind him before he walked over to the booth.

He didn’t even look up when JC was standing next to him. He made a sound – a sob, choked back.

"Don’t," JC breathed, crouching beside him. "It will get better. You just have to wait it out."

He touched blond hair, oddly softer than Chloe’s. Dean turned his head away, but when JC grabbed his chin to look at him, he launched himself out of the booth and into his friend’s chest. Startled to find himself with an armful of crying Cockney lad, JC hesitantly patted him on the back and held him.

He was heavier than he looked. Even in a wetsuit he looked too thin. Shifting, JC sat on the floor with his back to the wall, and cuddled the crying man in his lap.

An awkward position to find himself in. Not a bad one. JC saw it as a chance to undo some of the mistakes he’d made with this friend. If he had known how Dean as hurting, if he’d known that he needed guidance, maybe JC would have been able to grow up faster, and give it to him. Been stronger in their friendship and given Dean the anchor he’d needed. Not laughed at his schemes and teased him when they failed.

Not celebrated with him those rare times they succeeded.

The sobs were subsiding. JC rocked gently. This was the worst he’d seen him. Over the smell of sweat and beer, there was an aura of unfathomable pain. How did a man live with that?

Not alone, that was certain. JC took comfort in knowing that if he and the others hadn’t been Dean’s friends when he came back, he would undoubtedly become someone much worse. Gotten himself into even more trouble. Probably died long before he tried to surf the Boneyard in an act of drunken desperation. It might have actually been a suicide attempt – he didn’t know and would never ask. Dean had been grateful to be saved, and Shane was teaching him that second chances weren’t to be wasted.

Finally Dean was quiet, and still. He leaned heavily into JC, his face hidden in his arms.

"Let’s go lie down, what’ya say?" JC spoke gently, like Dean were the child he sometimes acted. A wounded, vulnerable child.

He couldn’t imagine him any other way. That manic grin, the enthusiasm he sometimes met the world with. It would come back to him.

Dean shook his head, nothing else moving.

"C’mon, mate, it’s getting bloody cold down here."

The heat was turned off. Ollie might have lit a fire in an upstairs room already, or sent someone to do it. He was a decent sort, always tried to take care of the people that came through his doors, like any good innkeeper would. JC hoped there was a fire.

"An me arse’z gone numb." He shifted to demonstrate. Dean’s arms unwound from himself and grabbed at him. "I’m not leavin you, mate," JC soothed, one hand in soft blond hair, petting it. "Just want to get off the floor and upstairs."

The tight grip loosened a bit and he moved slowly, leaning forward to get to his knees. Dean wasn’t letting go all the way, though. JC figured he’d have to carry him.

"Good thing I kept in shape," he grunted, hauling them both up. Dean was across his arms, like he would carry a sleeping child. The way he would carry his daughter someday, when she was too big to be put over his shoulder. He looked forward to that; lifting her from the auto and carrying her inside, heavy with sleep, after a day at the beach when he taught her to surf. Her mother willing ,of course. What else was he going to teach her, after all?

He could teach her about love, and friends, and how to take care of them. The stairs weren’t steep, but Dean was getting heavier with each step. He didn’t think about trying to put him down. Just took it one step at a time, breathing as deeply and evenly as he could.

The door of the first room was open and he saw the welcoming flicker of a fire through it. He sent silent thanks to Ollie. The bed was turned down, and there was a fresh pitcher of water on the washstand. He noted it as he walked by and lay Dean on the bed. There was an awkward moment when Dean wouldn’t let go. JC gently pried his fingers free and lay him back. Dean turned over and buried his face in the pillow, arms covering his head.

It almost looked like he expected to be hit.

He wet a cloth after pouring water into the bowl. It was still barely warm. Sitting on the bed beside Dean, he tugged at his shoulder.

"Let’s clean your face," he suggested quietly. "Then you can sleep."

"Don’t wanna."

"Don’t be an ass, man, roll over and let me clean your face." JC pulled harder, insistent. With great reluctance, Dean rolled onto his back. His hands stayed up by his head, fingers curled tensely.

"It’s okay, mate." JC touched the fingers of the hand he could reach, gently stroking them. To settle him down. "You know I’m not going to get mad at you."

"Should." With his eyes still closed, Dean turned his face away. JC caught him by the chin and turned it back.

"You haven’t done anything to get mad about," he chided, rubbing the coth over pale damp cheeks. Lit by firelight, Dean was gold and angles. JC wondered if anyone had ever thought to paint his portrait.

"I’m a wanker," Dean mumbled. It wasn’t his old whiny tone. This was deeper. More... sad.

"Well, we’re all that, if you’re speaking literally," JC thought he was being clever. Making him talk. Might even make him laugh. But Dean didn’t answer. In silence, JC cleaned his forehead and carefully his eyes, then down his nose, over his mouth for a scrub and finally a swipe at his chin.

"Are you going to be sick?" he seldom was. These binges only came a couple of times a year, and he seemed to recover from them in a day or so. This was the first time he’d done this since the baby was born, and before that, only once since moving here from London after the Boneyard.

Dean shook his head. Then he turned back over, on his side, arms curled to his chest.

JC sighed. He put the cloth back in the bowl, then went to the foot of the bed to wrestle Dean’s boots off. He didn’t help at all. By the time they were off, and his ragged socks stuffed safely inside where they wouldn’t smell, JC was truly tired.

"Are you going to be alright?" he asked, one hand on an ankle. It felt cool. He’d have to get the covers over him somehow.

Dean didn’t answer, or move. He lay still as death. Suddenly worried, JC climbed onto the bed and touched his head.

Dean shivered.

"You’re going to catch your death," JC scolded. With the fire the room really wasn’t very cold. He’d kicked the door shut and it was warming up nicely. "Get under the covers."

Again, Dean didn’t move.

"Are you going to be able to sleep?" more worried now, JC leaned over him and brushed hair back from his face so he could see.

He was crying again. Silent tears, running slowly down his face.

"You’re a daft bugger, you know that?" resigned, JC lay down behind him and gathered him close. With any other friend this would have been unthinkable, no matter what the circumstances, but with Dean it seemed the only thing to do. Odd, that.

Dean didn’t fight him. His hand wrapped around one of JC’s and held it to his chest as he cried himself to sleep.

Tired from a long day at work with a fussy baby, JC closed his eyes and nodded off without even noticing it.

"No...no, no, nonononononooooo...."

Waking abruptly with his arms around his thrashing friend, JC was momentarily disoriented. It only took a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t holding Chloe, and that Dean’s low cries were getting more frantic.

"No, mummy, no, don’t, hurts, hurts, daddy, help, nonono, don’t!"

"Dean!" He shook him, leaning over him. Dean’s face was twisted in a mask of remembered terror. "Dean, you’re dreaming, wake up!"

He shook him harder, and Dean thrashed, then, suddenly, half-sat, his eyes flying open. He looked around the room wildly, breathing hard and fast.

"I’ve got you," JC said quietly, touching his cheek. "It was only a dream." How many times did he dream like this, sleeping alone with no one to wake him from it?

"I -" for once Dean seemed at a loss for words. he looked around the room again, then down at himself. Then up at JC.

His eyes were filled with tears again.

"Yesterday was my mum’s birthday," he whispered. He swallowed, hard. It hurt to watch. "‘m sorry you - you -" he didn’t seem to know what to apologize for.

"Hey, no problem," JC gripped his shoulder, wanting to comfort him again. "What’s a mate for, eh?" Their adolescent vows of no fear seemed very far away at the moment.

"JC?" Dean was staring at him, tears spilling over. "Could you - can I -"

"’course," JC said gruffly, the word barely out before Dean was crawling into his arms again.

"You can call me a baby in the morning, right?" Dean’s voice shook as his body shuddered. "Just -"

"I won’t. Won’t let you go, either." Holding him as tightly as he could, JC pushed Dean’s face into the crook of his neck and held the back of his head, fingers tangled in his hair. "You’re not a baby."

The only answer he got was a choked sob that gave way to the real thing.

It seemed to be his night to get cried on. After a day with the baby Chloe had given up and given her to him so Chloe could get some sleep. JC had walked and walked the small flat behind the Aqua Shack, until he’d thought he’d go deaf or his feet would fall off.

Now Dean had fallen apart on him twice in one night, and all he could think was how sad it was that he’d probably done this alone before.

"I’ve got you," he crooned, much as he would to the baby. "I’m not going to let you go. I’m not going to tease you in the morning."

It worked better on Dean than it did the baby. He quieted once again, but didn’t relax into JC. He seemed to get more tense as the silence grew.

"You better now?" JC asked. The sound of his own voice almost startled him.

Dean nodded into his shoulder. His hands, fisted in the back of JC’s shirt, relaxed slightly.

"Is there anything else I can do to help?"

Sudden stillness. Then Dean was moving. Slowly, as if everything hurt, he started to work himself away from JC, who hadn’t realized how tightly they were wrapped together. He bit back the urge to laugh; what the others would think if they saw this!

Like a lightening strike, he understood something he’d never questioned before.

JC grabbed Dean again and held him, not letting him get out of reach, and looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Dean averted his eyes, staring at the bed, his hands in tight fists. Red lightly colored his face.

JC was experienced enough to recognize the signs of arousal in another man as well as he could in himself.

Dean was holding his breath, but his baggy cotton pants were tented and the flush was probably from more than embarrassment.

"So now you know I really *am* a wanker," he muttered. "Let me go, and this never happened."

Rocked while his worldview shifted off-center, JC could only stare and try to make sense of things he’d seen, but never understood before.

Dean never had a bird around. When the others teased him he shrugged and said all he needed was a good high. The rest of them accepted that the drug use probably killed the urge. It had only come up once or twice, then it had just been a part of what made him weird. What made him Dean.

Actually, JC told himself as the shock faded, this made a lot more sense.

"You’re not a wanker," he said once more, and pulled his friend close. Dean was stiff and resistant.

"Loser," he said more forcefully. "Queer crybaby loser."

"You’re me friend," JC said, getting angry. "Don’t talk like that!"

"Why shouldn’t I? I’ll never be like you. I’ll never have what you do!"

"You’ll have *me*!" JC shouted back, and then, to his own surprise, he kissed him.

Dean made a strangled sound. First he pushed away, then his hands were grabbing at JC’s body and he was pushing him down. They almost fell off the bed but JC managed to roll them over until he was on top and they were safely in the middle. Dean’s hands were clawing at JC’s jeans, he was panting and – he was crying again.

"Don’t-" JC almost moaned, touching his face. "Don’t cry, Dean. "Please, don’t."

"Can’t - I don’t know - should - " Dean was stuttering painfully, but his hands never slowed. He got JC’s jeans unzipped and wriggled a hand into them. To put a stop to the sounds, JC leaned over him and kissed him again. Dean’s mouth opened so wide, it was like he was inviting JC to take up residence in his soul. Thoughts of Chloe tried to intrude but JC dismissed them easily. This was different.

Dean’s mouth was hotter and wetter than anything he’d felt before. He groaned into it and dropped his own hand to work under the elastic of Dean’s pants. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, which made it hotter somehow. JC took his length in hand, marveling briefly at the softness of the skin, and rubbed it hard.

Dean bucked under him and clutched at his back the way he’d held the pint glass earlier. His fingernails dug into JC’s skin.

Shoving at his jeans with one hand, JC settled for getting them to his thighs. He rose up far enough to yank Dean’s pants to below his balls, then lay down on top of him and shoved.

Dean moaned and held him tighter. JC could taste tears in their kiss; he licked around his mouth, wanting more. Dean didn’t seem to know what to do, so he set a rhythm. Their cocks rubbed together, sliding as the sweat pooled. Dean held on with a desperation that made JC ache inside.

A few hard thrusts, and then Dean was shuddering under him, moaning and bawling. The burst of heat brought JC to the edge, and a glance at Dean’s face as he pulled away to look at him triggered it.

Lax and open, with his eyes shining, Dean was something like beautiful. He stared at JC like he was a god with a capitol G.

Collapsing afterwards, JC made sure he didn’t let go. He was vaguely worried about Dean’s reaction, and didn’t want him to feel abandoned or, worse, used.

It seemed a vain worry. Dean sniffled a few times, nuzzled back into his neck, and fell asleep.

Lying on his back, jeans tangled around his thighs and cutting off circulation, JC tried to deal with the mundane, not wanting to start thinking about the consequences of what he’d just done. This could be serious. This could be painful.

He needed to get them both undressed. And cleaned up. Under the covers. Get the door latched so no one walked in on them in the morning. When Chloe woke and he was gone, she’d assume he went to catch the early tide, but quickly realize his board and the van were still there. Maybe the baby would distract her, though, and she wouldn’t notice. If she did notice, she’d start calling around, looking for him, and Ollie would tell her about last night. Then someone would come up to see if he was still here...

And he would be. This wasn’t the time for decisions. There might not even be any to be made.

Dean made a small sound in his sleep. It sounded like pain. JC soothed him, a hand on his face, the other cupping his round arse. It fit into his palm perfectly.

All that mattered was the moment. Clothes. Cleaning. Covers.

The rest would sort itself out.