Tuesday night found the two men ensconced in front of the television in Michael's apartment, munching burgers and watching a reality show. As he didn't watch much prime-time television, his guest's slow Texas drawl provided a running commentary, filling him in on the details of the program that, apparently, Jay adored.

"So, they all have to live and work on this farm when most of them have never even seen a cow before," he concluded, the camera panning to show two inappropriately dressed young women attempting to clean a stall while wearing high heels and very tight blue jeans. Michael would have bet good money that their breasts were what was known around his part of the country as 'store bought.' One kept falling off her own shoes while the other bemoaned a broken fingernail. They'd never last a minute at his grandfather's place.

The men on the show weren't faring much better and they both laughed as Maurice, an aspiring model, was chased out of the barn by a small pink piglet.

Animated expressions and hand gestures accompanied Jay's dialog, a drastic change from what Michael was used to; even Angie seemed reserved in comparison. His enthusiasm was contagious and Michael soon found Jay far more interesting to watch than the program.

"Oh! Look!" Jay exclaimed excitedly, pointing at the screen. "That's Lisa; she's a Wall Street broker. She's gonna win this thing, I just know it." He cocked his head attentively as the meticulously attired blonde scolded the two hopeless cases in the stall, and Michael found himself jealous of Lisa, wishing those dark eyes looked at him with such single-minded focus.

Occasionally a flirtatious grin would flash his way, or a little light teasing, but that was just Jay; it wasn't intended the way Michael wanted it to be. Several times he'd started to say something, let the guy know he was interested, but whenever he opened his mouth he lost his nerve and the moment passed. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch sometimes, only fear of rejection kept him from acting on his impulses.

So he contented himself with what time he had, enjoying the easy friendship they were building. Besides, watching Jay watch TV was quality entertainment, in his opinion. At the end of the show when Jay uttered an 'awwwww' at Maurice snoozing in the hay barn, piglet cuddled in his arms, Michael wanted to do the same to Jay.

* * *

On Friday night Michael was coerced into leaving his sanctuary by his well-intentioned sister, though he couldn't understand how partying with a bunch of college kids was supposed to be good for him. Angie wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, however, so he reluctantly agreed to attend the party at the Zoo. The deciding factor had been his mom's threat to burn down his apartment, bookstore be damned, if he didn't leave it occasionally.

Out of his comfort zone, not in the mood to socialize, he sat in the crowded living room feeling alone and out of place among his sister's carefree roommates and their guests. Angie only made matters worse by her constant but well-intentioned nagging, urging him to dance, have a beer, meet someone and get laid. He smiled sadly and shook his head. If a thought entered his sister's brain it didn't slow down on its way out of her mouth. It got her in trouble sometimes, but you always knew where you stood with her. That was refreshing in a world where you had to measure your words for fear they'd be used against you, yet he still wished she'd learn to curb her tongue, at least occasionally.

All around him people were laughing, dancing, and enjoying themselves, and there he sat brooding on the couch, wondering how soon he could leave without appearing rude. Though he was unwilling to admit it, part of the problem was that Jay wasn't there. The real reason he had given in and agreed to attend at all was in hopes of seeing him, even if he lacked the courage to do more than look and enjoy the company and witty conversation.

Tilting his head back, beer bottle poised at his lips, he allowed the cool brew to slide down his throat; the liquid quenching his thirst and the alcohol quenching his pain. Temporarily, that is. With the consumption of alcohol came the loosening of inhibitions until, without his control or knowledge, he had descended into that place where he dared not go sober. The conversation, music, and dancing around him dulled and faded into the background until only the base beat of the music remained, morphing into a more regular whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopter blades, or the tat-tat-tat of firing rounds. His breathing deepened and his heart raced as the downward spiral carried him away-carried him back to that day.

It had begun as any other: inspection, mess hall, mounting up and heading out; the usual tension-laced small talk while breaking and moving camp. The men packed their things as neatly and efficiently as they could, used to the routine, knowing the drill. Gun in hand; he had joined his comrades in the waiting vehicles, heading off to yet another destination that he couldn't pronounce, so sick of it all. He was proud to serve his county and, for the most part, he liked the guys in his unit. But he was ready for a change of scenery-he was ready to go home.

Normally, he would have been closer to the head of the convoy, but that day, for reasons he couldn't recall, he had been riding further back. He didn't remember much about the hours leading up to the event-maybe he'd been chatting with those seated near him, or perhaps they were all quiet, nervous and tense, sensing that something wasn't quite right. Whatever had been happening, though, ceased to be important when that moment of that day occurred.

All he remembered was chaos and confusion. Shots fired and explosions boomed, while angry voices barked out orders. Wondering aloud what was happening, some of the men had unwisely unbuckled their seatbelts, hurrying to the exit of the halted vehicle to see what was happening. Then the world turned upside down, throwing him and his companions violently against the top and sides of the vehicle, his seatbelt falling uselessly away. The screams of the men were deafening.

When the transport stopped rolling, lying on it side, his first thoughts were for his friends and frantically he searched for Ryan among the jumbled, thrashing bodies. Somehow he managed to fight his way outside, watching in horror as the small blond corporal ran hell bent for leather toward the front of the convoy and straight toward a hail of enemy gunfire. Without thought for himself, he launched into a flying tackle, throwing his body over the young man who would have willingly run to his death in a futile attempt save someone who was even then beyond mortal help. Ryan fought for all he was worth but Michael, bigger and stronger, kept him pinned to the sand-wet with gasoline and the water they were carrying-doing his best to convince his friend that they had to stay put.

Unfortunately, Ryan was beyond understanding and Michael was forced to tune out the pleas, cries, and cursing, knowing that if he relented his captive would be dead within seconds. He, too, worried about Jimmy, silently sending up a prayer that he was safe.

Gas fumes stinging his eyes, his battered chest and side burning in agony from as yet unnamed injuries, he regained enough wits to know they had to get the hell out of there before a spark blew them both to kingdom come. Operating on instinct and adrenalin, he dragged the struggling soldier free of the wet sand. Once away from the immediate danger, partially shielded by his overturned vehicle, he paused to take a breath. Suddenly a deafening roar followed a 'whooosh,' shaking the ground and causing his makeshift shelter to teeter precariously above him. Without a thought for his own safety, he threw his body on top of Ryan, bracing against the burning debris that pelted them unmercifully, pieces of hot, flying metal stinging his arms where it hit. Blocking out his own pain, his only thought was for shielding the small body beneath him, protecting the man he loved like a brother. Rationally he knew that it only lasted a few brief moments, but at the time it seemed an eternity of smoke and fire raining from the sky.

His overwhelmed mind didn't register the exact moment when false quiet descended, or when the body beneath his ceased fighting and began shaking, going into shock. Months of training kicked in and he raised his weapon to perform the duty for which he'd so meticulously prepared, all other thoughts fading away but one - defend his position.

Time lost all meaning as he focused with single-minded determination and carried out his duty. He couldn't say how many shots he fired or if any claimed the life on an enemy. Still he fired until his bullets and energy were spent. There was no fight left in him when hands slipped beneath his bruised and burned arms, raising him from the ground and peeling his fingers from his firearm. Another solder knelt in the dust and lifted his motionless charge.

When he finally regained his feet with the aid of a sturdy arm wrapped around his shoulders, a medic stood before him. Though his lips moved, Michael couldn't hear the words. It was then that he realized that, in the middle of a raging battle, he was surrounded by silence. Shaking his head as much to clear the cobwebs within as to tell the man that he didn't understand, he wrapped his arms protectively around his injured ribs and he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Warm wetness trickled down his neck and under the grimy collar of his shirt, and when he reached up to wipe it away his hand came away covered in blood. Suddenly light-headed, he grabbed the medic's shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint on the man's uniform.

Grim and tight-lipped, the medic took a firm hold on Michael's arm, he tugged him toward a waiting Humvee, picking his way through a veritable mine-field of debris. From the looks of it, more that just one vehicle had been hit. The odor of burning rubber and charred metal stung Michael's eyes and throat, choking him as they passed through a thick cloud of acrid, greasy smoke. Emerging from the other side and coughing to clear seared lungs, he saw a uniform lying on the ground. Confused and disoriented, he paused and studied it, wondering how it got there. Then he saw another, and another, and he knew-and wished to God that he didn't. Those weren't just uniforms, they were soldiers! Staring down into sightless green eyes that he'd seen crinkled in laughter just that morning at breakfast, he screamed with a voice he could no longer hear. These were members of his own platoon, his friends, the guys he'd laughed with and talked to just hours before.

In a panic-induced fight or flight, he fought against the medic's hold, screaming and struggling to get away. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to get away, had to run. A vise-like grip clamped around his chest and he couldn't breathe. Struggling for breath and fighting for all he was worth, he suddenly realized the medic wasn't the only one fighting back. In fact, the medic had released his hold and was now frantically inserting a syringe into a bottle. Nameless, faceless ones were holding his arm immobile when he felt the stinging bite of the needle. One second, two seconds; time stood still.

Suddenly, the constricting bands around his chest loosened, allowing him to breathe again. Though still disoriented, he no longer felt like fighting. Once more the medic tried talking only to give up, shaking his head in frustration. Hands caught his arm again and led him, unresisting, to a waiting vehicle. Three others were already there, sweat-stained and filthy. Emerson, ever-present glasses noticeably missing, sat stony-faced, eyes focused straight ahead. Rehnquist's face radiated sheer terror; all his normal bravado vanquished by what the enemy had wrought. Gone were the arrogant sneer and biting comments about the locals and their technologically inferior attempts at warfare.

It was the small, lost individual positioned between them that caught and held Michael's attention, for only then did he recognize the young man he'd fought so hard to protect. A dark bruise marred Ryan's cheek and blood trickled from a deep gash over one eye as he rocked to and fro, cradling his left arm. The face that was normally full of joy and mischief was a mask of grief, the red-rimmed eyes hollow and empty. Without being told Michael knew exactly what that look meant: Jimmy was one of the fallen. Without his intercession Ryan would have joined him. Those haunted eyes turned his way, clearly asking, "Why?"

He never learned if Ryan was asking why Jimmy was dead or why he'd been stopped from joining him, but when those pain-filled eyes locked on Michael's he couldn't turn away. To his great relief, whatever had been inside the hypodermic took effect and he lost consciousness.

With all the horror of that day, it wasn't the bodies, the intense pain of broken ribs, or even the gut-clenching fear that Michael remembered. It was those beautiful, sky-blue eyes. In his nightmares he saw them as they were at that moment; devoid of all life and happiness, begging him for something...what, he didn't know.

The other survivors could only imagine that the young corporal had lost a friend and fellow kid from Arkansas whom he'd known most of his life. But Michael knew better. Ryan Jackson had, in his own words, 'lost my reason for living.'

* * *

"Hey, you all right?"

Michael bolted up from the couch, fist ready to fly. Gentle but firm hands wrapped around the clenched fingers, urging them back down to his side.

"Dude, you okay? You don't look so good."

The anguished blue eyes disappeared from his mind as Michael returned from his personal trip to Hell, replaced by warm, concerned brown ones. Shit. Here was the last person he wanted to witness one of his flashbacks. Shock and panic from that long-ago day remained, as it always did when this happened, daring him to shake it off. The adrenaline flowing in his veins sought an outlet and he flushed in embarrassment at just how close he'd come to physical violence.

A quick glance around the room assured him that Jay was the only one who'd noticed his moment of weakness, and he said a silent prayer of thanks for small favors.

Piercing dark eyes narrowed, their unwavering gaze hardening with determination. Just loudly enough to be heard over the music, Jay suggested, "Why don't we go outside and get some air? I think we could both use a break right about now."

Yelling at the room in general, "Be right back!" Jay stepped ahead and created a path through the crowd of gyrating bodies. Angie's raised brow was answered by a wink and, "Gonna go take Shasta out; your brother is gonna keep me company."

Angie just nodded, turning back to her conversation with Victor and his visiting older brother.

Jay wrapped his hand around Michael's upper arm, the gesture an unwitting reminder of the medic from all those months ago. Neither said a word as they made their way to the back door.

"Come on, Shasta," Jay stopped and called over his shoulder.

The energetic retriever crawled out from under a couch, ball in mouth, tripping everyone in her path as she cut a swath across the room, oblivious to everything but the toy clenched in her teeth and the prospect of going outside. Her ever-wagging tail wreaked havoc on the drinks arranged on the coffee table, leaving chaos and spilled beer in her wake.

When they stepped onto the porch Jay closed the door and hurried to the screen door, the excited dog bounding through the moment it was opened. In a flurry of blond fur she leapt down the steps and into the fenced yard, disappearing from view. Jay casually turned and sprawled on an old wooden swing, precariously suspended from two rusted chains. He patted the seat next to him invitingly. Michael ignored it, leaning his stocky body against the doorframe instead. As much as he didn't want to be inside right now, being outside was still hard to handle.

Jay set the swing to rocking violently as he stood and crossed the porch again to pull the screen door closed. Then he loosened the bamboo shades over the windows, providing the illusion of walls. Michael could still see outside through the screen in the door, but felt more secure with most of the outdoors hidden from view. He nodded his thanks to Jay who smiled nonchalantly and resumed his sprawl on the swing.

Michael stood rigid in the doorway, deeply embarrassed at what had nearly happened, but grateful for the rescue. Still, the timing couldn't have been worse, for as much he longed to see Jay and be alone with him, this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind.

Sullenly he gazed out over the yard, softly illuminated by the glow of a street lamp. A haze of shimmering fog created an ethereal landscape, limiting his view to the dilapidated wooden fence encircling the property. Breathing slowly and deeply, in and out, he willed his racing heart and jangled nerves to calm. "Sorry about that," he whispered into the shadows. "I would say it won't happen again but I'm in no position to make promises I can't keep." He had no idea why he was confessing, he only knew that at the moment he desperately needed someone to talk to.

Jay casually pushed the swing with one foot, staring out into the backyard. After a moment he asked, "Care to talk about it?"

The "no" came out of his mouth without a thought. It didn't seem to bother Jay, however. He continued dragging his foot against the uneven wooden boards of the porch, relaxed and unhurried, seemingly unconcerned that his roommate's brother had come close to taking his head off.

Finally Michael said, "Something happened....over there. The doctors say it's post traumatic stress." He stared down at the floor, scuffing the toe of his tennis shoe against the smoothly worn boards. "They say it's common, that it happens sometimes..." he trailed off, half expecting Jay to remember something he needed to do and run away.

The chains creaked as the swing tilted back and forth in time with the steady thumping beat from the living room speakers. Only after the song ended and the music faded did Jay say, "One of my cousins came back with a similar problem."

Michael looked up, blue eyes meeting brown, expecting to see pity or judgment. Instead he saw warmth and understanding. Jay's soothing drawl calmly said, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. You served your country, you did a good thing. But you were wounded just as surely as those that come home with physical wounds. Just give it time, man; it'll heal." Michael wanted to believe him.

"I just want to forget," he whispered quietly.

"Yeah, but in forgetting the bad you sometimes forget the good, too. You just have to balance them out and come to an acceptance." Jay rose gracefully and closed the distance between them until they stood toe to toe, nearly touching. A warm, calloused hand reached out, cupping Michael's cheek, turning his face up and forcing their eyes to meet. "It's okay," he breathed, the words a quiet purr. "I may not ever fully understand what happened over there, but I do understand that you're hurting and I'm sorry for that. If there's anything I can do..."

Michael, just plain tired of being lonely, leaned in and planted his lips against his comforter's. "Ummpppphhh," was all Jay managed to say, but after a moment he responded, long warm fingers easing around Michael's neck to caress his closely cropped hair. His touch was gentle but firm, secure without restraining. When those lips parted Michael's tongue invaded, finding Jay's and stroking with wild abandon. It wasn't his first experience with a man, but it was the first time he'd kissed one. Ryan had shared only his body and his grief-his kisses and his heart were reserved for another.

But this wasn't just any man he was kissing; this was Jay and heat swept down into his gut like liquid fire, leaving him hard and throbbing. His hands found Jay's ass, enveloping a double handful of firm flesh and pulling him closer, moaning in satisfaction when Jay's body responded to him the same way that he was responding to Jay.

Primal instinct overrode any objections his mind might have had and Michael rubbed against the tempting firmness that lay just out of reach behind the denim of Jay's jeans. Answering moans interrupted his thoughts, bringing him crashing back down to reality. Eyes wide with horror, he quickly jumped away.

"God, I am so sorry..." he stammered, his body shaking. Suddenly feeling more alone than ever. Oh my God, what had he done!

"Shhh....." Jay whispered, placing his fingers lightly over Michael's trembling lips. "Don't say anything. It doesn't matter. I like you, Michael, and I want to be your friend. If there's something I can do to help you, all you need do is ask. And if this is what will help you...." He left the sentence hanging, the invitation open-ended as he backed away and languidly stretched his arms high over his head. His shirt rose up, displaying a tightly muscled abdomen and the barest hint of a treasure trail. The view teased for only a moment before disappearing under the hem of his black T-shirt. "I think I'll go see if there's any pizza left," he said. "You come back in when you're ready."

Jay crossed the porch and opened the screen door, whistling sharply. A golden blur bounded in, chuffing excitedly around the ball in her mouth. Jay patted Shasta's head and spoke softly in Spanish, then returned to where Michael stood by the door.

Michael jumped when soft lips brushed his ear. Warm breath caressed his lobe as Jay crooned softly, "If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. Anything you need me for, I'll be here." He stepped back, his fathomless dark eyes boring into Michael's. "Whatever you need, no strings attached." With that Jay opened the door quietly and followed the dog inside. He turned and paused for a moment, gazing meaningfully at Michael before closing the physical door behind him, leaving the metaphorical one wide open and welcoming.

* * *

Michael sat on the swing, caressing the smooth, worn boards and thinking how Jay had looked casually sprawled across them. He didn't know what possessed him to act on the feelings that had been building ever since he'd come home. He could only assume the alcohol in his system and the stress of his flashback had left him vulnerable. When the object of his desires had appeared, close enough to reach out and touch, he just couldn't help himself.

Jay hadn't pushed him away. "No, stupid, you did that yourself," he berated himself.

With a sigh he closed his eyes, wishing he could hide from the world. He'd really done it now; he'd let his guard down and out came his true self. Suddenly he had a greater appreciation for that poor man from church who'd fought so hard to hide what he was. It couldn't have been easy to fake a hetero lifestyle. Look how quickly he'd fallen when faced with temptation.

There was no going back now, and if he were being totally honest with himself he didn't want to. He wanted Jay, regardless of the cost. He'd recently learned the hard way how precious life was, and had no intention of hiding and then spending the rest of his life wondering what might have been. He knew what he wanted and intended to go after it. Driven by that thought, he left the relative security of the porch and followed Jay into the house.

The problem, however, was getting Jay alone so they could talk. He'd come back in intending to drag him off somewhere private, but Jay had walked away and begun a talking with someone else. He waited, and tried again with the same result. Damn it! The man had kissed him on the porch, what had changed? Why was he avoiding him now?

Face it, Ritter, you're no prize. He can't deal with your baggage.

There was no point in arguing with that. Disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow but it went down easier when chased with beer, so that's just what Michael did. Hurt and confused, he gave up and resigned himself to an evening that concluded with him going home alone to his apartment.

One beer turned to two, and two to three. Why did he have to settle for a lonely evening? He had as much right as anyone here to have a good time. Pushing his inhibitions out the proverbial window, Michael waded into the mass of writhing bodies and began to dance.