Title In Review

Author: Claire

Rating: M

Series: Part 4 of the now to never be titled series.

Key Words: Angst. Healing.

Archive: Yes

Feedback: Please

Disclaimers: Characters belong, believe it or not, to DWTV and Brian Clemens. They merely, for reasons I'm still not sure of, chose to reside with me for extended periods of time.

Narrated by Sam and self beta'd while staring in disbelief at the wonderfully awful fourth Batman movie. <g> In other words I refuse to take the blame for any mistakes I’ve carelessly left uncorrected.

The blank computer screen mocks me. Pristine perfect in its wordless whiteness, it jeers at me.

'You've got it easy you have. Spare a thought for all the others. They have it far harder than you and yet you still can't do it. Ha! And to think you have the nerve to pride yourself on your ability to clearly express yourself...'

Painful though it is to admit, the computer's right. I *do* have it easy. What I have to do is a twilight stroll along the beach in comparison to what the other agents have to compile. I should be merely strolling, feeling the sand between my toes, while the others are putting themselves through their paces around an obstacle course, but yet I still can't start.

The year in review. A time-honoured tradition that haunts, in one form or another, the majority of the world's working professionals.

'Look back on the last twelve months and reflect on all that has happened.'

'Personal high and low points.'

'How exactly are you an asset to the organisation?'

'Where do you see yourself in twelve months?'

'Please comment on your working relationship with those you work with.'

'Do you enjoy your work?'

"If you could, what would you change?'

And so on and so forth. A never-ending selection of questions that are meant to categorise us and for the powers that be to be able to pat themselves on the back for a work force well managed. Answers are collected, collated, scrutinised and analysed. They are then carefully filed, after an allegedly friendly chat about your results -- although, God no, it's not a test -- with an army of psychiatrists and then, just when you've put the whole experience behind you, the time comes to do it again. The questions are worded slightly different, but that's about it.

Review, career assessment, whatever it's called, it's always the same. Tedious question after tedious question. It's like the chore of homework all over again. I hate them. I find completing them a huge waste of time and always feel as though there'd easily be over a hundred better things I could be doing with my time. Scrubbing the shower with a toothbrush springs all too readily to mind. As does attempting to teach a cat how to sit.

Seeing as it's December again (where'd the year go?), it's that time of year. Year in review time! Woo-hoo. It's what I should be doing right now. I've got the apartment to myself, I've got the cup of coffee, I've got the computer and, really, I've got it easy. Doesn't mean I'm being exactly forthcoming with myself though.

For a number of reasons, the largest of which I'm apt to believe is simply because they don't want to know in any great detail themselves, the powers that are -- Malone and his entourage of pet shrinks -- have decide that Chris doesn't need to jump through their hoops this year. Their motto
appears to be 'he seems okay, let's not refresh what happened'. And for once I happen to agree with them. Chris hates filling in these things more than I do at the best of times and I really don't think having to put into words what happened to him this year would help him greatly.

Anyway, by nature of the fact that I'm so close to Chris (and just perhaps because Malone, for this year at least, doesn't need to know what little I think of him), I've been given a reprieve as well. All they want from me if what I think I've achieved this year.

Simple. Piece of cake.

Or so it should be. It's just a pity that I can't think of anything work related to write. I've had an eventful year, sure, and I was instrumental in bringing Chris back, but hardly anything that's happened can be attributed to work. Okay, so I *eventually* (the time it took null and voiding any real sense of achievement this might have had) discovered where Chris was being kept and rescued him. But, work wise, that's about it.

Most of the year's been spent in healing and working on keeping Chris grounded. Work's had little to do with it. In all honesty, if it had gotten in the way, while I wouldn't have gone so far as to resign, I would have sought extended leave. I enjoy what I do -- most of the time -- but I love Chris. There would have been, if it had boiled down to it, no choice to make.

Not that Chris needed a great deal of my help. He did brilliantly on his own and, quite frankly, I'm proud of him for making it so far by himself. Perhaps I'm kidding myself thinking I helped at all, but I don't think so. Even if it was only in a small way, I think I helped. Simply being there for him was probably enough.

That's after we sorted ourselves out, of course. If we hadn't...

Well, if we hadn't I'd be sitting somewhere with a half empty bottle of scotch and writing the most relentlessly negative year in review in the entire history of CI5. Of that I'm certain.

As the computer screen, now flashing the screensaver, continues to mock me I almost begin to wish I'd either been given the full task or a different variant on it. The full task is, if nothing else, an excuse to indulge in a spot of creative writing. My favoured option though, I've decided, would be to sum my entire year up in twenty-five words or less.

'Lost Chris. Found Chris. Mentally, lost Chris again. Had Chris, in whole, return to me again. Confessed love for each other. All is well.'

See? That I could do. Simplistic, yes, but also succinct, to the point and truthful. There's lots more that could be said but, ultimately, it'd be irrelevant. The basics would still be the same. At the cost of what happened we finally stopped skirting around the issue and came clean with how we felt for each other. I'm not saying the cost wasn't high, as it was. I'd give anything to have had it come to light a different way but, well, what's done is done.

Chris has embraced a 'the past can not be undone and we can only move forward' motto, and I think it's a good one. It would be so easy for either of us, although Chris in particular, to give into the pain and uncertainty of the past, but there's no point. It would achieve nothing. To live in misery is not to live at all.

Sometimes it's easier said than done though.

~*~

Some nights, more so when Chris is asleep in my arms than on the rare occasions I'm alone, although I try desperately not to, I fall prey to memories of how I've felt over the course of the year. It's a completely futile thing to do but I can't help myself. I relive everything all over again. From the bungled attempt to bring in Kent to discovering Chris had disappeared. Sensory perfect, I see and feel everything. The sense of pride in having arrested Kent's second-in-charge deserting me and leaving me numb as I realise that I can see no sign of either Chris or Kent, everything.

Not wanting to let up, my memories then take me, stopping here and there, through the following months. What should have been a routine locate and rescue becoming more and more unlikely to have a happy ending. Harsh words yelled across the office at Malone. Heart wrenching despair, loneliness and sense of impenetrable failure. Days spent pushing myself too hard and still not getting anywhere. Fear that perhaps I'd lost Chris forever and how, if that was truly to be the case, I'd no longer have anything left to live for.

I was barely human during those long three months. As much as I hate to say it, I would have functioned -- arguably -- better if I'd known that Chris was simply dead. If you have a body you have cold, hard, inescapable fact. You have no hope and you can allow yourself to grieve. When there's no body however there's still hope. And where there's hope, there's motivation. I was never going to give up. Never. I was going to find Chris if it was the last thing I ever did.

When I finally did manage to find him, and he expressed his hatred for me, I almost thought it *was* going to end up being the last thing I ever did. Chris dismissing me, and telling me to go away, caused the worst pain I have ever felt to come crashing down over me. It was so bad that I only just made it out of his hospital room before breaking down into tears. I don't, as a rule, cry. It's not that I find it unmasculine or anything, it's just not something I feel comfortable doing. The despair, coupled with the unmistakable loathing in Chris' eyes made me cry though. It was clear, at that exact point in time anyway, that he never wanted to see me again; that he blamed me... I think I made up for near on thirty tear-free years in five minutes. While I had no real expectations in respect to how Chris would react, his disgust at seeing me threw me. It threw me with such force that, mentally, I hit a concrete wall and slumped, lifeless, to the ground, a shadow of my former self.

I had my partner back and he hated me.

And I hated myself just as much.

If not more.

Hatred was the only thing I could concentrate on and it was the only thing that made any sense to me. Chris hated me because I'd failed him by taking too long to find him and leaving him to be used without mercy. Which, really, were the exact same reasons I hated myself.

Walking out of the hospital, my heart heavy and with a black cloud of obliterating intensity hanging over me, I could see no light. I could have walked directly into a leprechaun, pot of gold and all, and, assuming I even deigned to acknowledge him, I probably would have kicked him out of my way. I was *that* close to rock bottom.

That night I got the drunkest I have ever been in my life and it was only through alcohol-fuelled bravado that I was able to skulk back into the hospital the following day. I told myself that I was going to talk to Chris and plead for his forgiveness. Wishful thinking, always your good friend when viewed through the bottom of a scotch bottle, whispered to me that yesterday had simply been a bad day, that Chris was upset with everyone and that there was no way he could be directing his dislike simply towards me. My head pounding in a way that was hardly conducive to the grovelling I hoped to do, I crept along the corridor until I was within hearing distance of Chris' room.

And then, without wanting to give the impression that I wanted to run, I turned on my heels and bolted from the hospital.

The other voice I heard was unknown (female, most likely a nurse or a doctor), but the sound of Chris laughing was unmistakable. He sounded amused about something and my desperately clawed together feelings of hope deserted me. If I'd wanted proof, I had it. Chris wasn't wanting to hide from the world; he just wanted nothing to do with me. And that's all there was to it. Two years of incredibly close partnership over and done with because I'd failed him.

As much as I felt like crawling into a corner, I couldn't blame him. Not at all. If the roles had been reversed I would have felt the same way about him. Not that thinking along those lines helped any. Ironically I'd had more hope when Chris was still missing. With him being safe, fact become harsher than imagination. While I was still hunting for him, my imagination, although concocting a number of dubious possibilities, never came close to the hideous reality. I mean, how could it? It's not something you'd -- even in this line of work and combined with everything that I've seen -- ever consider.

Not surprisingly none of our instruction and survival manuals have chapters on dealing with being drugged into being a submissive sex slave and losing three months of your life. Torture, surviving against the odds, making a litre of water last for a week, that sort of thing, yeah, but not that. While we're trained to withstand unspeakable torture, what happened to Chris was something else entirely. It defies comprehension. To be kept and tortured for information, or simply because they hate, if not you personally then what you stand for, is one thing. It's part of the small print. If you managed to survive your time in CI5 unscathed then your retirement gift would be your very own money tree and directions to the fountain of youth. The odds of that happening are *that* good.

What happened to Chris though was nothing like that. To Kent, he was simply a gift, payment for CI5 having ruined one of his operations. Kent didn't want information. I doubt he even felt anything in particular for Chris. It could just have easily been me, Spencer or any of the other agents that had been there at the time. Who he got was irrelevant. It wasn't a plan, it just happened. Although it's sickeningly simplistic, it was honestly a case of wrong place, wrong time.

The drugs did the rest. In a way, they were a Godsend. Chris wasn't Chris. Not after a while anyway. To view it in a somewhat sci-fi manner, the real Chris was in stasis while a vacuous entity existed in his body. I think it's the only thing that got him through. Most likely in all contexts of the word as well. If he'd known, he would have fought -- naturally -- and they probably would have killed him. Alive, but pretty and passive, he was an ideal guest. CI5 -- *I* -- couldn't find him, he didn't know who he was and he was helpless. What more could Kent have asked for?

Kent. The man who miraculously managed to eclipse the hatred I felt for myself. Lucky boy. He should have felt privileged to hold the distinction. Not having anything else to do with my time, and perhaps wanting to atone for my sins, I wanted him. Hunting him while searching for Chris was one thing, but my need to catch up with him after knowing Chris was safe was something else again. I knew what he'd done, he'd got away from me twice, he was the cause of my partner hating me and I *had* to have him. Retribution didn't have to come in the form of his blood staining my hands, but it had to come. He could have sent me on a merry chase through the fiery pits of hell and I still would have been on his tail. Chris might have been lost to me, but I had hatred keeping me going.

If, to put it mildly, I'd been unpleasant to be around during Chris' absence, then I was a complete arsehole in the weeks following his rescue. It wouldn't be a lie to say I didn't smile once during that time. Not even a fake one. The best I could manage was a sneer here or there and even those were an effort to achieve. I was coping only because I had to. Inside the cracks were so big that I was struggling to keep control of them.

Chris was alive and he was going to be okay, I should have been celebrating. But I couldn't. If anything the pain was worse than when there was still doubt. Like the lack of a body giving me hope, seeing the hatred in his eyes had destroyed it. Hatred that was directed solely at me and hatred that I could neither deny nor deflect. In a resigned way I thought I deserved it. As was rapidly becoming the story of my life, there was nothing I could do about it. Always seeking logic, the way I saw it, Chris had been through enough without me, persona non grata hanging around and grovelling.

I could have tried again, I probably *should* have, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Having spent the majority of my life studiously looking in the other direction the exact second anything that could possibly be perceived as emotional appeared on my radar, I just wasn't up to it. If I'd
tried, and Chris had backed up his disgusted expression with words, then I probably wouldn't have stopped running until I'd put as much physical distance between as possible. A continent or two would have done it.

I'm strong, determined and more than aware of my less than flattering nicknames. Words like cold, icy and stony have been used to describe me on more occasions than I care to recall. They don't bother me. In fact, more often then not, they're entirely correct. If I'm viewed as cold, so be it. I'm efficient. I get my work done. What others think of me is not something I've ever felt the urge to dwell on.

Except in relation to Chris.

Every agent, Malone himself and, hell, while I'm at it, all the heads of state, could view me with contempt but, so long as Chris still wanted to work with me, I wouldn't care. The other way around, however, wouldn't work. I could be the golden boy of CI5 but without Chris willing to be by my side it would be a hollow victory. Rule number one, in relation to my partnership with Chris, was never worth the breath Malone used to express it. CI5 might have thrown us together but it didn't make us friends. The way I see it, it's easier to work with someone you dislike than it is to
feign a bond that isn't there. Not that it was ever like that with Chris. We clicked from the very beginning. While I was set for an uneasy alliance, my blandly annoying smile all ready to humour the dumb Yank, meeting Chris was a decidedly pleasant surprise. He smiled at me, and my defences melted. My libido also perked up but, at that time at least, not wanting to toy with that whole 'never get emotionally involved thing', I forcefully told it to get down and proceeded to ignore it.

Differences in the way we worked -- 'oh no, I can't look, he's going to get himself killed' -- quickly disappeared and, from being the veritable lone wolf of CI5, I found myself with an equal. It soon become unusual if we'd go a whole twenty-four hours without seeing each other.

The Ancient Greeks (I *think* they're the ones) had a theory that said, in the beginning, humans came in pairs, siamese twin like, back to back. This was how they were meant to be. But, in time, vanity took over and the pairs quarrelled and separated. Suddenly finding themselves alone for the first time, these freshly split humans were doomed to search the world over in order to find their other half. Thus the theory of the search for the perfect partner was born. The Ancient Greeks had a lot of theories (Homer and his perils, oops, epic poem of Odysseus, anyone?), but I like that one.

What's more, although it would take either a bottle of scotch or the threat of extreme torture to get me to voice it, I think it's somewhat correct.

Chris is my other, most likely better, half. As nauseatingly soppy as it sounds, and you'd get no argument from me there, I honestly believe it to be true. Only when I'm with him do I feel as though I'm complete. What was normal before I met him I can now see the lonely reality of. It wasn't living, it was functioning. Until Chris landed by my side I didn't know there was a difference.

It didn't take me long to realise how much he meant to me. There was nothing specific, I had no epiphany, I simply noted one day that I wanted Chris in my life forever. The momentary sense of lust I experienced upon first meeting him mutated and grew into something else entirely. Feelings
that were hitherto unknown to me coursed through my veins and confused me. From being lucky enough to have Chris as my friend, I found myself wanting him to be my lover. And he, although we never raised the subject, appeared to feel the same way about me. The second year of our partnership was almost spent as though we were courting.

Never was there any sense of urgency. At our own, quaintly innocent speed we felt as though we were moving towards the inevitable. There were times when we could have acted, but we held back. I don't know why. Maybe in our own ways we were so close to each other that we were honestly blinkered and feared the possibility of rejection. Or, and this I think is more likely, we were simply enjoying ourselves too much to rush. It was novel. We were so safe and so comfortable with each other that we fell into the trap of thinking we had all the time in the world.

Then, first in the form of written words on an assignment brief and then in person, Kent entered our lives and turned everything upside down.

~*~

When I was after him for the second time I blamed him for ruining everything. He'd hurt Chris (in ways I couldn't even bear to think about) and it was his fault Chris hated me. He was my own holy -- satanic -- grail. I thought, or, laboured under the delusion, that bringing him to justice would fill a void in my life. I didn't expect for it to give me back Chris, I simply expected his capture to make me feel better.

Not that it did.

Putting Kent behind bars did nothing for me. Listlessly lying around in hospital, grounded by Kent's bullet, I felt lifeless. With my nemesis still out there, I had a task to do, I could forget everything else in my life and I could focus. Capturing him though meant nothing. If anything it made me feel even worse about things.

I had nothing. Nothing to do and nothing to look forward to. I felt nothing. Trapped in hospital, with no reason to push myself forward, I virtually wished that Kent would escape so I had a reason to recover and could go after him again. I'd achieved what I'd set out to achieve but I had nothing to show for it. Chris obviously still hated me and I felt wretched. Part of me, the part prone to wishful thinking, hoped that Chris would come and see me in the hospital. Not that he ever did. And, why would he? He hated me. I just had to become used to that sorry state of affairs and attempt to pull myself together.

It was the shrink that gave me the strength to pull together a vaguely functioning facade. Not that his actual so-called words of wisdom had anything to do with it. It was more the threat of having to spend more quality time with him if I didn't snap out of it and get my arse out of hospital. Viewing this concept with dread, I bit the proverbial bullet and set about formulating a future for myself. My options were limited. I wanted to keep working, but I wanted to be working with Chris. This seeming about as likely as ice-scapades being on the entertainment calendar in Hell, I slowly resigned myself to requesting a transfer and working at some field office in the middle of nowhere. London was my home. I'd lived there for the majority of my life and, although I never admitted it, I was fond of the place. But I couldn't stay there if I knew Chris was around and steadfastly refusing to have anything to do with me.

I'm not, by any stretch of the imagination, a quitter and nor do I make a habit of running from my problems, but I could see no other way of doing it. Chris had been -- was -- such an integral part of my life that to face, possibly daily, what we'd become would have been too much for me to bear. I also thought, by leaving, that I'd be doing Chris a favour. He wouldn't have to see me, and I wouldn't have to see him. It was about as good as it was likely to get. While I wasn't happy with my plan I was more or less clinically satisfied. Cold, almost calculating logic dictated to me what to do.

Having only cursorily patched myself together in order to facilitate the all-important signature on the discharge summary, I wasn't allowed to drive and Backup gave me a lift back to my place. Hating even appearing to be helpless, I'd argued that I wanted to call a cab, but she wasn't having any of it. Yet again I had the accusations that I was 'stubborn' and 'pig headed' levelled at me. It almost felt normal. Not thinking that she could possibly say anything that I wanted to hear, I didn't take much notice of her prattle as she drove. Then, as she pulled up outside my apartment block, she said it.

"Thank God you're finally out and about again Sam. I don't think I could take much more of Chris pestering me in respect to your whereabouts. I tell you, the sooner the pair of you are back on assignment together the better. The rest of us might just be able to relax then."

And then her phone rung and, having to go (Malone, our own personal God had called) she left me standing on the pavement gaping in dull amazement and clutching my overnight bag to my chest as though my life depended on it.

Chris wanted to know where I'd been?

He *cared*?

An ember of hope flared within me. Backup wouldn't have said it if it wasn't the case. In some, miraculous way, it had to be true. Didn't it? Uncertainty gnawed at me and, while I wanted to go immediately over to Chris', I hesitated. I was confident that Backup wasn't toying with me, but
I didn't know how to either react or go about approaching Chris. From the sound of it, he didn't know what I'd been doing or that I'd been shot. This surprised me. I'd made no secret, having shared a few rants on the subject to whoever was unfortunate enough to cross my path in the office, of what I was doing. Malone had even begrudgingly approved it (if for no other reason than he didn't like anyone getting one over CI5). Yet from the sound of what Backup had said, Chris didn't know...

Feeling freshly confused, and having been out of bed for the longest I'd been in a week, I skulked inside and tried to work out what to do. Pill time came round and, no closer to knowing what I should do, I dutifully swallowed them and settled myself on the sofa. No better plans forthcoming,
and feeling tired, I decided that I'd simply arrive on Chris' doorstep in the morning and hope for the best. That way I'd have time to make myself presentable -- on the outside at least -- and wouldn't have the aura of hospital induced misery still lingering over me. While it wasn't exactly a
brilliant plan (I had no idea what I was going to say to him) it was still an oddly hopeful one and I fell asleep feeling, for the first time in a long time, almost good about things.

Content-ish though I was, it still didn't stop me from immediately thinking I was dreaming when I woke a few hours later and thought I saw Chris standing before me. Although it sounds just about as unoriginal as it comes, I honestly thought I was hallucinating. However hopeful I was of possibly sorting everything out, seeing Chris in front of me was simply unbelievable. What's more, when my mind caught up with my eyesight I could actually recognise signs of my partner in the man who seemed to be holding his breath as he peered at me nervously.

He looked like Chris.

And I could hardly believe what had materialised in my living room. The last two times I'd seen him, distraught and wide eyed at Kent's and then full of pained loathing at the hospital, had been lingering in my memory but the Chris before me shattered those thoughts. Still thinner and even paler than usual, his eyes were full of life and he looked as though he'd advanced further than I'd dared hope. He was such a vision that I almost wanted to surreptitiously pinch myself in order to convince myself once and for all that I wasn't dreaming.

I wasn't. He was really there and he'd come around because he had to tell me something.

He had to tell me that he didn't hate me.

He. Didn't. Hate. Me.

Even apart, our lives had been echoing each other's. As Chris hesitantly explained his side of the story to me it became clear that we'd been sharing the same delusion. Chris thought I hated him and I thought he hated me. Which for a while, immediately after he'd been rescued and was still coming to terms with things, he had. But it was only short lived and, as his life returned, he remembered what we used to have and realised that he wanted it back. For the past two weeks he'd been hounding CI5 to tell him where I was so that he could try and soothe things over.

My feelings of disbelief, the arrival of which coincided with Chris appearing before me, grew expedentially and threatened to overwhelm me. Chris was with me, he didn't hate me, he wanted everything to revert to how it had been. It was just amazing. I couldn't have hoped for things to have fallen more neatly into place. Relieved to be together again after far too long apart we accepted each other's versions of events and vowed to put everything we had into getting our lives, friendship and partnership back on track. Having once thought that I'd be lucky if I was ever in the same room as Chris again, I would have been content to leave it at that. Resigned to having lost my chance with Chris, yes, but accepting of it nonetheless.

But no. Chris was quietly adamant that he wanted things *exactly* as they had been and that meant *everything*. The slow burning desire and the unresolved sexual tension, everything. No mere load lifted off my shoulders that night. It was more like I'd shaken off ten tonnes of angst,
self-loathing, misery, worry and worthlessness in one remarkably easy step. It was incredible. In our own, differing ways, we'd saved each other. I may have rescued Chris physically, but he'd saved my mental state. Again I couldn't help but be struck by how seemingly essential we were to each other's state of well-being.

Seeing life in a positive light for the first time in four months, I thought, as Chris sat next to me on the sofa and didn't shy away from my hand on his knee, that things from that point onwards could only get better.

And, not that I'm wanting to sound as though I'm bragging or anything, I was right.

Life became worth living again. Even though work was hardly exciting (one bullet and I got to spend a month in the office playing the role of a glorified clerk) and Chris was either still convalescing or in training, things were good. We spent most of our free time together and there were times that I could almost forget that anything had ever happened. Chris, his determination and strength of character continually astounding me, continued to bound forward and I never once doubted that he wouldn't reach his goal of being fully active again. Our friendship restored and our
partnership just waiting for the green light from Malone, it was just the other that wasn't moving forward.

Not that there was a rush. Having been content with how things had been in the past -- secure in the fact that *one* day something was going to happen -- it wasn't something that I dwelt on. Chris seemed happy enough. He always looked genuinely happy to see me and it goes without saying that something inside me lit up everytime I saw him. I still wanted him as much as I always had. What had happened never lessened my opinion of him and, although we never discussed it, I knew that he wasn't yet comfortable with the issue of sex. Time, now that we had each other again, was of little relevance. I would have waited for Chris for however long it took him to feel ready to broach the subject.

Although I have this feeling that thousands wouldn't believe me, the reasons I got all overcome and made that mock up of Christmas for Chris were absolutely not sexually motivated. In hindsight I can see how it could have been viewed in that way, but it was never meant like that. I never wanted to present Chris with something that he felt compelled to pay me back for. While ideas for random acts of kindness befall me exceptionally infrequently, and never before on that scale, I simply did it because I wanted to do something nice for Chris. Cleaning out a cupboard one day I found his Christmas present, a black linen shirt I'd bought when things had still been rosy, and, out of nowhere, the idea hit me. That's all. Being more on the Grinch side in respect to all things Christmassy, Christmas meant little to me but I remembered that it had always seemed to mean a lot to Chris.

He loved Christmas and it had been taken from him.

Christmas in my mind was little more than something dreamt up by the credit card companies, but I loved Chris and, while I'd never done anything like it before, simply decided to go for it. Planning was easy -- as was falling prey to a never-ending array of doubts -- and by the time I discovered that buying a Christmas tree in July was near on impossible, there was no stopping me. Determination kicking in, I didn't care if I had to drive into a forest and cut down a blasted pine tree for myself. Eventually though I found a tree at a tiny little boutique store and was so happy to see the damn thing that I managed to turn a blind eye to the fact that buying it maxed out my Visa card. Tree purchased, my cousin advantageously going away and presenting me with the keys for the ideal setting, I was ready. All I needed was the final ounce of courage required to actually set a date. Honestly, my nerves were so up in arms in respect to what I was doing that I think planning a wedding would have been easier.

Kent being dragged into the office for further questioning, which no-one saw fit to warn either of us about, and having the misfortune to encounter him in the corridor was all that I needed to throw caution to the winds and put my plan in action. As my knee impacted with his groin, causing immensely gratifying tears to well in his sunken eyes, I knew that I'd do it that night. Chris never said anything about seeing Kent but I could see that he was shaken. How ever much we humans might like to trick ourselves into believing we can emulate ostriches with our heads stuck in the sand, there's something about having this perceived security ripped away from you when you least expect it that, mentally, is like hitting a brick wall. Knowing that Kent was behind bars, and going to remain there for the rest of his futile existence, was, although he never admitted it, a source of comfort to Chris. We weren't pursuing him for what he'd done to him (there was no point, we had enough on him already) and there was no reason Chris should ever have had to see him again. Seeing him, irrespective of the fact that he was completely powerless, wasn't pleasant.

Wanting to make up for our day being tainted, I reluctantly told Chris that I couldn't spend the evening with him and, not wanting to see his disappointed expression, took off. In the space of three hours I squashed almost three decades of Christmas cheer into my life. Decorating the tree
was an experience in itself. Whatever I did to it didn't look right and I took all the decorations off it two times before I was finally satisfied. I then decided that having only one present under it looked pretty lame and did a headless chicken impression through a shopping centre as I hunted for a few suitable gifts to add to it. The whole charade wasn't about presents, I knew that, I was simply being aesthetically retentive. If I was going to go through with it, it was going to be *perfect*.

By the time it came to leave everything and pick up Chris, I was a mass of nerves. Everything from fearing that Chris would think I was mad to the more extreme worry that the house might burn down in my absence niggled at me. Twice on the drive to Chris' I nearly simply pulled the plug on the whole thing. There are people that are constantly going out of their way to surprise others, and then there's me. I couldn't help but feel what I was doing was on par with Malone arriving at the office one morning clad in a pale pink tutu and white bunny slippers. In other words, unbelievably out of character...

Seeing the delight on Chris' face as he opened the door and saw me put my mind slightly at ease. Curiosity aside, he came with me easily and happily fired question as I drove. Having him with me, and obviously pleased to be there, I began to feel as though what I was doing was going be a success.

This particular delusion was allowed to stay with me right up until Chris entered the room and saw the tree. Then, at that exact point, it deserted me and I almost had to steady myself on the doorframe in order to remain standing. Chris looked... God! I don't know... His eyes widened, his mouth gaped open and I honestly thought he was freaking out. I couldn't decide whether he was amazed or simply mortified. He didn't seem capable of speech and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

Wanting to immediately atone for my stupidity, I grabbed Chris' arm and, stuttering apologies, tried to drag him out of the room. This action, thankfully for plans as to how to rectify the situation weren't exactly forthcoming in my mind, stunned Chris into action and he refused to budge. Overwhelmed to begin with, he loved it and had simply been too shocked to speak. My relief was immense. I *hadn't* fucked up, it *had* been worth the effort. Chris was so touched that he had tears in his eyes. While his reaction was a tad extreme, and still alarmed me somewhat, he appeared to be rapt. Accepting this, my nerves finally gave up their bid to control my body and departed, leaving me free to enjoy the evening.

>From that point onwards things progressed smoothly for a while. Chris, for reasons known to himself, was hell bent on wanting to look at family photos and at great personal expense (I was happier *not* knowing that my cousin and her husband had a taste for erotic photography) I found him an old photo album and he took that to the dining table while I finished preparing the meal. Once it was dished up, I joined him and, putting everything else out of our minds, we literally enjoyed our very own Christmas. It may not have been normal, but very little in our lives is. Then, after dessert, things threatened to take a nosedive.

~*~

Everything else done, the time had come for the presents and Chris suddenly came to the conclusion that he had nothing to give me. Not that I'd ever wanted anything from him. Although I accept it sounds a bit Barbara Cartland like, seeing Chris so obviously happy was all that I wanted for my efforts. He couldn't quite see it like that though and it was then that we had another epiphany.

Again we'd been labouring under our own unique sets of delusions. Mine was that I thought Chris knew I was waiting for him, while his was, although he wanted me, he didn't think that I'd want him...

It was hard to believe that, our closeness aside, we could be so blinkered. Not once had I ever thought he'd have those doubts and he, in turn, was astounded to realise that, if that's what it would take, I'd wait until the end of time for him. Confessions over with, all that was left to seal our belief in each other was to hug. And, after having waited so long, this was something that came to us naturally.

Standing in front of the Christmas tree, Chris finally in my arms, it was easy to believe that we were simply meant to be. While our own minds appeared to conspire to make things difficult, we nonetheless always triumphed. If, by sheer chance the Ancient Greeks *were* right with their theory then there was no doubt in my mind that Chris was my other half. However long it took to fully prove this was of no interest. The truth was no longer out there, it was in our minds and in our hearts.

While it had never been about me, I felt as though I'd ended up with the greatest present of all. If I'd thought things had only gotten better from that night Chris had arrived at my apartment then, be it an inane concept or not, from 'Christmas' they got even better still. Both passing all our physical and psyche tests with flying colours, we were placed on full active duty and were back working together. Our friendship still coming first, we now had the added bonus of hugs and getting to sit closer together on the sofa. Sex was never discussed. Our feelings out in the open, there was no need. As much as the general consensus is that the male of the species is
driven by the need to fulfil his sexual desires I was content with how things were. I hadn't been lying when I told Chris that I'd been waiting so long already that more time, backed by the confirmation that my feelings were returned, was nothing. We touched more, which was nice, and slowly progressed to kissing. To an outsider we might have been seen to be moving at the speed of a crippled snail on Valium, but to us everything was a step forward. Knowing what he'd been through, I wouldn't have hurried Chris for anything.

Ironically, in the end it was again Kent who set things in motion. For the bane of our existence, he sure had a habit of popping up and changing our course. Although, the last time *was* the last time. If he manages it again then somebody had better call Mulder... because he will have achieved it from beyond the grave.

Sadly, while I had nothing to do with it (bugger protocol, bugger closure, I could have simply done it out of the need for vindictive retribution) Kent's miserable existence came to a violent end whilst in prison. It only took two inmates and a broom handle to achieve what had escaped not only me but also CI5 in general.

Shame.

Malone, having no one else around who was available, gave me the unpleasant task of identifying the body. Not having any say in the matter ("You have your instructions."), I reluctantly left Chris, who was trying hard not to show his shock, and skulked off to the prison mortuary. Chris, according to Malone, was more than welcome to come with me but, not exactly surprising, he declined the excursion. I didn't know how Chris felt in relation to Kent's death but I felt nothing. It didn't matter whether he was alive or dead, his shadow would always hang over our lives. It was still somewhat of a shock though in that he was actually gone. From looming over us larger than life, he'd been murdered by two prisoners over an argument in respect to phone privileges.

His, insignificant in death, body dutifully identified -- "Yeah. It's John Kent. Show me where to sign and I'm outta here." -- I detoured via my place for a shower (irrationally I felt unclean) before going over to Chris'. Night having fallen by this stage, I found Chris' apartment in complete darkness and decided to see whether he'd left me a note before calling his mobile and finding where he was.

Walking through the door though, it immediately became obvious that, somewhere at least, Chris was inside. To my distinct amazement the entire apartment was alive with the flickering light of candles. In all shapes and sizes, they were everywhere. Lining the stairs like a landing strip, placed haphazardly around the living room, not a single surface was free from candles. No other lights were on and the effect was ethereally beautiful. I was still trying to come to terms with all the candles when, effortlessly eclipsing their beauty, I saw him.

Standing in front of the windows was Chris. In a flash of searing clarity I suddenly knew why authors and the like waxed lyrical over the erotic presence of vampires. Barefoot and clad in baggy black drawstring trousers and a flowing black shirt, Chris was truly a vision. His pale skin glowing in the golden light of the candle flames, the picture was further complemented by the slight tinge of red, having come from the glass of wine he was drinking, on his lips. In a completely innocent way, he honestly looked vampiric. My mouth gaped upon like his had upon seeing the Christmas tree and I couldn't move.

Putting down his wine glass, Chris glided towards me. "Sorry about the cliché," he whispered, spreading his arms wide and indicating the candles, "but, not having done it for so long, part of me recalls they're a classic tool in the art of seduction."

At that point, I think I grunted. Chris didn't care. In his own version of what I'd done in July, he had everything planned out and was simply going to bring me around to his way of thinking. Which, when he explained himself, was remarkably easy to do.

"Kent's death, while he was supposedly protected and safe, reminded me how precious life is. We could go at any time. There's no point in cowering under old fears and tonight, once and for all, I want to finalise the past. Which is where I need you to help me..."

Having it put like that, although it was just about the last thing I'd expected, I was only all too happy to agree. Taking full control of what he was doing, Chris wanted to take the final step that would fully verify our status of lovers and it would have taken a stronger man than me to deny him. His beauty was incandescent and the quiet confidence in his eyes gave me all the assurance I needed to know that he'd thought everything out.

Perhaps strangely, I'd never actually thought about reaching this point in any detail. It seemed wrong to me somehow. Fantasising about Chris before he'd fallen into Kent's clutches was one, perfectly acceptable thing, but, knowing what he'd been through, I hadn't done it since. Not that I didn't still find him sexy, because I did, it was more that I simply didn't think it was right. On the odd times I had thought about the final step I was more nervous than aroused. I feared that it might be a disaster, that Chris would only be making himself go through with it because he still thought I wouldn't wait, that I might hurt him...

Ultimately though, my fears were completely ungrounded. I was only there for the ride. Basically all I had to do was lie there and moan helplessly. Chris was in charge one hundred percent and he *literally* seduced me. I was lucky if I could manage to raise the body co-ordination required to return his kisses or stroke his smooth skin as more and more of it became
uncovered for my appreciative gaze to sweep over. He was beautiful, he was mine and, making up for lost time, he was thoroughly acquainting himself with my body.

My mind almost shut down in its entirety when, still wearing the black shirt, unbuttoned now and with his chest glistening under a fine sheen of sweat, Chris lowered himself onto my cock. Without me having had to do anything, we were complete. It was incredible. Chris never once stopped gazing at me and, although I was somehow, through the waves of exquisite pleasure washing over me, managing to watch him closely, he never showed any signs of nerves or worry.

Only after I'd experienced one of the most blissfully intense orgasms of my life did I realise what it was that Chris had done. By taking charge, he'd been able to *give* on his own volition as opposed to being made to or having control of his own body taken from him. He never said anything in relation to this, but I felt that I was right. Especially as the second time we made love was a more equal affair. I was impressed though. With both his careful forethought *and* his technique.

Kent was dead and, almost three years to the day since we'd met, we were where we'd perhaps always been going to end up; lying entwined in each other's arms and with no need for words. The circle was now complete.

It would be blasé of me to declare blithely that from then onwards everything was simply perfect. It was good, extremely good in fact, but every now and again small things happened that reminded us that we could never, in our entirety, be exactly the same people we'd been before Kent. Never anything major, they nevertheless occurred. They only had to happen once for us to learn the hard way. I know now not to teasingly grab both of Chris' wrists and push him down onto the bed because, although he doesn't say anything, his eyes say it all - 'Please don't restrain me, I have to feel free'. The one time I did it I immediately felt as though a bullet
from my gun had gone wide and I'd hit a small child instead of my target. Chris recovered the second I let him go, but I didn't. I felt awful and was all prepared to stammer my heartfelt apologies when Chris silenced me by settling his lips on mine. Forgiveness in the form of a kiss, I was absolved. Yet another lesson was learnt.

We'll see it through though, there's no doubt in either of our minds in respect to this fact. We've made it so far that nothing can stop us. I honestly believe this. And, eventually, after my subconscious has gone out of its way to remind me of everything, this is the feeling I end up with. These nights, after the year has been replayed in my head, I have my faith restored. Pathetically, it's really a non-CI5 demanded version of the dreaded 'year in review'. I know this and it's another reason I bulk at even having to complete my token gesture part of it.

When it all boils down to it, I've achieved very little. Personally, I've achieved a hell of a lot, yeah, but that has nothing to do with CI5. Work wise, there's nothing to write home about. Even if I did feel as though I'd achieved something it would look insignificant when compared to all that Chris has achieved. At the beginning of the year he wasn't even himself and he didn't know who he was or what he was supposed to be. Now though, only slightly modified, he's Chris again. Which is what I call an achievement. A wonderful one.

As for me, I'm happy with my lot. I just lack the inclination to put it on disk. Sooner or later I hope to be hit by creative inspiration and I'll scribble some imaginary bullshit that all being well will keep Malone off my back. Until then, stuff him; I have better things to do with my time.
Knowing now how precious time really is, Malone can wait.

The sound of the front door opening appears to immediately vindicate my decision to quit staring aimlessly at the computer screen for the morning and, flicking the switch to kill it, I get up and wander out to the meet Chris. Dropping his keys to my apartment on the table, he smiles brightly. "Watcha been doin'?" he queries cheerfully, walking towards me.

"Homework," I mutter unenthusiastically, meeting him halfway and pulling him in for a hug. Chris, with a small sigh of contentment, relaxes into my arms and places his own around my back. "And?" he asks, looking up at me, "What is your biggest achievement of the year?"

Put on the spot, and not wanting to bring the moment down by sounding too soppy, I fall back on tried and true banter. "Why, beating you at 'Need For Speed', of course," I declare, smirking.

Not wanting to draw back from the embrace, and subsequently not being able to elbow me in the ribs, Chris has to settle for stomping lightly on my foot in order to indicate his disbelief. "Ha! I had a sprained wrist at the time," he protests, smiling, "Which, in my mind, makes it a hollow victory!"

"Sore loser," I reply, leaning forward and kissing him gently on the lips. His lips part immediately and I'm met by the distinctly unique flavour of cappuccino. Laughing, I pull back and shake my head. "You're incredible, you really are!" I laugh. "There I was, thinking you were out jogging and in reality you were sitting in a café somewhere drinking coffee!"

Chris pouts and his eyes twinkle with good humour. "I had every intention of going jogging," he states blithely.

"You take money with you when you go jogging?" I query, still snickering, "Or have you found a café that takes credit?"

"I had money with me," Chris replies, blinking and feigning innocence. "Wouldn't want to be picked up for vagrancy now, would I?"

"I hate to break it to you Chris but not a lot of vagrants, from my experience anyway, jog the streets wearing the latest Hugo Boss work-out gear and Nike's that won't even be available in Britain for two more months!" I mutter facetiously, tightening my arms around Chris and pulling
him even closer.

Smirking, Chris doesn't respond and, shifting slightly, his hand slides up my back and starts to prod around the base of my neck. Amused, I query, "And you are doing *what* exactly?"

"Looking for that damn logic switch of yours so I can turn it off," Chris mutters with a laugh, his hand now caressing my neck. "If you really must know, I jogged for fifteen minutes, got bored, had a cappuccino or three, read the paper and then walked home," he adds, "Subsequently I'm now looking for another way to exercise as jogging bores me."

"Got any ideas?" I ask quietly, liking where I think this may be leading.

"Maybe," Chris murmurs, his smirk giving way to a soft smile. "Wanna make out?"

"You offerin'?" I reply, affecting Chris' light hearted way of speaking.

"Mmm... I'm offerin'..." Pausing, Chris cocks his head to one side and peers at me closely. "You acceptin'?"

I grin. "Not havin' nothin' more pressing to do, yeah, I'm acceptin'."

Our easy laughter is only stopped when our lips instinctively meet. What we have is exquisite. It doesn't need dissecting or reviewing. We've lived it and we're living it.

There's no time to review the past when the present is like this and the future beckons.

~end~