"Mayson, what the fuck are you doing?" Jonathan stood frozen, eyes wide, jaw dropped, as he took in the scene before him. He rushed inside the bathroom and fell to his knees beside the bathtub. The razor was still in his hand and Jonathan took it, throwing it behind him. He vaguely heard it clank into the sink behind him. Mamma Scully wasn't home. She worked from home mostly, but twice a month she attended business meetings at various luncheons around town.

"God damn it, Mayson," Jonathan said as he checked the gashes on his wrists. They weren't too deep. He knew what that looked like all too personally. Grabbing two towels from the linen closet, Jonathan picked up Mayson, naked from the bathtub, and carried him to his room. Mayson watched him with sad, and almost empty eyes as he tied the towels around his wrists.

Mayson made no sounds. No protests. He did not try and interrupt Jonathan's process. When he was satisfied that the bleeding was slowing, took another towel from the pile, and began drying him off. He was gentle in his movements, not wanting to jar his wrists. He was angry. Seething. He was relieved that he'd come home early. He was scared. Methodically Jonathan finished drying him off, then slipped a pair of boxers and sweatpants over his lower half. Then drew up a warm blanket over him, leaving only his arms exposed. Still running on autopilot, he whipped out his phone and called Mamma Scully.

"Mamma," Jonathan said when she answered. "It's Mayson. He...Mamma, come home." At the word home, his voice broke. He listened as she told him to stay calm for Mayson and that she would be there in twenty minutes. He hung up the phone, suddenly feeling exhausted. He looked over at Mayson who was still watching him. They locked eyes for a moment and Jonathan stretched out next to him, cautious of his wrist.

"Mayson, why would you do this?"

Mayson didn't respond, but tears began slowly trailing from the corners of his eyes. They begged forgiveness. There were many occurrences over the past two years that caused Mayson to stop speaking for any amount of time. And during those times the two learned very well how to communicate without words. In looks and facial expressions and vibes, they conveyed all that words would have and more.

"I'm not mad at you. I'm scared. Maybe mad at myself." He gave a sad, half-grin, and ran his fingers through Mayson's damp hair. "But I'm not mad at you, little duck."

Mayson almost smiled at the name and closed his eyes when Jonathan deleted the tears from his face.

"Oh, Mayson...why did you do this to yourself?" Jonathan tried hard to keep the tears at bay as his mind replayed what he walked in on.

"Jonathan? Mayson?" Mamma Scully was home.

"Up here, Mamma Scully. In Mayson's room." Jonathan sat up and took a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Jonathan, what's going-Mayson!" She ran into the room at the sight of his wrists tied and the blood staining the towels. "Jonathan, what happened?"

She looked as scared as he felt. "I found him in the bathtub. He didn't cut deep enough, and he hadn't lost that much blood. He must have...I came home early..." He couldn't say more. The words wouldn't form in his brain to signal his mouth to speak them.

Mamma Scully nodded in understanding and looked at Mayson's wrists. Her father had been a doctor and she learned from a young age all about his work.

"Alright, Mayson, I need to look at your wrists, okay? Jonathan, go into my bathroom. Under the sink is the big first-aid kit. Go get it, please." As she spoke she never took her eyes off Mayson. Jonathan nodded and left the room. He came back a moment later and set the kit on the bed. Mamma Scully was in the process of unwrapping Mayson's left wrist. The right was still tied.

While Jonathan watched she cleaned one wrist, wrapped it, and repeat the process with the other one, he tried to remain calm. It would do him no good to lose himself. It wouldn't do any good for anyone.

"Has he spoken?" she asked when she'd finished.

"No. He hasn't said anything,"

She looked at him a moment before taking him at his word. "He can't be left alone for a while."

"I know. I'll stay with him."

Jonathan watched Mayson sleep. He was on his back, Mayson on his stomach, curled snugly into Jonathan's side, his right arm thrown over his stomach, as his leg was thrown over and curled around Jonathan's leg. Jonathan's left hand lightly gripped Mayson's wrist, his thumb running up and down that thin scar. He thought about Mayson's words a few nights before. He couldn't imagine if he lost him. He needed Mayson in his life. He felt his throat constrict at the thought.

Suddenly his phone went off. A text message. He frowned as a bad feeling crept into his gut. He reached out, careful not to wake Mayson, and grabbed his phone off the table.

"Something's come up. Call me."

It was Mike Callahan. The detective who was helping him with the Lucius problem.

"Shit," Jonathan said under his breath. He looked over at Mayson, kissed his hairline, and slipped out from under him. Getting dressed in a warm sweater, jeans, and jacket, he stepped outside, his shoes unlaced.

"Mike, what's going on?" he said forgoing the formality of greetings and small talk.

"Jonathan, I'm afraid I have some...disturbing news..."

Jonathan listened with growing anxiety about what Detective Callahan had to say.

"How am I going to tell Mayson all this? How the fuck did this happen?"

"I don't know..."

At the end of the conversation, Jonathan hung up the phone and went back inside. He made his way into the kitchen and began a pot of exceedingly strong coffee. He stared into the pot for a moment before his restlessness got the better of him.

Breakfast. He'd make breakfast. Then he would wake Mayson. Mayson, however, woke before the meal was fully complete and sat down at the bar separating the kitchen.

"Good morning, love. Sleep well?"

Mayson stared at him, gauging him. Something was up that he wasn't sharing.

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think-" he began.

"Jonathan...I know you better than you give me credit for. Please...what is it?"

"Eat first."

"Jonathan."

"Mayson, please. Eat first."

Mayson wasn't going to oblige him, but his tone pleaded, soft and hoarse. He wouldn't look at him. Jonathan set the food on the plate and placed it in front of him.

Mayson began eating in heavy silence. Jonathan sat next to him staring at his folded hands. Normally Mayson would have eaten slow and all of it, as it was delicious. But the pancakes with hashbrowns and eggs he swallowed he barely tasted and ate only enough to satisfy Jonathan to talk.

Mayson dropped the fork. "What's going on, Jonathan?  What...what's happened? It's Lucius, isn't it?"

Jonathan looked up, his eyes mournful. "He's...he's out." He choked on the words as he spoke them.

"H-h-he's out? Wh-wh-wh-what do you mean he's out? H-how is he out?"

Mayson stood and began to frantically look around as if Lucius Black was watching him from the water's depths.

"Mayson, he's not out there. Mayson, look at me. Hey." He turned Mayson's face toward his. "I won't let him hurt you. I won't leave him alive next time, duck." Jonathan drew him into his chest and wrapped his arms around him.

"He's going to find me, Jonny. When he finds me, he's gonna kill me."

"I will not let him hurt you, Mayson." Jonathan tightened his grip slightly, almost in reassurance of Mayson's own solidity.

"How did he get out?" Mayson rested his forehead against Jonathan's shoulder.

Jonathan sighed. "A technicality. They were holding a preliminary hearing. His lawyer pushed for it. And the judge had returned from a three drink lunch." Jonathan couldn't keep the anger from his voice. He hid the fear well, however.

"I just want this to end, Jonny." Mayson shook his head and laughed humorlessly. "I'm so stupid, Jonathan."

Jonathan frowned. "You're not stupid, Mayson."

"No?" Mayson lifted his head up, eyes holding a mixture of emotions and tears he won't let fall. "How do you figure? If I would have just fucking listened to you, to begin with, none of this would have happened. This wouldn't be happening."

"Duck, you can't blame yourself for what he's done to you. He tricked you. You're not the first one he's done this to, Mayson. Someone like that has been doing these things to people for a long time. He knew exactly what to look for and exactly what to do. It's not your fault," Jonathan replied in earnest.

Mayson smiled lightly. "You'd never throw it back at me, would you, Jonny?"

"Throw what back at you, duck?"

"'I told you so'."

"That's not what you need from me, little duck."

"Take me to bed, Jonathan. Can you hold me? Please?"

Jonathan could see he was trying not to panic. That he was trying to be strong. He nodded and led him into the bedroom.

They'd been lying there for hours, silent. Jonathan held him, fingers gliding through his hair, up and down his arm, comforting.

"I'm scared, Jonny." His voice was an octave below a whisper.

"I know, my love."

"I am so tired of being scared, Jonny."

"I know."

"When it's all over...take me somewhere far away."

"Yeah? Like where little duck?" Jonathan's fingers still traveled lazy patterns against Mayson's skin as he spoke, and he kissed his forehead with a small smile.

Mayson shrugged. "I don't know. Could be anywhere. I've never been anywhere, really. Just...somewhere far away. For a long time."

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go, duck."

Mayson leaned up and kissed Jonathan, covering his body with his own. His hands frantically roamed Jonathan's body, hips rolling his cock along Jonathan's. They both moaned as they moved, Jonathan, clutching Mayson's backside, thrusting his own hips upward. Jonathan flipped Mayson onto his back, kissing and biting his way down Mayson's neck.

Still mindful to be easy, Jonathan removed Mayson of his pants, bringing his mouth down around him, his tongue swiveling over the swollen head. Mayson arched his back at the pleasure, the pressure Jonathan's mouth was bringing him.

Once he was hard Jonathan reclaimed Mayson's lips, Jonathan placed himself at Mayson's entrance and slowly began to enter.

"Jonathan..."

So wrapped up in the feeling of what he was doing, he did not hear the tone change in Mayson's voice. He kept slowly entering.

"Jonathan, s-stop. Please, stop."

Immediately Jonathan removed himself and Mayson, just as instantly, curled up into a shivering little ball.

"Mayson?" He reached out but stopped short. "Shit. Mayson...?"

Mayson didn't move. Didn't react. He had his eyes squeezed shut and he was quietly crying. Jonathan laid out next to him, careful not to touch him too soon.

"Mayson?" Lightly Jonathan reached out and touched Mayson's shoulder.

Too early. The touch backfired and Jonathan watched as Mayson flung himself off the bed, screaming as he scooted backward until his back was to the wall. He screamed and covered his head, thrashing around as if fighting off an invisible force only he could see.

"Mayson," Jonathan called unsuccessfully. "Shit, goddamn it, mother fucker. Why are you stupid, Jonathan?" He sighed and slowly got off the bed, making his way to his fallen love. With a deep breath, Jonathan prepared himself and picked Mayson up. Mayson began struggling, kicking and fighting and screaming.

"Mayson, stop!" Flailing in a desperate attempt at escape, Jonathan almost dropped Mayson roughly to the floor.

Staggeringly Jonathan made it to the bed and sat down, holding Mayson as he continued to struggle.

"Mayson!" Jonathan yelled catching Mayson's face within his hands and forcing him to look him in the eye. Mayson stopped fighting, simply going limp as a rag doll. His eyes were still far too unfocused. Jonathan didn't know where he was, but it wasn't there with him in that moment.

"Come on, little duck, look at me. See me, duck, see me." Jonathan wiped the hair from Mayson's face, his heart constricting at Mayson's flinch and quiet wail from the movement of Jonathan's hand.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, baby. Come on, sweet love, come back to me. Come on, baby, come back to me." Jonathan pet Mayson, calming, talking in hushed tones until his eyes began to clear and focus on the now.

"That's it, sweet love, come back to me. You're alright, you're okay now."

"Jonny?" He sounded so small. So vulnerable. Terrified of lurking monsters in the shadows.

"Yeah, little duck. It's only me. You're safe, love."

Mayson closed his eyes and looked as if he were about to argue, but simply nodded in its stead.

They crawled up to the head of the bed and crawled under the covers. Jonathan took Mayson into his arms and held him.

The moments before the flashback played through his mind and he berated himself. How could he be so stupid? So reckless? He felt his chest clench and breath catch and his eyes water upon reflex.

Mayson couldn't sleep. Images of Lucius finding him tormented his every thought and didn't want to close his eyes for fear of what might lie beyond consciousness. He felt the shift in Jonathan but couldn't summon the energy to let him know he was awake. He knew that if Jonathan knew he was awake he wouldn't allow himself to feel.

Mayson wasn't mad at him. How could he be? He wanted it. Wanted him. But when he pushed in things began to change. Jonathan changed; shifted into a line of faces of men he didn't ever want to see again, ending with Lucius. Lucius' voice echoed from Jonathan's mouth. Jonathan's gentle movements turned hard and cold, rough and painful.

When he came to it was Jonathan he saw, worried and scared. For him.

When Mayson felt Jonathan break, and his chest pitching with silent blame, he shimmied upwards a bit further, entangling their arms and legs together, and held him as the guilt finally got the better of him.

Over the next several days Mayson watched Jonathan fall into a deep depression. It wasn't like the last time it happened. While he was more cautious about where he touched him, Jonathan didn't avoid touching him. In fact, it seemed to Mayson, that the clingy side came back.

While he was attentive, making sure he got his meds, he ate enough, etc, and at night they curled up on the couch, there was a darkness that was created within him in consequence to that night.

Mayson didn't know how to approach him about it. How to ask him to talk to him about it. If he were honest with himself, he was scared to talk about it. The flashback had been intense, and if he were honest with himself further, it threw him for a loop. Once Lucius' face came into view, it didn't feel so much as a flashback but a premonition of what was to come.

Jonathan had inquired more than once what had happened, but Mayson remained silent. Finally, Jonathan stopped asking, not wanting to further cause him stress.

What Mayson didn't understand, and what Jonathan wouldn't tell him, was that the guilt was great that ate at him, and every time Mayson skirted around the subject, it felt like a personal blow.

Learning from the last time, Jonathan didn't not make physical contact with Mayson. He still hugged him, and kissed him, and loved on him like he always did. In simple affection, he had no hesitation. However, he was reluctant to make any sexual advances.

Over the last few days, Jonathan had been quiet, withdrawn. His smile was seldom, laughter, even more a rarity. Mayson could see the dark clouds settling over him.

They were eating dinner side by side on the couch. They each laughed or warily smiled, at the funny parts of the show. Mayson watched Jonathan from the corner of his eye, before setting his plate down and, turning off the TV, faced his lover. Gently Mayson took the plate from Jonathan's hands that he wasn't eating from and set it next to his.

"Jonny," Mayson said as he scooted himself into Jonathan's lap, encircling his arms around his neck. "What's going on? Hm?" Softly he kissed him. "You've had this look like you're about to cry for days now. Talk to me."

Jonathan rested his head against Mayson's chest, pulling the smaller man closer into his hold. "Mayson?"

"What?"

"Hold me..."