The sound of the zipper drawn over rough teeth set my own teeth on edge and I shuddered. 'Grating' was the least offensive thing I could think of to describe it. I wasn't going to beg; I'd sworn that to myself this morning, when he broke the news to me. The sight of him shouldering his bag broke that resolve instantly. I could feel tears prickling my eyes, even though I wasn't going to cry. I ~wasn't~, dammit. I was a goddamned decorated Vietnam Vet, for Chrissakes. We didn't cry just because our boyfriend of six years was leaving.

Which meant that the moisture I felt on my cheek had to be the ceiling leaking, or sweat drops, or...anything. Anything but tears. I took one step forward, reached my hand out toward him. Kyle. Dark blue eyes like the part of the ocean just where it drops off, going from light blue to dark; dark enough to seem like a night-time sky before the stars come out. That bit of blue that fades to black at the edge of the horizon when the sun's a dream that the day doesn't remember any longer. Hair as black as that night, and soft as down on my fingers. Tall, broad-shouldered, long legs. Plain-faced, but you never noticed when he smiled. Kyle. Please don't do this--

"Don't go. Please. I'll change, I'll stop drinking--" The catch in my voice was beyond embarrassing, but I didn't care. I'd beg, I'd swear to anything, if only he wouldn't walk out that fucking door. What would I do when he was gone?

"You won't, Darby. You say it; you've said it before, and it never happens." Kyle stood in the doorway looking at me, his dark eyes sad, his face solemn. It looked out of place on him; unlike me, Kyle wasn't moody or unhappy. He always smiled, always joked. Until this morning. //I'm leaving, Darby. I can't stay any more...//

"I'll really try this time. ~Please~, Kyle. I love you--"

"I love you too, Darb, but I can't stay, man. I can't. I gotta get out." He backed off from my hand, then stopped and stepped forward again, a frown spreading across his face. "You're...self-destructing, man. And I love you too much to stay and watch it happen."

I blinked at him, certain I was hearing wrong. "You love me, so you're leaving me? What kind of bullshit is that? If you loved me, you'd stay."

"I have stayed. Over and over again, Darby. I've stayed when I should have left. I've asked you to get help, I've ~begged~ you to get help. I've--"

"The VA hospital is a joke, Kyle. You know that. Their help isn't worth shit."

"You haven't tried anything else."

I couldn't stand to look at those sad, pleading eyes any longer and whirled around, throwing myself off-balance and nearly into the dresser. I righted myself, then moved away, hating the pity I knew was in Kyle's eyes now. The prosthesis was pretty good, and I'd learned to walk well enough with it, but sudden movements like that one could send me sprawling without notice. And he'd never gotten used to it. Never.

"Did you ever stop to think maybe I have a reason to drink?" The best defense is a good offense. Or was that reversed? I couldn't make the actual quote come to mind.

"You're not going to start the 'poor me' routine now, are you? C'mon, Darby. After a few years, self-pity starts to get pretty over-indulgent."

I met his eyes in the mirror. "You sayin' I don't have a right to be angry?"

"You know I'm not. But man--" He hesitated, then plunged in. Gotta admire Kyle for his guts, if nothing else. Of course, what did he have to lose? He was walking out on me. "You're pushing the envelope here, Darb. There's lots of guys who lost a leg, or an arm, or worse over there. You're doing pretty damn good, all things considered."

"For a gimp, you mean."

"For anyone, dammit!" The bag swung off his shoulder and Kyle muttered again and shoved it back up. "Quit drinking like you're the only one with problems. Quit ~acting~ like you're the only one with problems. Think about someone else for a change."

"Like you?" I turned and sneered at him. "Poor ol' Kyle, who has a gimpy boyfriend, right?" God, I hated saying this. I hated feeling this way. I hated how he was making me feel. And I wanted a drink. I wanted to drink until I couldn't feel anything any more. Not pity, not pain, not anger, not loneliness. Nothing.

"You never got it, did you?" He shook his head, making black curls sway. "It wasn't the leg, Darby...it was ~you~. You're the one who got so bitter, so angry, so--hateful. You drink, then you yell at me like it's my fucking fault you lost your leg...I can't deal with it any more. I'm not going to deal with it any more."

"If you--"

"Don't." His eyes narrowed in warning, his lips thinned down to a narrow, straight line. "Don't say it. I love you. You think this doesn't hurt me, leaving like this? Man, you don't know shit if you think I'm not dyin' inside. But I can't stay. I won't stay here...not even for you." His voice was so soft, so calm...if I closed my eyes and listened to the voice and not the words, I could almost here him crooning to me how much he loved me, how we were going to stay together forever. Almost.

"Please..." I wiped my cheek, then snuffled. I hadn't cried since I was ten and my mother told me dad was going away. Not when Grampa Joe, the man who raised me after daddy left, died. Not when shrapnel tore my leg up; not when the field medics had to amputate or risk losing me entirely; not when they told me I'd never walk again without aid of a prosthesis or crutches.

I wouldn't cry now. Dammit.

Kyle leaned in close to me and brushed his mouth over mine. I could taste tears, knew instinctively they were his, not mine. Shuddered when his tongue touched my lips, when his lips touched my cheek. "G'bye, Darby."

The warmth receded when he moved away. The world receded with each quiet footstep down the hall. When the door clicked open, I lost track of coherent thought. My legs wouldn't hold me any longer and I slipped down to the floor, salt-taste strong in my mouth, damp turning to wet on my face.

I wouldn't cry, dammit.

I wouldn't.

Kyle, please...

I heard the soft snick of the door as it closed behind him, and my world shattered. "GODDAMN YOU, YOU COCKSUCKING, MOTHERFUCKING SONOFABITCH!"

There was a bottle of whiskey on my dresser. I reached up, awkwardly, and pulled it toward me. It tipped onto my lap with a soft thud and the rush of strong, ninety-proof scent.

Within minutes the world was soft, warm and fuzzy. I intended it was going to stay that way for a long, long time.

"Darby? Hey, Roberts--you with me, here?"

That voice didn't belong in my world. Nothing belonged, except the fuzziness, which had receded, and I wanted that back. Badly.

Not to say the world was exactly clear, because it wasn't. But I could feel again, under the numbness, and feeling was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.

"Earth to Darby." A heavy hand joined the voice, shaking my shoulder roughly. I groaned and opened my eyes, then squeezed them shut again quickly when the bright light roared through my head with all the subtlety of an AmTrack train down the tracks.

"C'mon, you did it once, you can do it again." The hand shook me again, and I raised my own weakly to stop the jarring motion that wanted to take the top of my head off.

A hangover. I must've really tied one on. I hadn't had a hangover - not like this, at any rate - in a long time.

I squinted and opened my eyes again, blinking at the tearing that filled them. "Close the goddamn shade, wouldja?"

"You sure you're with me now?" Damn, I couldn't place the voice. It kept alluding me, hovering just beyond recognition. I shifted and growled when the world tilted.

"I'm sure. Close the fucking shade."

Bright light dimmed down enough to make vision semi-comfortable again, I squinted, then opened my eyes. Stan Nichols. No wonder I couldn't place him. I hadn't seen him in months. At least.

"Stan?" My throat felt tight, sore; the words were hard to force out. I tilted my head back, frowning in confusion when he flashed me a smile, then leaned forward, hand outstretched.

"The one and only, Darby. C'mon, man--you're pretty ripe. Let's get ya into the shower."

I shifted forward to take his hand, wrinkling my nose when a multitude of odors assailed me. Urine. Alcohol. Sweat. My pants were damp and wrinkled and my sweatshirt had defnitely seen better days. I looked up at Stan, then back down, my face hot with shame. "Sorry--"

"Not like I've never seen it before. C'mon--" He grunted once when he got himself under me, then pushed, helping me to my feet. My legs felt unsteady as hell and my stomach protested violently that it had been quite happy just sitting still. I gripped the dresser, willing it to pass. Bad enough I'd obviously pissed myself; I didn't need to puke now, too. "Where's Kyle? I can't believe he'd let you stay like this."

From somewhere far away I heard my voice say, "he left." Then the world retreated again as my stomach heaved, mixing the heavy, bitter scent of bile in with the rest.

TBC, maybe, someday...