Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to have sex in the front seat of an orange Volvo?...Okay, so I
                    guess the colour doesn't really make any difference, but you get my point. You have sex in the front seat of
                    a Volvo, you're looking at a week of severe back pain and lingering aches in parts of your body you don't
                    normally notice are even there. It doesn't do the upholstery any favours, either.

                    I knew all this in advance, so why did I let myself in for it? Not to mention breaking the "no sex" rule in a
                    semi-public place where any cop on the beat or passing Corps agent could see us?

                    One word: Chandler. Two words: Chandler *Smythe*. 23 words: drunk and horny Chandler Smythe clinging
                    to me and crying on my shoulder the night he held a dying woman in his arms.

                    Let me back up a little. See, we were supposed to rescue Leona, and we kind of did. That is, we got her out
                    before the morlocks got a chance to get what they wanted from her. We didn't get her out alive, though, and
                    it was Chandler who was in the back seat with her, holding on to her as she was fighting for her life. I was just
                    driving. I had other things to worry about. But Chandler...

                    I'm telling you, the Corps should never have resurrected Chandler. I don't mean he's not good, 'cos he's at
                    least as good as I am, and I don't care what Decker says: we're not useless cannon fodder no matter how he
                    and Ford treat us. But Chandler is way too sensitive. It gets to him, all the blood, all the danger, all the shit
                    we have to deal with, and *do*, on a regular basis. Maybe it's because of Ben, maybe thinking about him
                    keeps Chandler connected to the past somehow, I don't know. I do know that I've seen him come close to
                    cracking up a lot more times than a regular newbie would. A lot more times than I did.

                    I should have known something was going on inside his head during the ride home. I should have figured it
                    out. I mean, he was all quiet and broody and...*resigned*. Like he'd hit bottom or something, you know? And I
                    didn't notice, not really, or at least not until afterwards, and I only knew *some*thing was wrong, I couldn't
                    figure out what.

                    It wasn't until my cellphone rang in the middle of a Dr Pepper commercial that the pieces really came
                    together. I knew before I even answered it that it would be Chandler. Not Decker or Ford or Esmeralda
                    or...well, I admit there aren't that many names in my little black book.

                    I answered at the first ring. I never answer at the first ring. "McNeil."

                    "Henry. Henry, my buddy, my friend... You know, you, you're a really great guy, you know that?"

                    It was Chandler all right, and he was in Stage Three of extreme shitfacedness: the urge to tell everyone you
                    meet how incredible they are and how much you love them. And then puke all over their shoes. For a
                    moment I was glad Chandler was at the other end of a phone line. I was wearing *nice* shoes.

                    "You sound a little out of it, Chan. You at home?"

                    "No, no, I'm at some bar somewhere...Hey, Henry, you ever wonder what it's like to die? I mean, for real?"

                    "No, not really. Where's the bar, Chan?"

                    "'Cos I was thinking about Leona and how she looked when she was going. You hear stories, you know,
                    about seeing a bright light and going down a tunnel and crap like that, but I don't think...I don't...Do you
                    remember dying the first time?"

                    "Not really. Chandler, where's the bar?"

                    "I don't know. Westwood? Anyway...where was I..."

                    "That's what I'm asking, Chandler, where are you?"

                    "I don't know, man, I don't know. I mean, where are any of us? Where are we going? Why do we do what we
                    do? Why not just give the fuck up?" His voice was getting thick now, and I could hear tears coming. Damn.
                    That was all I needed.

                    "You know why not, Chandler. We're the good guys. We can't give up."

                    "We're the fucking good guys? So why do we screw up so much, huh? You know, in the movies, the good
                    guys always win..."

                    "Life ain't like the movies, Chandler. You know that."

                    "I know, I know, I just...why does it have to be so goddamn hard?"

                    I didn't have an answer to that one.

                    I could hear Chandler sniffling on the other end, making the kind of choking sound you make when you're
                    trying really hard not to cry. "Listen, Chandler, buddy," I said, "I'm going to pick you up. You just tell me
                    where you are and I'll be there, and I'll drive you home, okay?"

                    "Okay," he said in a tiny voice, resigned again, sad. I wanted to hug him, just to prove the world isn't all blood
                    and guts and morlocks.

                    "So where are you, Chan?"

                    "Uh...Madison's. Broxton."

                    "All right. I'm there. Don't drink any more."

                    I hung up. I didn't really expect him to stay dry till I got there. It was just something to say. But when I did get
                    there, he looked completely miserable and relatively sober. Still not sober enough to drive, but sober enough
                    that I wasn't worried for my shoes.

                    "Hey, Chandler, you ready?"

                    He looked up from the bar and stared at me with this... *lost* expression on his face. He looked all crumpled
                    up, like he'd slept in his clothes, and sort of small and vulnerable. He's a head shorter than me anyway, but
                    the way he was curled in on himself made him look even smaller. It was as if he was trying to make himself
                    invisible.

                    I grabbed his shoulder and shook him a little. "We're going to get you home, okay, Chan?"

                    "Home is where the heart is," he muttered, whatever that was supposed to mean, but he came with me
                    anyway.

                    It was in the car that he started to get philosophical again, and I started to wonder how many drinks he'd had,
                    and how many of them he'd had between me hanging up and me arriving at the bar.

                    "You know, Henry, I wonder sometimes...what would my life be like if I hadn't died?"

                    "I think we all wonder that sometimes, Chan." No shit. I'd gone through a million different scenarios a million
                    different times, and I still wasn't sure I wasn't better off dead. Then again, I'd never had a son.

                    "But we don't *know*. We don't know anything for sure." He stared out of the window for a minute, not saying
                    anything, his forehead all furrowed up.

                    "I could have been...I was a bad father," he said after a while. "But now, I just want to...I want to do all the
                    stuff I never did when I was alive. I want to be there for Ben. I want to...God, there's so much I want to do.
                    And I'm not going to get the chance."

                    "We all got regrets," I said. "But you don't want to deal with them by going into a bar and getting shitfaced,
                    man. It doesn't work. You just end up with another problem to handle."

                    "I'm not an alcoholic, Henry."

                    "Who said anything about that? I'm talking about the hangover the size of Burbank you're going to have
                    tomorrow morning."

                    He dropped his head into his hands. "Shit."

                    "Exactly. Listen, man, you got problems, you've got to come to me and talk about them. That's what friends
                    are for."

                    "Sure, sure. You wouldn't understand."

                    "Try me."

                    "No, Henry, I'm serious. You don't want to know about my problems."

                    "Well, which is it, Chandler, that I wouldn't understand or that I don't want to know? 'Cos I gotta say, you're
                    really rousing my curiosity here."

                    "Either. Both. Look, I just -- I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

                    "Okay." I drove in silence for a while, trying to figure out what to say next.

                    "I just..." he said at last, rubbing his forehead, "I just get so... lonely. And horny. And lonely and horny mixed
                    up together is really fucking frustrating when there isn't a goddamn thing you can do about it."

                    "Now, see what I mean? What makes you think I wouldn't understand that? We're all in the same boat here
                    when it comes to shit like that."

                    "I wasn't finished."

                    "Sorry."

                    He ran his hand through his hair till it stuck up in spikes. He does that a lot. It makes him look kind of like a
                    porcupine. It also makes him look taller than he really is, which I suspect to be his reason for doing it.

                    "You really...I mean, when I say 'horny', I don't mean regular horny, I mean like industrial-strength horny.
                    That's how I feel, and it's not just now or when I would've been horny anyway, it's *all* *the* *time*. I feel like
                    I'm just one gigantic hard-on."

                    "Not *that* gigantic."

                    "Would you shut up for a second? I'm spilling my guts here."

                    "Sorry."

                    "Least you can do is pay attention...Anyway, it's like..." He looked out of the window again. "After my wife
                    died, I...I really threw myself into my work. I mean, I was a workaholic anyway, but I worked even more after
                    she died because...I was thinking about her all the time, you know? And it hurt, because she wasn't there
                    any more, she'd never be there again. It hurt like hell. So I worked ridiculous hours just to distract myself, but
                    that didn't make things better, it made them worse, because at the end of the day, I still wasn't going home to
                    her, and I was neglecting Ben into the bargain.

                    "Now that I'm dead, I *still* can't see her. But I can't see Ben either. Or anyone else. I mean, I never wanted
                    anyone else when I was alive, anybody but her, but I...I feel like I've moved on now, you know? Like I could...I
                    could be close to someone again. But I can't. The Corps says I can't, so I can't. And every week I come this
                    close, *this* fucking close to dying, and part of me just wants to give in and die so I can see her again. So I
                    can be with her. But when I do come out of it alive, I'm just so -- so -- I mean, I feel like I'm going to explode if I
                    don't...touch somebody, get close, even if only for a second, but I *can't*."

                    "I know that feeling," I said, cautiously, not wanting to give away too much. "It's biological. Nature's way of
                    making the species survive in times of danger."

                    "That doesn't make it any easier to deal with."

                    "No," I conceded, "but it's not something that's going to kill you, Chan. You just need to get used to it."

                    "Do you feel this way?"

                    "Sure, man, like I said. But after a while..."

                    "Time wounds all heels, right?" He frowned and blinked a couple of times. "No, wait, that didn't come out
                    right...Ah, fuck it. It doesn't matter. Point is, I'm going crazy here and I don't know what to do. I mean, what am
                    I supposed to do?"

                    "I don't know. Jerk off a lot. Call me when you feel depressed. Try not to think about your wife too much."

                    Oops. Bad choice of words there, Henry.

                    "*Too* *much*?" he growls at me, like I just said he should eat Ben's head for breakfast with his eggs over
                    easy. "How the hell do you think about your wife *too* *much*?"

                    "I don't know, okay? I didn't mean -- "

                    "You didn't mean to talk about the most important thing in my life as if it was a source of saturated fats?"

                    "Chandler, she's not *in* your life any more. I know that's gotta hurt, but you have to move on. Shit, you said
                    yourself you were ready to get close to someone."

                    He slumped in his seat, the picture of misery and confusion. "I don't know," he said, his voice low and raspy,
                    like he was about to start crying. "I *don't* *know*. I just feel like...like it's all too fucking much. Like I can't take
                    one more minute of it before..."

                    His shoulders shook, once, twice, then I was pulling into a parking lot and parking the car so I could hold him
                    as he cried.

                    He didn't say anything coherent for a while, and I just sat there, my arms around him, shifting position from
                    time to time to avoid cramp. Little pats on the neck, the head, the small of his back -- just comfort,
                    theoretically, although -- *no,* I said to myself, *don't go there. Even if he's too out of it to notice. You're one
                    of the good guys, remember?

                    Right.*

                    But still...the way he was pressed up against me, sobbing into my neck...I wanted to find whoever had made
                    him feel this way and kill them. Slowly. And then maybe take him off to Kansas or Idaho or someplace equally
                    peaceful and stick him in a house where no Corps agent would ever find him and...*no. Don't go there.*

                    Chandler's sobs were beginning to slow down, and I knew that now would be a really good time to prove my
                    "good guy" credentials by letting him go with a few neutral pats on the shoulder and never mentioning this to
                    him or anyone else. I held on, cradling him in my arms as the crying stopped and his breathing began to slow
                    down.

                    "You okay?" I said into his hair as the last tremor subsided. I could hear a siren wailing somewhere outside, a
                    block away or maybe two. Not for us, I prayed. Now was not a good a time for interruptions.

                    "Mmm. No, not really," he mumbled into my neck, the vibrations making my skin tingle. I laughed and patted
                    his neck gently.

                    "Chandler-buddy, the day you *stop* complaining is the day I send for the guys in white coats."

                    I felt rather than heard his laugh, a soft rumble that felt almost like the sobs that had gone before. I tightened
                    my hold on him. Sooner or later, I knew, one of us would have to let go, but I was happy to let it be him.

                    And he did draw back for a second, and I thought that would be it; I'd drive him home, and we'd say goodbye
                    the way we always did, and never talk about it again. But he frowned a little and leaned his forehead against
                    mine, and said, "I never got to say it."

                    "What?" I said, wondering what this gesture meant. I'd never touched foreheads with somebody I hadn't slept
                    with before, though God only knows why not. Too much closeness, I guess. Too much of a need to be
                    honest.

                    "What I was going to say. You know, in the elevator. You stopped me."

                    "Oh, *that*? Listen, you don't have to say -- "

                    "I know, I know, but I want to. I... Henry, you...keep me sane. If it wasn't for you I'd be a gibbering wreck by
                    now. I'd be climbing the walls. I just want to thank you, you know, for being there."

                    "Just doing my job."

                    He shook his head, the tips of his hair brushing against my forehead. "It's not your job to put up with my crap.
                    Look, Henry, I know I'm not the best of partners, okay? I complain and I panic and I forget things and I make
                    *incredibly* stupid mistakes, but you...you don't give me half as much shit as you have a right to. You put up
                    with me. I mean, Christ, Henry, look at us! *This* isn't in the job description for a Corps agent."

                    "No, I -- I guess it isn't," I said, trying very hard to keep my voice neutral. I didn't really want him to figure out
                    why I did all that above-and-beyond stuff; we were already too close for comfort. Too many near-death
                    experiences, too many opportunities to save each other's lives... too much water under the bridge for the
                    short time I'd known him.

                    "Henry?" he said.

                    "What?"

                    He cupped the back of my neck and slid his fingers inside my collar. "I love you," he said.

                    *Meltdown.*

                    I could have pulled back and told him we couldn't do it, that we were agents of the Almighty Corps and that
                    meant no sex under any circumstances. I could have let him down gently with reassurances of friendship,
                    told him I loved him too, in a way. At least, I guess I could have done that, and maybe I should have.

                    But I didn't.

                    What I *did* do was lean forward and kiss him, slowly, gently, making it clear that if he chose to bail at any
                    point and say he didn't mean it like *that*, he was absolutely free to do so...and when his tongue slipped into
                    my mouth -- almost shyly, as if it was asking for permission -- I felt a shiver rise from the pit of my belly and
                    make its way up to the roots of my hair.

                    The Corps has its reasons for making sex one of its big no-nos, even though it's easy to complain about how
                    pointless it is. Sex is amazing, sex is one of the most amazing things in the world, because even though a lot
                    of the time it's like sneezing or eating a good meal, once in a while it gives you warm shivers and butterflies
                    in your stomach, and when you meet someone who can give you that feeling, you don't give a shit who they
                    are -- human, morlock, or the Devil himself; it's all the same to the butterflies.

                    But Chandler had *already* betrayed the Corps for me. Sure, it worked out okay in the end, but that was
                    mostly luck. He had been willing to sell them out. For me. And I suddenly realised I would do the same for him
                    in a heartbeat.

                    As I pulled him closer and he drew circles on the back of my neck, I thought of what he had said that day. *I
                    guess that's the difference between you and me.* Was that what he was saying? Was he trying to tell me,
                    even then?

                    I broke off the kiss for a moment, just to see what was in his eyes. What I saw there made me catch my
                    breath. "Look," I said, "we don't have to...I mean, we probably shouldn't...I mean, I -- "

                    "I want to," he said, and that was it for talking. Not that I don't like to hear Chandler talk, especially when his
                    voice is all deep and raspy like it was then, but there were more important things to think about. I had to get
                    him out of his jacket and shirt, for one thing, at least enough so that I could touch the skin of his chest. And
                    once his shirt was open I couldn't help myself; I had to lunge forward and lick and suck my way down to the
                    bulge in his pants. Getting his pants off was a *real* bitch, but somehow we managed. I think if we hadn't, I
                    would have ripped them to pieces with my teeth.

                    And then he was moaning my name and coming in my mouth, and I was doubled up and humping his leg,
                    and it was all over much too soon. I was out of practice and so was he, and we were both, in Chandler's
                    words, "industrial-strength horny". It couldn't have lasted more than sixty seconds.

                    As he cradled my head in his lap, I thought of the Corps, and Esmerelda, and of how sixty seconds could
                    really be enough, if the world was ending or your life was falling apart. In the morning I'd have a backache
                    and a ruined pair of jeans, and we'd have to work together and push each other around like nothing had
                    happened.

                    In the morning, I would let myself remember the taste of Chandler's mouth, the heat of his skin under my lips.
                    For sixty seconds.

                    It would be enough. It would have to be.

                    [end]