Damaged Goods, by Jami Wilsen

Damaged Goods

by Jami Wilsen

Disclaimer: all characters in this show belong to whoever owns them. But we already know this, don't we. ;)

Rated: A for language, inadvertent bondage, unethical prisoner abuse and m/m sex

Spoilers: 'Damage Control', Moloney

Summary: Dr Nick Moloney takes poor Anson Greene under his wing after the end of the episodeCan you say c-l-o-s-u-r-e?

Beta: Dr Ruthless (who else?) [g] Thank you so much, Sue!

Warning: This is the only episode of Moloney that I've ever seen, and despite liking Peter Strauss a lot, I am not familiar with the show, so please forgive any inconsistencies or discrepancies!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Nick Moloney sat in the car, watching his daughter make her way into the school building. He sighed, wishing that he could return home. There were loose ends that needed cleaning up though, including paperwork, he thought, with a grimace of distaste. His thoughts returned to the disturbed man that had been dragged off in the aftermath of the ruckus the previous day, after 'The Beast' had opened fire and been dropped as the ward was stormed. He frowned as he drove off; having killed a cop, Anson Greene could not expect leniency. There was likely to be a good deal of hostility towards him within this building, certainly, among the cops here. Also, the man's luck had been awful; in his attempt to take hostages, he had backed right up into the psych ward for the criminally insane.

The day's events, however, had left Moloney with a newfound appreciation of his own estranged family's well being. He discovered himself feeling a measure of pity for Greene. He hadn't been pleased at what had happened to the man; already teetering so close to the edge, hearing his daughter Annabelle's voice had finally pushed Greene over it. Until then, Moloney had actually held hopes of salvaging the situation for all of them. He felt a small amount of responsibility towards Greene; he'd done what he could to gain his trust and had begun to get results when Navarro had rather rashly jumped the gun and pushed the situation, resulting in Greene nearly blowing Moloney's brains out just before one of the patients had released The Beast from confinement. Greene didn't stand a chance in hell, now. Unless

He stopped, considering the option of having him placed into his own custody. If he could oversee what happened to him, he could get him psychiatric treatment. Certainly the man was strung-out, but that whole eerie reenactment of his mother's remarriage and subsequent murder that he'd forced Moloney and the duty nurse to take part in proved Greene had unresolved issues that left him seriously unstable. Moloney found himself wondering what the exact circumstances had been surrounding the death of the cop and, not least of all, his mother's death

It was more than curiosity; it was concern. If he could take charge of his case, he might be able to find a way of getting the guy some real help rather than letting him be thrown into the meat-grinder. Cop-killer Greene wouldn't last very long, at least not without confrontations, and his reputation would make things difficult for him wherever he ended up. The guy was all too ready to pick fights. There was something helpless about the intense and emotionally disturbed man, something that had appealed deep down on a protective level in Moloney. Perhaps it was Greene's obvious intelligence and lucidity despite his emotional and mental instability. He had potential and yet it had obviously been warped early on in his life; he'd clearly never regained his balance. It made him rather a pathetic character. Not to mention that buried desperation, thought Moloney - not only had he made poor decisions, he'd had a very sour hand dealt him. Greene had been a man with his back against the wall. Another lost soul, ready to be tossed aside by society. Moloney found this left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. So much for the justice system, he thought, surveying the sky and the clouds as he shut the car door.

Coming to a decision, he made his way inside to find Lt Navarro. Matty was lost in a cup of coffee, reading over a file. Phones were ringing in the background and the general hubbub had died to tolerable, usual levels. He looked up as Moloney approached. "Nick. I'm gonna need a statement from you, in writing, on what happened yesterday."

"Yeah. Look, about that. I want to take over Greene's case. He needs psychiatric care."

"The guy killed a cop. Christ, you can't expect me to believe that this-"

Moloney interrupted him. "Exactly. He doesn't stand a chance. But believe me, everything I saw yesterday simply screamed 'psycho'. The guy needs help. Come on, it was a Freudian slip on his part to end up in the psych ward! It was kismet, I swear."

Navarro scowled at him. "You're crazy. He's a loose cannon and he's dangerous! Greene seriously lost it last night; you were there, Nick!"

"Yes, I was. A lot happened that you don't know about. Come on; I know what I'm doing. He needs a psych evaluation and help. The man needs treatment! If he doesn't get it, he's going to end up unsalvageable - where he's bound for, anyway. Things got out of hand. I nearly had him until you guys pulled that stunt with his kid. I almost had him, almost had his trust. You owe me - and him - this one chance."

Navarro's eyes narrowed, and then he heaved a forbearing sigh. "Nick, I have a lot of respect for you, you know that. I trust your judgment, but I think in this case, you're wrong. He's too far gone."

Moloney chuckled. "That's why I think I can pull it off; I can help him. He's crossed the line from criminal into criminally insane. Come on, Matty, you know I'm right. If he hadn't gone off the deep end I'd say sure, throw away the key, but it's a psychiatric matter now. I know I'm the only one who can reach him - I've already started building the foundation."

Navarro was shaking his head. "Alright, alright, dammit. But he's going to have to be moved to another facility. We can't afford to have him taking up room here. He's in a holding cell."

"How long have I got?"

"I'd say, given the traffic at the moment, about two or three days."

"That long, huh?" Moloney raised a sardonic brow. "Jesus, doesn't leave me much of a window. How much you think his bail is gonna be set for?"

"Jesus Christ, Nick!" Navarro looked concerned and harassed.

"Just kidding. Where's your sense of humor?" Moloney frowned at him and then grinned. "You're letting this place get to you, aren't you?" He shook his head, and added in his customary dry tone, "If you're not careful, you'll be riding that edge soon yourself, Matty."

"Yeah. You'd know more about that, wouldn't you? Okay, fine. He's yours. But he's not to leave unless it's for another cell. And I'm gonna need even more reports from you. Filled out properly, in triplicate."

"Sure, sure, threaten me with red tape, why don't you. Look, don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

He made his way to the security wing and met the guard who'd been posted at the desk. It was an officer he didn't know. Damn. That would make this harder. "Hi. I'm here to see the prisoner that was just brought down here? Greene?"

"He's been confined in solitary. Took four guys just to get him in there," warned the officer.

"I know. I spent several hours with him yesterday." Moloney stared at him meaningfully. "I'm Doctor Moloney. I'm sure you've heard of me?"

Finally it dawned on the cop. "Oh, you were there?"

"Yeah. I'm taking him on. I need to talk to him. Let me in."

"Sure, sure." The officer led him to a cell through two separate gates. "I wouldn't recommend going in there; if I were you I'd stay outside the door, or least have an armed escort present. He's dangerous."

"I'll take that chance." Moloney was betting that seeing his face would actually make Greene feel a measure of security, simply from the interaction and familiarity of meeting him before. Besides, Moloney knew he hadn't yet given Greene a reason to fear him - if anything, he'd kept trying to reassure the man that he wanted to help. He was counting on this to protect him. He didn't think Greene would attack him. He recalled the man's tattoo: Greene had been in the Marines, the Special Forces. He was dangerous. Still, Moloney was fairly certain that he'd already gained a certain measure of trust simply by his consistency in the situation earlier. Greene had nothing to gain by attacking him in a confined cell. And he had no doubt he could talk the man down - should Greene foolishly decide to attempt to take him hostage again.

The cell door swung open, revealing Greene lying on the bunk staring upwards blankly. His eyes flicked down to assess his visitors and then swiftly returned to the ceiling. The officer bolted the door behind them. Moloney regarded Greene coolly.

Greene looked like a stone statue, his face curiously empty. Moloney knew it was because of an unwilling, apathetic patience now that he was incarcerated once more.

"Anson," Moloney addressed him.

"Doctor." Greene's voice was dry; the sarcastic emphasis was evident in his dig at him. His expression told Moloney that he was cynical about his presence there, but Moloney could tell it was a front. Greene looked like he didn't want to hope that Moloney could do anything for him.

"I am, you know. A doctor. I didn't lie about that." Moloney folded his arms and leaned back against the wall by the door.

Greene's face returned to that haunted look he'd had before the shit had hit the fan earlier, before he'd heard Annabelle's voice. It was one of helplessness. He didn't even deign to reply.

"You've managed to land yourself in a real pickle here. You are aware of that, aren't you?"

Greene didn't answer, ignoring him.

Okay. So much for trying to get him to open up. He'd just have to play it by ear, try to appeal to the man's sense of self-preservation - and common sense, if he had any left. "Look, I can still help you."

"Bullshit. Just just fuck off, why don't you? Give me some peace. It's quiet here." But Greene's belligerence was delivered with a definite undertone, one that was clearly begging him to do anything but desert him. Moloney doubted Greene was even aware it.

A flash of memory: one of Anson's past sojourns, the needle going into his arm - someone holding him down

He cleared his throat. "You're right. Nice and peaceful - for a couple of days, anyway. I won't lie to you about your chances. It doesn't look good, but if you cooperate with me, I might be able to swing something for you, in your favor."

Greene took a deep breath and sat up, swinging around to put his feet on the ground. He leaned back against the wall. "Look, cut to the chase, willya?"

"You're lucky they didn't put a bullet in you, you know. Back there," Moloney observed, quietly but pointedly.

Anson lowered his head in a silent recognition of this. He licked his lips, deliberating. Finally he turned his head and met Moloney's eyes. The intensity of that stare, piercing and rather knowing, would have made Moloney flinch if it weren't for years of both experience and action. This was a dangerous man, who had seen too much and had been jerked around too many times to be able to allow himself any real trust, no matter how much he might want to, deep down. His ability to trust had been too deeply covered up over the years. Moloney found himself noticing the dark shadows of strain and stress around Greene's eyes that betrayed what the man was going through. He was running on empty now.

He met Anson's gaze squarely. "I can help you, but you have to want me to. The least you can do is not jerk me around, when I've already shown you that I'm not going to do that to you."

"Yeah?" Anson sneered. "You're a cop first and foremost, aren't you, Doc?" But that hidden desperation was evident once more, all too apparent behind what Moloney was beginning to recognize as Anson's scathing, mordant shield of defense. It wasn't exactly a desire to trust, but it was enough of a chink of vulnerability to enable him to get inside.

"I know you're afraid, and I know that you don't want to be thrown to the wolves. I think you realize just how close you are to losing the hope for any future at all, Anson."

Swift recall, the boy standing empty, forever distant, the future so far out of reach that the emptiness consumes him

Anson regarded him, his eyes glittering bright with something closer to the defiance and cockiness he'd displayed previously when he'd had the admittedly dubious upper hand over them in the hostage situation. "What do you want?" he demanded, softly.

"Do yourself a favor. If you cooperate with me, agree to go along with the process, I think I can get you off the hook and maybe have a chance at getting you some real help. You need it, Anson. You really do. At this point, you need all the help you can get." Moloney knew at this point there was no real need to persuade him. He was just stating the facts and if he had any sense at all, any desire to avoid suffering more than he had to, Greene would recognize this and come around.

Anson looked down again, his jaw set, breathing harder. Finally, he shrugged. "What the hell; what've I got to lose? Okay, Doc. I'll go along with it, for now."

"Good," Moloney said. His tone was unapologetic, and seemed to say, 'finally, at last, for God's sake'. He didn't even feel relief. He turned and pounded the door, calling out to guard to come and let him out. "Sit tight and I'll see what I can do. I'll come by sometime tomorrow, okay? Try not to do anything stupid until then."

Anson considered flipping him off but then merely snorted, not bothering to even look at him.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

After lunch the following afternoon, having spent the morning making what arrangements he could while dealing with the minutiae of administration, Moloney found Anson in one of the interrogation rooms. He'd had him brought there so that he could attempt to form a rapport with Greene outside the cell.

Psychologically, it was harder within the cell to get anyone - let alone someone as unstable as Greene - to enter an amenable frame of mind. Moloney had pulled his record and finally had most of the facts on this guy. Suspected of killing his mother and stepfather, in and out of orphanages, a history of juvenile problems and his military service stained by a sentence that a Marine did not need, as well as a number of other offenses including sexual deviancy - all just as he'd already guessed. But it hadn't softened Moloney's concern for Anson; if anything it had made him even more acutely aware of just how whacked out Greene really was. He sighed. He definitely had his work cut out for him. He was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.

Anson was locked in the room and had his wrists cuffed in front of him; he was sitting slouched in his chair before the table.

When Moloney entered, Anson acknowledged his presence with a single glance and stirred himself to sit up straighter.

"How are you holding up?" Moloney greeted him, walking over to the opposite side of the table as the door was locked behind them once more. He placed two bottles of beer on the table between them. He wondered if Greene would take this as an attempt on his part to buy his trust. He didn't care, really. He meant it as a sort of peace offering, a gesture aimed at building a little further on that tentative bridge he'd begun the day before.

Anson didn't reply, merely met his gaze with an expression of scant, mute curiosity. He was obviously wondering what Moloney was going to say. In fact, He'd thought about it all night long, having nothing else to think or worry about, given his impending fate, and had come to the conclusion that he really didn't have any other option than to go along with whatever the cop offered. Moloney was counting on this.

Moloney opened one of the beers and scooted the bottle across the table towards him. Anson regarded it warily before snatching it up, sniffing it before taking a cautious swig.

"What's the verdict?" Moloney waited for his reply. "How's it taste?"

"Foreign," said Anson.

Moloney raised his brows. "Well, if you don't like it, don't waste it. It's an expensive import. Give it back here, heathen."

"I didn't say I didn't like it." Anson took another cautious drink. "I could really do with a smoke, though."

"Oh." Moloney remembered suddenly, digging into his pocket to retrieve the Marlboros and lighter he'd placed there earlier. "Here ya go." He handed them over, Anson's eyes lit up at the coveted items.

"Go ahead, light up. I don't mind," Moloney stated, with a trace of humor. "I quit a while back."

Anson stopped mid-motion, the lighter halfway to his cigarette. "You don't mind, do you?"

Moloney shrugged. "Go ahead. Look, Anson," Moloney began as he pulled out the chair and sat down. "I've had words with a few people and the bottom line is that you're going to have to do time, whichever way it goes. Now, I know you don't want to end up in the nuthouse again, but I can get you a fair deal. If you cooperate with me, that is."

"What grounds? What kind of deal?" Anson asked, suspiciously.

Moloney paused. "Mental incompetence and disability, PTSD, psychological and emotional instability. I can get you into a good institution."

"Sounds fucked up to me. I'd rather take my chances in the can, Doc. No offense but I have a problem with restraints, straitjackets and involuntary sedation; you understand, I'm sure." Anson's voice was cold and cutting.

A flash of his mother's blood, on the bed, out of place and all too livid.

"Between the rock and the hard place, I don't think you have a chance, actually," shrugged Moloney. "Don't be a fool. Cops don't like cop-killers and a shrink is more likely to be understanding, you have to admit."

"I told you, I hate shrinks," snarled Anson.

"Hey, I know the doctor who you'd be assigned to, personally. She's very good. Don't sell this short. I've gone out of my way for you here."

An almost unnoticed flicker of something crossed Anson's face. "Yeah? Well, I'm not crazy. I'm not."

Oh, boy. Moloney took a breath. He looked up, directly at Anson, pinning him with his gaze, forcing him to focus on what he was saying. "You don't seem to understand the situation you're in, here. This is your last chance to actually get any help from anyone. If you don't take it, you are facing some very serious, ass-kicking charges and you're going to end up staring at the inside of a cell for many years to come. The institution I have in mind for you isn't as bad as the ones you've been in before. Don't knock it until you've seen it. And Jessica Williams is one of the best psychiatrists it's been my privilege to know. She specializes in cases like yours."

Anson raised his brows at him, unconvinced. "Like mine?"

Flicker of that gun, the boy pulling the trigger, unable to cry or feel or act

Moloney paused again but he didn't dissemble. "Childhood trauma. She's a therapist."

"No way. No fucking way," Anson stated, with considerably more force than he'd displayed since Moloney had begun visiting him. "I don't need anyone blundering around inside my head again. Fucking lot of good it's done me so far."

Moloney patiently replied, "Like I said, don't knock it. It's either that or you're in for hard time." He shrugged suddenly. "But, it's your dime. Hey, you want to suffer, that's your call, I guess. But I'd hate to see you end up in a ward on the inside - you have got to know what those are like, yes?" It wasn't really a gamble; Moloney was aware of Greene's past experiences, and knew that he was intimately familiar with the kind of places he referred to. .

"What's the fucking difference?" muttered Anson. He took a drag more anxiously now, sucking on it like he was seriously stressing out. "But, hey, you're calling the shots. I'll play along," he continued, jauntily. He grinned suddenly, in that wildly reckless shift of mood that reminded Moloney abruptly that he was too far-gone.

Moloney sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. "You don't have to prove anything to me, Anson. You either want my help, or you don't. Which is it?"

"Alright, alright," Anson said, restlessly, motioning with the hand holding his cigarette. He absently flicked his ash on the floor before taking another long drag, using this time to think. He lifted his chin, nodding once at him. "When? And how are you going to get me in there without facing trial?"

Flash of the wedding dress, the sense of hope slipping away

Moloney sighed wearily. "We can't avoid that. There'll be a hearing. I might be able to get something to go through fairly quickly but we'll still need a judge's ruling in order to get you committed. You shot someone, and despite your psych evaluations both past and present, your record stands against you. I can't just send you off in a basket; I do have limitations. I don't like to admit that very often, but I even I recognize them. It's something I live with," he added, in a voice that indicated he believed Anson should too, that he'd do well to recognize his own limitations and stop with the danger-boy act. It would only get him in deeper over his head. Once more Moloney found himself wondering why the hell he was going out of his way for this guy. There was something in the man's eyes that told him it would be a shame for him to go to waste, to give up on him. Anson was like a wild animal; he required handling that reflected it to avoid further damage both to himself and those around him. It wasn't pity anymore, it had become something else. The way he felt for Anson could be equated to not wanting to have to put a horse down, or to destroy a big cat.

"Yeah? Well, good for you." Anson sounded almost condescending, but Moloney could see the cracks that had broken out all over his veneer of defensive pride. He was getting close to breaking point again. He could see it in the way Anson ground the stub out on the table's surface in front of them, how he flinched at some inner pain

Empty, so empty; the sound of her insincere laughter; the boy felt despair where he should have felt satisfaction - he'd had no choice but to pull the trigger

"Right." Moloney was sardonic. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" He picked up his own beer and stood up, sending the chair scudding harshly behind him as he did so.

"Wait, I -" Anson's entreaty stopped him and Moloney looked back at him a little surprised. Anson began again. "What possibility is there for me to - to talk with my daughter? Before this goes to court? When - when can I talk to her?" As if he knew full well he'd be denied the chance to see her. Jesus. The raw pain and longing in his voice was grating.

Moloney took a breath. "I'll see what I can do," he replied. "I'm not promising anything. But I'll try, alright?"

Anson shrugged. "Good enough for me." And it wasn't until Moloney had turned away and almost reached the door to knock on it before he heard him add, "Thanks Doc."

"You're welcome," Moloney said, raising his hand to the door. It was with a sense of relief that he left the room. There was something distinctly unsettling about spending too much time Greene's company. He had the impression that Greene was so strung out that he was on the edge of that re-enactment the whole time. Christ; he really needed to get this dealt with or they were going to have another scene on their hands, he was sure of it.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Four days later, Moloney heard after he arrived in the morning that there had been some kind of 'incident' when they'd tried to move Anson Greene from his cell to another location in the building. Luckily, Navarro found him before he could get too upset at not having not been informed that there was going to be a move.

"Nick - hi. It's another one of those days. Look, about that pet psycho of yours. He got himself in the middle of a free-for-all when they tried to take him away to another cell."

"Yeah, what's up with that? Why wasn't I notified yesterday?" Moloney held up a hand. "Never mind. Where is he now?"

Navarro sighed slightly. "He's getting medical care; we had to call in a doctor. I don't know exactly what happened but as far as we can tell, he mouthed off or provoked one of the officers and it ended up in a fistfight. Not exactly our finest moment. They jumped him, outnumbering him six to one, and he sustained several minor injuries from the beating. He was out cold by the time we broke it up. The three who did the most damage have been suspended, but we've got to get your guy out of here. He's been here too long, Nick."

"Well, where was he being moved to? And how much longer am I going to have to wait for approval pending on the recommendation I submitted?" Moloney was not happy. This was proving to be more trouble than it was worth. "We've already heard from Dr Williams."

Navarro shrugged. "He was being transferred to another cell, out of isolation. Don't ask me why. Come on, you know how crowded we are right now. Something's gonna have to be done soon, though. He received a death threat afterward and word has got around that he shot that cop. And you *know* that's gotta be why they jumped him. It got out of hand and it could happen again. We really don't need this right now."

"As if we ever do. Matty, do me a favor, will you, and try to find a place where we can put him for now? He's gonna need protection." Moloney was shaking his head and he started off down the corridor, intending to go see how Greene was faring.

"Nick!" Navarro called after him, "There isn't anywhere. We can't spare anyone right now. Hey, he's your responsibility; you want him safe? You deal with it."

Moloney turned and regarded him with disbelief. "And just how do you suggest I do that? I've got a sacrificial, matricidal psyched-out nutcase with an entire station of officers wanting his blood, and you want me to 'deal with it'? What am I supposed to do with him, for God's sake?"

"You're creative, you figure it out. Hell, take him home with you. I don't care. Just get him out of our hair."

Moloney rolled his eyes and turned to go once more but as he considered this while he made his way to the nurse's office, he realized that Matty's off-handed suggestion actually made the most sense. He chuckled as he realized that Matty was going to end up protesting when he told him later he intended to do just that. After all, Greene was far safer in his custody than he was in this place, for now. He could arrange to have him transferred to a more secure, appropriate facility tomorrow. Dr Williams had already agreed to take Greene in.

By the time he reached Anson's bed, the nurse had already done what she could for him and the doctor had long since seen to him and left. Anson was still out cold from the combination of the mild concussion and exhaustion from stress. Hell, Moloney realized, he was going to need to keep him restrained and yet safe. The only way to accomplish this if he was going to have him spend the night at his own place was if Anson were confined to the bed. The guy could do with the rest anyway, for both his physical and mental condition. He sighed, considering the possibilities. The only place he could think of was the guest room where Kathleen slept when she stayed over.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

As Anson opened his eyes, he was immediately aware that something was very, very different. His eyes widened as he took in the room and the dcor, and then the presence of Dr. Moloney standing by his bedside. Panic began to rise. He jerked, and winced as pain made itself known in various parts of his body.

"What - where-"

"Welcome back. You slept through the entire afternoon; I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up after that beating you took. You wanna tell me what happened?" Moloney was willing to listen, although his voice was harder. He was not happy at either Anson's involvement in that unnecessary scrap, or his subsequently sustained injuries. The bruises and cuts on his face stood out starkly from Anson's anxious countenance, serving to render him the picture of wounded innocence, although Moloney was aware he was anything but.

"Where the fuck am I?" Anson's answering query was clipped and harsh. His breathing and heart-rate had increased considerably as he took in his restrained state in the bed in this unfamiliar room and environment.

"You're in protective custody, at my house. This is the guest room, actually. It's probably more than you deserve, after that stunt you pulled earlier this morning. So explain it to me. What the hell happened?" Moloney was frowning, unrelenting.

Anson swallowed, shaking his head slightly, and inhaled several times. "The bastards had it in for me. I guessed it was bound to happen; I just didn't think they'd snap the way they did. Damn it, they were *looking* for an excuse! Fucking bastards," he said, bitterly, recalling several blows he'd taken to the gut and that one cop who'd seemed to take special delight in delivering blows to his face.

Moloney considered this and took a breath, sighing loudly. "Okay. They have been reprimanded and three of the main offenders will pay for having attacked you. Be that as it may, you owe me now. I don't like taking my work home with me like this. Especially like this. I'm not your nursemaid, and you need all the rest you can get. I expect you to sleep the night through. Just need to make that perfectly clear," he said, with a lift of his brows.

Anson's eyes narrowed and he took on a guarded expression. "So what's with these ankle straps? This is kind of kinky, I've gotta say. I wouldn't have expected it of you, Doc."

"You're one to talk. Don't even get me started. They're not coming off. I can't afford to take any chances with you here; do you have any idea how roasted I'd be if I let a prisoner escape while having him here?" Moloney was sardonic. He looked back down at Anson. "Do you need anything? Water? Are you hungry?"

A swift flush of shame went over Anson as he realized he was not only a restrained prisoner but bed-ridden and still pretty sore from the beating That, and also that he was going to need all the help that this cop might be willing to begrudgingly offer. He licked his lips. With some effort, he replied in an even tone, "Yeah, some water would be great."

When Moloney brought the glass of water to his lips, Anson lifted his head to meet it, gulping it down. "Need more?" Moloney enquired.

At Anson's shake of his head, he set the glass down and then sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?" Moloney asked, a slight, worried frown, concerned.

Anson blinked, trying to figure why this man was bothered. It didn't make sense. People didn't care about him as a rule. He stared up at him, blankly.

Moloney found himself regarding the man lying there with something more than pity. He felt a rush of unwanted tenderness sweep through him for this lost kid. His frown deepened and said, "It's been a rough ride, hasn't it? I guess a break's been long over-due."

Anson's expression tightened and a look of pain crossed his face. "Yeah? And just what is it I'm supposed to be looking forward to?" he asked, bitterly, that hollow, beaten look in his eyes once more that Moloney remembered from the day this had started with the misbegotten attempt to take hostage a room full of loons. Only this time, it was joined with something else: resignation.

Moloney closed his eyes and sighed. It was just one step from here into a suicidal depression. "Are you feeling any pain? Do you need something for it?"

"Yeah."

After Moloney had brought him a couple pills and had helped him down them with another drink of water, Anson cleared his throat. "Why are you trying to - why do you want me to believe you're my friend?"

Moloney considered this, tilting his head to one side. "Well, let's see. Maybe because I'm the closest thing to a friend you've got right now?"

For some reason this struck Anson as funny and he began to shake silently with a slightly dry laughter. "I don't need your sympathy, Doc."

Moloney raised a brow at his words. "I thought we were talking about friendship, not pity."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever," Anson said, quietly and coldly. And his eyes flicked over to meet Moloney's, as he added, "D'you expect me to be grateful that you're getting me committed rather than incarcerated in a prison?"

"No, but I do for the care you're getting here now. I didn't have to save your ass, I could have left you back in that cell with cops hungry for reparations."

Anson looked away, a bewilderment and naked vulnerability abruptly replacing the defensive hardness before he could stop it. The strain of trying to keep up his shell was beginning to wear.

The silence grew and Moloney could suddenly see that Anson was actually very close to giving up. He sighed and attempted to consider what might keep his charge in one piece, or at least give him something to hold onto. He had known that to mention his daughter earlier would be a mistake, enough to push him over the edge, but at this moment it might be the one thing that would give him a reminder of something he cared about enough to hold onto. Carefully, he said, "You do realize that it will actually be easier for you to see Annabelle this way, don't you? Visitation, even if it is under supervision?"

Anson swallowed. "Really?"

Moloney nodded. "Yeah. I'll make sure of it. You have my word on that. I can't promise how often but it will be regularly, whichever way we can swing it." He smiled at him.

Hope intermingled with uncertainty, suspicion and pain crossed Anson's face as he considered his daughter and his own position. In a small, rough voice, he asked, "You - you'd do that?"

"Sure."

Anson chewed his lips, deliberating this. "Okay," he said finally, "I'll go along with this then. You're right. Maybe this isn't as bad as the alternative."

Moloney raised his eyes upwards before returning them to Anson's now hopeful gaze. "I should hope so. It was about time you looked at the reality of the situation. In fact, think of it this way; people out 'there' willingly volunteer to check themselves into places like the one you're going, simply to *retain* their sanity. You might be lucky for once; you're getting to retire and have a rest."

Anson's mind was mulling this over quite seriously. "You're right, Doc. Maybe - maybe it's the break I've been waiting for, in some weird kind of fucked-up way." He sounded introspective.

Relieved, Moloney said, "You see? Things aren't as bad as you thought." When Anson yawned suddenly, Moloney took this advantage of this cue to say, "Why don't you get some rest, okay? I'll be out there if you need anything." He laid a reassuring hand on Anson's shoulder and then stood. "Let me know if you get hungry."

"Yeah, alright." Anson's voice was now starting to reflect an almost child-like quality.

For some reason, Moloney found that unsettling. That and the fact that he couldn't ignore any longer Anson's nearly unconscious magnetism. Despite his feral wildness, he was a good- looking man. Moloney found himself regretting that so many damaging things had injured and broken down the strength and vital sensuality he must have possessed when he was younger. The kid hadn't stood a chance. He'd been doomed from the very start when his mother had shut him out.

By the time Moloney got out and made it to the living room, he was breathing a silent prayer of thanks. Christ, this was dicier than he'd previously thought it would be. He found himself still disturbed by his unwanted houseguest and prisoner, not so much because of Anson's instability, which was the reason he'd started out with, but now because of a growing awareness of just how deep the man's wounds ran. The pity, the sympathy, had transmuted somehow, somewhere along the way into an honest concern. Care, even. There was no way he was going to allow himself to dwell on the sharpness of those green eyes, either. They had a way of both challenging and inviting at the same time, provoking an alarming sensation that he couldn't analyze without also acknowledging the classic phenomena of counter transference in reverse. There was no way he could have predicted this outcome. Damn it, he hadn't felt this drained by any patient/therapist relationship in years.

He grabbed a much-needed beer from the fridge and sank down on the sofa in the living room. 'Oy vey, what a day.' God.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The sudden noise and muffled exclamations woke Moloney and he blearily looked at the clock by his bedside. It wasn't even two in the morning. He sighed and quickly got up, pulling on his robe before making his way to the guest room.

Anson had obviously been suffering from a nightmare, awoken to find himself restrained and had panicked.

Moloney turned on the bedside light. From the way the whites of his eyes were showing, Anson had passed from panic into terror; he was thrashing ineffectively at the restraints and making a low, continuous moan.

Moloney quickly sat down beside him, holding him down. "Anson; Anson! Hey, hey there. C'mon, calm down. It's okay. You're safe. You're going to be alright, everything's going be alright." It was several minutes later that he managed to get him to calm down enough to stop tensing up and trying to pull against the restraints. The younger man was still shaking, , and Moloney found himself stroking him soothingly as he had when Kate had been younger and suffering from similar night fears. The simple sensuality inherent in this comforting gesture struck him and he was dismayed to find himself getting lost in it. Tired and disoriented, Anson already was.

Finally, he seemed quiet enough and Moloney stifled a yawn. "You're gonna be okay? Anson?"

Anson was still shaken by the occasional tremor and didn't answer, his eyes closed tight.

When Moloney finally turned off the lamp and made to leave, Anson said, haltingly, "Doc? Could you - could you stay. Just - for a bit."

Moloney sighed silently. He had started this; he wondered if anyone had ever offered Anson human comfort before without extolling some kind of unbearable emotional price for it.

"Please." This last was whispered in a way that Moloney somehow understood as having been very difficult to say.

Overcome by another yawn, he returned to sit on the edge of the bed. "Things are gonna be okay, you know." When Anson didn't respond, he sighed and put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Something sounding suspiciously like an aborted sob reached his ears and as an accompanying shudder ran through the man before him, Moloney raised his eyes ceiling-wards in the dark.

Christ, he should have known the poor guy would break down now. Hell, he couldn't understand how Anson had lasted as long as he had, under the circumstances. Whether from pride or a need to remain steadfastly strong in the face of it all, Anson was long overdue for this. He leaned over him, closely, in a sort of one-way embrace. Awkwardly, Moloney said, "I can't exactly let you loose, you know. I'm sorry. I'd be endangering your future situation, which is already tenuous enough as it is."

"I know, I know. Professional to the last. Shit, I'd be fool not to run for it," Anson said, raggedly, his voice thick and breaking in several places, betraying the tears.

Moloney found himself cursing silently, profusely. He was responding to this wounded creature on far too many levels. There was something so tragic and saddening about the whole thing that he wished tiredly that he'd never become involved. How had this begun? Oh yeah, that's right - when a desperate, apparently frantic Anson had held a gun on him in the corridor of a fucking hospital. Him and a nurse. The whole thing was crazy and tonight was merely the culmination of his relationship with this disturbed and disturbing survivor of so many personal tragedies.

He came to a decision suddenly, with a clear and sharp awareness that left him almost lightheaded. Here, in this moment, in a bizarre little bubble of surreal balance between sanity and madness, there were only the rules that governed this situation - rules like caring, comfort and consolation. If he stopped fighting what was the right thing to do, they both would be able to find a way through. It was like navigating an emotional minefield, but then, when was it not, in his line of work? He almost chuckled at this; professional to the last, indeed.

"Would you? Run for it?" he asked Anson finally.

Calming considerably at this, and pausing almost reflectively, Anson sniffed several times and answered, "Yeah, I would. Wouldn't you?"

"My thoughts exactly. But I'll tell you what I'll do, I let your legs free, okay? Maybe you'll be a little more comfortable that way." Moloney made good on this immediately, getting up and going to the foot of the bed to undo both of Anson's ankles, before returning to the bedside.

Surprised, unsure of quite how to react to this, Anson shakily said, "Thanks." He gratefully brought his knees up under the covers, enjoying the movement after having been supine for so long.

In the quiet dark, Moloney leaned over him once more, leaning down to cover him comfortingly. He reached up one hand to brush away the wetness on Anson's face. He opened his eyes and realized Anson was staring straight up into them, Anson's own eyes large and dark in the barely visible paleness of his face. Anson's breathing had changed and it was with a sense of the completely absurd and sublime that he found himself lightly, gently pressing his lips to the man's beneath him. A single shudder ran through Anson who lay frozen for a few heartbeats before leaning up slightly into the kiss. Feeling a little confused, Moloney pulled back. Anson seemed to be holding his breath.

For his own part, Moloney was wondering what on earth had possessed him to do it, and realized that he didn't just feel sorry for him; there was an undeniable attraction on a purely physical level as well as the appeal of someone who needed him, who needed comfort of any kind he'd be willing to bestow. With a frown, he realized also that Anson would hardly have been a stranger to similar encounters in his own past. The only person surprising himself here was him, and Moloney discovered he didn't have a problem with it at all, as long as Anson was willing. Mostly because he knew it could only last for the duration of this one night, and he wouldn't have to deal with the long-term repercussions. It was what it was, and that was all. Still, it was strange that it was Anson's tears that would seduce him in the end.

"You gonna run, now?" Anson's question was laced with a slightly sarcastic knowing tone.

"Are you kidding? I just realized you're completely at my mercy, here. Who knows when I might get this opportunity again?" Moloney was grinning however, removing the threat from his words, and letting a playful mischievousness enter his voice.

"Great," Anson muttered but even so, he relaxed under him.

"There's a first time for everything," Moloney admitted.

"Oh God, don't tell me - you're going to practice on *me*?" Anson said, sardonically.

"Hm, well. I don't think I could bring myself to with anyone else. You're a special case."

"Yeah. A basket case," Anson remarked.

"Actually, I've seen much worse in my time," stated Moloney, feeling like he was delaying the inevitable. He was already achingly hard. He stopped and asked in a gentler voice, "Anson? Are you sure you want this? You sure you're okay with it?"

"Shut up, Doc," said Anson, leaning up to press his mouth to his this time, those soft, masculine but pretty lips leaving Moloney with little choice but to respond in kind, letting his tongue slip between Anson's lips to taste that wild and yet somehow sweet heat there. Almost automatically, he found himself divesting himself of his robe and nightclothes before peeling back the covers and covering Anson with his own body. He was shocked at the heat pouring off the other man and found himself possessing Anson's mouth again while the novelty of what they were doing still rang in his ears. He was fully awake now, sliding his hands upwards to pull the t- shirt higher, revealing Anson's chest before sliding downward to move his shorts lower and lower, over a rather obvious obstacle, down past his knees, and off.

What was it the song said: love is the best therapy? A broken heart, a lonely heart Anson was certainly that. A measure of comfort, however bestowed at this point, was welcome - if the rigid length between Anson's legs was any indication.

There was something sensuous yet passive and unsure about Anson's responses, and he found himself unable to stop the answering reaction within him as he ran his hands all over the younger man's skin, exploring in the darkness, eliciting gasps that sent the temperature higher between them. In a sort of daze, he now bent to trace the same paths with his mouth, caressing the hot skin that was flushed and fevered, pulling back at the occasional hiss as he discovered a bruise or sore spot on Anson's body.

Working downwards, he reached the taut, pale stomach while one hand went to cup the full, velvety balls as the other lightly grasped Anson's erect cock. A groan was pulled from Anson at his touch and Anson was abruptly squirming under him. Anson was muttering something incoherently and Moloney had to move back up to hear him; he still couldn't quite catch it. "What? What is it?"

Anson swallowed and repeated, huskily, "Fuck me, please. Please, do it. Just do it, oh god, oh fuck! C'mon, fuck me!" Anson sounded desperate and passionate and scared, all at the same time.

It went straight to his cock and he replied fervently, "God, yes. Oh, Anson, Anson," as he gripped Anson's cock again, more tightly. He let go now to move quickly to the door. "I'll be right back," he promised hurriedly, going to his bedroom and into his sock drawer, where he removed lube and a set of condoms. Before he could deliberate what he was about to do, he was back in the room and rejoining Anson on the bed, where the man lay helpless, awaiting his ministrations. His own fingers were trembling with the excitement as he unrolled a condom over his cock. He realized he hadn't had a sexual experience this satisfying since the last time he and his ex-wife had

He felt almost reverent that Anson would let him do this, anything at all; just to touch him, allow him to comfort him in any way. Anson was begging him again in broken whispers, almost incoherent once more, nearly writhing under him with need. The urgency was almost more than he could bear and he couldn't deny either of them any longer. He cautiously moved to press a lubed finger lightly against the younger man's exposed anus; Anson's knees were drawn up and spread apart. He had only ever engaged in anal sex with a woman once before in his life, and he remembered it had been strange, unfamiliar, but entirely engulfing and tight. Much tighter, in fact. He pressed his finger within Anson's heat, causing Anson to gasp again and start to swear raggedly as Nick moved it in and out slowly, enjoying the way Anson tried to impale himself on it. A truly wicked grin spread itself over his face and he withdrew his finger to add two this time. After a bit, he decided Anson was as ready as he was going to be. He spread lube copiously over his cock, and then with one hand grasping Anson's hip, the other aiming the head of his cock against that delightfully tight entrance, he pushed forward, slowly, slowly, until Anson was shivering under him, growling.

Moloney eased himself into the surprisingly heat-filled channel, sliding deeper and deeper inside Anson's ass as the tightest, most luxuriously silken sheath enveloped his cock. It was all he could do not to lose it right then and there. He remained motionless; Anson skewered on him, neither of them daring to move. Finally, after taking a few moderate breaths, he thrust upwards, already filling up the younger man so fully that the movement actually pushed him backwards slightly. The strained cry that Anson gave at this made fiery trickles run throughout his blood, and he repeated the motion, pulling out an inch or so to gain more leverage. It was slow, agonizingly slow, and he kept it that way - leaving the force of his movements for each hard thrust into him. Anson was delirious beneath him now, a deep groan hoarsely pulled from him with every penetrating buck of Moloney's hips, saying over and over again, "Fuck, fuck, oh fuck, *fuck*" like it was a mantra.

The sound of it was what finally made him lose control, and he began to slam harder into Anson, harder, more forcefully, until Anson was screaming under him and suddenly that unbearably slick and hot ass was clenching, fluttering with the spasms as Anson's cock shot its hot juice against both their chests, a couple of droplets even landing upon Moloney's lips. He absently licked out with the tip of his tongue, tasting it as the pulsing massaging of his cock finally proved too much, and he came with a deep, shuddering groan, plunging into that delicious ass under him again and again and again. There was a bittersweet moment as he felt those now- familiar little shudders under him once more, and he leaned all the way over, pulling his slowly wilting prick out, to lick at Anson's cheeks, catching the little salty trails and murmuring against his flushed face, "Love you, my wild one. I do."

"Crazy, you mean." Anson's answer was quiet.

"No, I think you're wrong there. I'm the crazy one over you."

The surety and confidence in his response made Anson give a little sigh and he relaxed under him once more. "I wish -" he stopped.

"What?" Moloney found himself waiting.

Anson licked his lips. "I wish I could hold you."

A twinge of regret panged inside him at those words and Moloney swiftly pushed it away. "Not at all. This is your time; I'm holding you. You need it."

Put like that, Anson found he didn't want to argue the point and just enjoyed it, clinging to it inside, although only just enough to believe it right now, at face value.

They stayed like that, each of them wondering if they were truly glad that there was no way they could hang onto this time as it slipped away with the hands of the clock. Each silently suspected it wasn't so. It wasn't long before Moloney discovered the only way for him not to get lost in some tangent of self-pity, any feeling of loss or regret that this was all there was or could be, was to make love to Anson again. And again. Until late morning claimed them out of sheer necessity.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A month later, Moloney received a phone call from Dr Jessica Williams, who delivered the healthy news that Anson Greene was making progress and was on the road to recovery after having suffered that complete collapse previously. It would be a while, of course, but with patience, regression and positive reinforcement therapy, they were painstakingly working at rebuilding the damage that had been done all those years before.

Jessica privately shared her personal belief that it was his brief friendship with Anson that had made the difference; that without it Anson wouldn't have responded so well to treatment. Moloney agreed. As short as it that time had been, it seemed that even a little love went a long way.

Finis

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★