A/N: I do not own any of this. Song lyrics are Christina Perri's "Arms" and the story at the end is the beginning of Redwall by Brian Jacques. Don't own those, either.

I never thought that you'd be the one to hold my heart

Stephen is pissed. Connor might not be the best at interpreting other people, but that much is almost painful obvious. He doesn't quite how he got roped into coming over to Stephen's flat, but there he is, sitting on the sofa, listening to the other man growl and curse. Stephen has been all but exiled from the team since the revelation of his affair with Helen Cutter, which Connor doesn't completely understand. Oh, he gets why Cutter is furious – what man wouldn't be riled, knowing his best mate had slept with his wife then lied about it for eight years? – but Abby and Jenny are both taking it personally, like Stephen had slept with their husbands. That he doesn't understand. Why are their knickers in a twist when it has nothing to do with them? Lester is doing the same thing, though in a much more subtle way. A particularly cold remark here and there, a certain frosty tone in his voice. He's taking it personal, too, which Connor doesn't understand either. And between the four of them, they've nearly shoved Stephen right out of the ARC entirely.

Connor remembers seeking the other man out, trying to make sense of this seething cat's cradle he is somehow in the middle of, finding Stephen in a pub ready to numb the pain at the expense of his liver, and somehow ending up here, in the man's flat with an unopened bottle of beer in front of him, listening to the lab tech's angered words.

Stephen rolls the bottle between his palms, glaring down at it as if it has somehow done him a personal injury. Leaning back, he sets it on the table, shaking his head. "I…I dunno if I can take it anymore. I really don't. I mean, nobody treats me the same after what happened with Helen. Jenny, Lester, Cutter, Abby…" He shoves a hand back through his hair. "Cutter hates my guts, Abby and Jenny despise me, and Lester treats me like I'm dirt. I make one mistake, and suddenly I'm the team's whipping boy, or a dog for them to kick around."

Connor keeps silence, gazing at the older man from the corner of his eye, at the lean form of his body, the tension in his shoulders, the anger that flowed off him. He is a dog, just like he says. A half-feral wolfdog that'll bite any hand what tries to pet him but will still ravage the throat from any man who tries to hurt his masters, he thinks to himself, but he has the good sense not to say it, lest he be the one bitten. But he can see the anger is merely a thin sheet to muffle the fact that, underneath it all, Stephen is more hurt than angry. Hurt that his friends would drop him like that because of a single mistake. A bad mistake, sure, but still just one mistake. Taking a deep breath, he leans forward, wraps both arms around Stephen's waist, and presses his head against the man's chest.

Stephen goes very still, disbelieving. Awed, almost. He can feel the geek's arms around his waist, slim hands pressed against his back, the pressure of the dark-haired head against his chest, and the warmth of the slender body, but he doesn't move. Mistaking stillness for dislike, Connor starts to pull away, embarrassed and wondering if he's just ruined whatever tentative friendship (?) they have, but then a warm arm comes around his back, holding him still. Stephen doesn't remember when he moved, just that he…he really doesn't want to be let go. He hasn't been hugged in years; he's very nearly forgotten how good it can feel simply being held by someone else. Because it it's…well, Connor. The young man doesn't expect anything unreasonable from him, doesn't make any demands, and doesn't treat him like he's Public Enemy No.1. Connor is…kind. Warm, gentle….simply good. So the lab tech knows that Connor doesn't expect anything more, is hugging him because he wants to give Stephen some kind of comfort. He puts his other arm around the geek's back, hand resting between the boy's thin, bony shoulder blades. He feels Connor's gentle breathing and the steady beat of his heart, and he can't help but tilt his head ever-so-slightly to the side and let soft black hair brush against his jaw.

He isn't sure how long they sit there like that, but eventually, he lowers his arms. Connor leans back after the slightest moment of hesitation. "Don't go, Stephen," the younger man says softly. His head is down, hair crowding his face and hiding his expression, but the heartfelt sincerity in his voice is impossible to miss. "The others, they don't…they forget. They're all mad, and it makes them forget."

"Forget what?" Stephen asks quietly.

"That we need you." He curls in on himself slightly, arms clutched close to his side, like he's trying to make himself appear as small and inconspicuous as possible. "We need you, and even if they forget it, I don't. We'd be eaten in a week without you. We need you. I need you. So don't…don't go, Stephen."

He doesn't know what to say to that, stunned that the young man really thinks so highly of him, and before he can open his mouth, Connor is on his feet, bidding him a hasty goodnight and hurrying out of the flat.

And the next day, Stephen walks back into the ARC.

I tried my best to never let you in to see the truth

Things have changed in more ways than one, and Stephen isn't quite sure how to handle that. He stays on the team by way of sheer stubbornness, refusing to be left behind and cut out. It isn't easy, considering the frosty tension that lies between him and the others. The soldiers don't treat him any different, but that isn't the same. They aren't the man he's worked for and been mates with for nearly a decade, nor are they friends that he has worked closely with near-daily for the past year.

The only thing that keeps him sane anymore is Connor, and that is something he definitely doesn't know how to handle. Somehow, he's come to lean on the younger man's presence, even though he doesn't show it. At the day's end, when everyone's going their separate ways, every now and then, Connor will run up to him and hug him tightly, out of sight of everyone, before hastening back to Abby to go home. That should bother him. All his life, Stephen's been very peculiar about physical contact. He hates it when people touch him without permission, even if it is in a friendly way, like an arm around his shoulders. Some people, like Cutter, don't count, simply because he has been friends with the man so long. But he hasn't known Connor that long, doesn't know him that well. It should bother him.

It doesn't. He likes it. The warm arms around his waist, the slight weight leaning into him, silk black hair brushing against his cheek, none of it bothers him. It's good and warm and comforting, reminding him that he has to come back tomorrow if only for Connor's sake. And that, in and of itself, is disturbing. Connor is good and kind and honest…everything that Stephen isn't. He can't risk letting anything more develop from this. He can't. Because if he hurts Connor, there will be no second chance. He'll end up dismembered and chucked through an anomaly in pieces. He can't let them be anything more than friends. No matter how bad he wants to.

I never want to leave you but I can't make you bleed if I'm alone

Connor doesn't know what he did wrong. For a while, it had seemed like he was getting things back on track. Stephen is still with them, the others are softening little by little, and some sort of equilibrium is almost established. Little by little, he and Stephen had been becoming more than friends, too. They had started talking more, talking about nothing in particular, just about whatever sprang to mind. He knows more about Stephen than he'd ever think, about the man's childhood and how he was raised with grandparents that were almost fanatically religious and forbade nearly everything, even the book his father had given him. "Never even got to read it," he recalls wistfully. "Don't even know what they did with it." Stephen knows things about Connor that few people do, like how he once was so bloody poor that he lived in the abandoned Tube stations under London for nearly three months, him and the Mole People, the fringe society that lived in the Underground both figuratively and literally. He still knows the Underground like the back of his hands, too. "So if there's ever another anomaly down there, I'll be all over it." Connor had even begun daring to think that perhaps they were more than mates, even.

But now Stephen isn't the same way. He shrugs off Connor's attempts at conversation, ignores him when they're out on calls, hardly even looks in his direction. And the last time Connor tried to hug him, Stephen recoils like he's contagious and walks away without a backwards look. It's like they've somehow reverted back to the way things were when they first began, when Connor wasn't good enough to even know Stephen's name, much less work with him. He doesn't understand why, though, and it hurts, hurts more than he could have imagined.

So he withdraws. Stephen doesn't want him around, and he doesn't press the issue. It was stupid to think they were ever more than friends anyways, he convinces himself. Nobody wants him, not Connor Temple. Nope. He is good for shoring up someone's ego, that's about all.

If he had known about Helen, though, he'd have refused to let go of Stephen even if it hurt.

The world is coming down on me, and I can't find a reason to be loved

"They're dead, Stephen. The creatures…" Helen's voice trails off in his ear as Stephen sinks to his knees in the sand, arm falling limp at his side.

Dead? His friends…are dead. Abby, Jenny, Cutter…Connor. His Connor. Oh, God, what has he done? He's never going to see his little geek again, never spend hours talking about everything and nothing, exchanging theories, and telling stories. He is never going to feel the warmth of slender arms around him or dark hair brush his cheek. He's lost his Connor. Numbly, his arm lifts, bringing the mobile back up to his ear. "Where are you?" he asks, his voice flat, dead. He doesn't give a flying fuck who is behind all this, not anymore. He is going to find the person responsible for killing his Connor, and he is going to paint the wall with the inside of their skulls.

Helen tells him, and he flings his mobile out into the ocean. He wants to scream, to rip his hair out and sob, but he doesn't. He can't. Not now. All that…that crushing – pain is too mild a word for what he felt – and locks it away in some dark corner of his mind. He lets himself go numb, cold. He needs to have a clear head for what he's going to do next.

He goes to his truck and grabs his gun.

And I've never opened up, I've never truly loved

Walking hurts, so does breathing – he's definitely cracked at least one or more of his ribs, he can feel it – but he keeps moving. He's escaped from the atrium of superpredators through one of the vents, too small for any creature to follow him, but not before he got thrown about a bit between them. One of them cut his leg, but then they became too absorbed in fighting each other to notice him. He hears the sound of voices ahead and knows he has to be close to outside. Wincing at each step, he pushes open the heavy door even though every bit of him aches, stepping out into glaringly bright sunlight.

There's an ambulance parked nearby, soldiers swarming everywhere. He sees Jenny standing there, looking frazzled but still alive, talking into her mobile – he is willing to bet it's Lester. Cutter is sitting there, pale and numb-looking, no doubt in shock, thinking Stephen is dead. A young black woman – the mysterious Caroline, probably – is sitting on the kerb being looked over by a medic. Abby sits a few feet away, cradling her precious Rex in both arms. And there, sitting off to the side by himself, eyes closed, tears trickling down his face, is his Connor.

"Stephen!"

He is quite sure that if Abby's voice got any higher, it would be beyond the range of human hearing. Surely there were dogs howling somewhere nearby. For a moment, they're all staring at him, Abby clutching Rex tightly, Jenny wide-eyed but unspeaking, a first – and Cutter looking like he's staring at a ghost risen from the dead.

But then the stillness is broken, because Connor is scrabbling to his feet, tripping slightly then sprinting over to him. He slams into Stephen, staggering them both, arms wrapped tightly around him, head tucked against his chest, hands digging into his back like he's afraid to let go again. He's hugging Stephen so tight that the tracker feels his bruised ribs complain loudly, but fuck-all if he cares at the moment. He wraps arms around Connor, holding the geek to his chest just as tightly, one hand on his back, the other buried in his dark hair, keeping his head pressed close against his shoulder. He can feel the younger man trembling finely, feel the soft, inaudible sobs that caught in his chest, and Stephen doesn't let go, even as the others hasten over to reassure themselves that he is, indeed, still alive.

He just hugs Connor a little tighter.

I hope that you'll see right through my walls

He's bruised four ribs and cracked a fifth, has ten stitches in his thigh, enough bruises all over to look like a paint horse, and a twisted ankle. For escaping a giant atrium full of superpredators from a dozen different eras…that isn't so bad.

Stephen is home now, back in his flat, and the first thing he does is take everything of Helen's – every photo, every keepsake she's given him, even the clothes he wore that still have her scent on them – and chucks them into a rubbish bin. He considers burning them, too, but thinks that might put him at odds with the block superintendent. He'll just have to settle for tossing it all down the chute. That crazy bitch nearly got him killed today, and hell if he's going to keep anything of her around. If she ever shows up again, the only help he's going to give her is a helping shove out the door into the arms of Lester's soldiers.

And Connor is the first person to show up. He walks into Stephen's flat like he owns it – cheeky little punk has picked the lock again, he'll need to start putting the chain on the door – and shakes his head. "You forgot your painkillers, you git. And you're not supposed to be on that ankle. Sit."

Stephen wants to protest being told about like a dog in his own flat, but his ribs do hurt, so does his ankle, and he sinks down onto his sofa, gingerly putting his leg up as Connor hands him one of the little pills and a glass of water. Once he's swallowed it down, waiting for it to take effect, Connor returns to him, and Stephen is too tired to protest as the geek slips hands under his shoulders, lifts him up, then sits down on the end of the sofa, letting the tracker's head and shoulders rest in his lap. It's comfortable and good, especially once the younger man begins carding gentle fingers through the top of his hair.

"Don't you ever do something like that again, Stephen James Hart," Connor whispers into the quiet. "If you die because of something stupid, I swear, I will follow you into the next life and kill you."

"I'll…try not to." It isn't a promise, because neither of them can promise that. It is part of their job, and sometimes, they have to let the stampeding rhino bowl them over lest it do serious damage otherwise. Connor knows that, and he knows that 'trying not to' is all Stephen can promise him.

You put your arms around me

Connor strokes his hair again, then leans over until the ends of his overlong hair tickle against Stephen's skin. The kiss is hardly a kiss, just the slightest brush of their lips, but it still makes his toes curl and his stomach tighten. "Good," Connor murmurs, then kisses Stephen's forehead. "C'mon, into bed with you before you fall asleep out here."

Once Stephen is in bed, the throbbing discomfort in his ankle and the steady aching in his ribs fading as the painkillers begin working, Connor surprises him by sliding in next to him, still wearing his layers, though he's removed his scarf, fedora, and boots. Stephen can't help but roll over towards him, resting his head on the younger man; since the other man is sitting up on the pillows stacked against the headboard, Stephen has his head almost on Connor's stomach. One arm settles around him, lightly playing with his hair once more.

"I brought you something else, too," says Connor gently, rousing Stephen from the half-doze he was sinking into. And it's then that he sees the old, battered hardcover book in the geek's hand.

For a moment, he can't make sense of why Connor has a book, but then the pieces connect, and he tilts his head up to look at him. Connor is smiling a little bit, a warm, fond expression. "You found my book."

"I found your book. And since you're well on your way to being stoned out of your mind, would you rather I do the reading?" Connor asks.

Had it been any other situation, Stephen might have laughed. He's 32 years old, a grown man with a job and a flat, and yet he's being tucked into bed and being offered a bedtime story by a man 8 years his junior. He doesn't laugh, though. He tucks his head a little more comfortably against Connor's side, settling himself in a comfortable position, and nods. Connor's gentle fingers begin playing in his hair again, and his eyes fall shut as the young man begins to read. "'It was the start of the Summer of the Late Rose. Mossflower country shimmered gently in a peaceful haze, bathing delicately at each dew-laden dawn, blossoming through high sunny noontides, languishing in each crimson-tinted twilight that heralded the soft darkness of June nights. Redwall stood foursquare along the marches of the old south border…'"

Stephen yawns, one arm resting around Connor, feeling safer and more content than he ever has, lying in the gentle embrace. This is where he is supposed to be.

You put your arms around me and I'm home.