AN: Collection of many neglected fics in my sentbox. Trying to get all out of the way so I can quit with relatively few regrets.

1: Perchance To Dream, slash

Searing, metal, ripping—agony so sharp he can't breathe—must keep silent, don't scream, give those bastards the satisfaction, not after they killed—but hell, he's being—ohGodohGodpleaseplease—his arms, his hipbones, his knee-joints—he can envision the slick balls of the joints popping loose from the sockets, trailing fluid, see the cracks spreading through his vertebrae, the piercing electric-shocks of splintering bone making his mouth open in a gaping grimace, the tears tracking down his face in a—

Warmth whispering down his cheek, smoothing the tears away. The horrible pain in his joints displaced by soft, aching relief. The scream of creaking metal and wood and bone extinguished, damped by a blanket of quiet, of perfect peace. The iron that cut into his wrists melting away, his flaming skin soothed by gentle fingers rubbing tiny circles into his flesh, chasing away the memory—memory?—of pain.

His body curls into itself, seeking relief after being stretched out so mercilessly, and is immediately gathered in, long limbs wrapping around him, his refuge, his shelter, his cradle. He's ashamed to reach out, weak, something tells him, he knows he's weak and unworthy… But it doesn't matter, because there's the deep voice murmuring reassurances into his hair, the big hands smoothing up and down his back, and Kelly's face is pressed into his partner's chest, and he huddles close, knowing he's weak for needing the comfort but unable to relinquish its welcoming warmth.

Until, that is, he feels the tiny tremor in the hands that soothe him, and it's then that he wraps his own arms around his partner, feeling, for the first time, the shudders that rack the strong frame. He doesn't think it's a weakness then, not when he shifts up to press his cheek to Scotty's, to whisper reassurances that he's just peachy-keen, Gaston, and not to skimp on the bouillabaisse. It heals him to embrace Scotty securely, heals him to feel how his partner holds fast to him as though to a life-preserver, heals him to give comfort as he takes it.

Scotty's not weak, Kelly knows, and hell, maybe, just maybe, he, Kelly, isn't quite as weak as he thought he was. Maybe a man just needs a port in the storm, to help chase the nightmares away. Because whether it's nightmares of past tortures or future bereavement, sometimes you need to prove to yourself that you're here, and now, and warm, and safe, and alive, and together.