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Millicent was gone.

This wasn't exactly a surprising turn of events. Millicent had never been meant for just one place, and Thorne had given up trying to keep her indoors as soon as he'd realized that the fact was she just wouldn't be happy that way.

But she'd been gone for a day and a half, and that - that was cause for concern. Usually she came back at least once a day for food, or to sleep on his shoulders while he hunched himself over in thought, working on the new projects piled up or half-remembered sketches of people he'd met, certain neighbors next door pulled from memory alone. So of course that only meant one of two things.

She had either found a new person to seize control over, or she was dead.

So half-way through his afternoon attempts at productivity, Thorne had given up and gone on the hunt. He hadn't gone with any plan in mind - just the thought of surveying the area for any open windows she could have gotten into or trees she might have scaled in her pursuit of all things conquerable.

He hadn't expected much from his half-hearted hunt. He really hadn't expected to see her tail disappearing through a window. A window he knew intimately. A window he knew because he'd climbed through it before. And right into bed. With a very handsome man.

s**t. <******** -

Thorne thought about backtracking. It wasn't difficult. He could just... he could just climb back in his own window. Pretend he didn't exist. But then Millicent's tail swayed into view once more, as though teasing him.

"Millie," Thorne hissed, as though that would do anything. "Millie, I swear to god - "

But talking wasn't going to get his cat out of places she wasn't supposed to be. Thorne resigned himself to the climb - it was less difficult in daylight, but he only prayed Lucas was out or asleep or - in the shower - s**t -

Thorne caught the sill with his hands and hefted himself up, stretching half over into the apartment to try and catch Millicent with his hands. She had leaped from her perch to the ground to eye him nastily, the way a person might eye a piece of filth. Apparently she still wasn't over his abandonment, but that didn't mean she had any right to make him break and enter another man's home a second time in order to retrieve her. And dressed in nothing but black, washing machine-shrunk jeans scoured with charcoal and paint and a tank top that would have been white if it wasn't covered in a similar triad of colors, he posed a poor sight for any eye for someone that had control over their life.

"Millicent Mucha Thorne, you will come here right now or I'll roast you in the oven and serve you to all of my nonexistent friends," Thorne said, and the cat rubbed herself up against his outstretched fingers before flopping to the floor just out of reach, "I swear to god - or gods, whatever entity lives around this damn place - you will be the best dinner I'll ever make when I'm through with you - "

Was it breaking and entering, in the grand scheme of things, if he was only bent over the window sill, one hand propping him up, the other outstretched? Well, that was up to Lucas to decide.

Oh s**t, Oh s**t.

He was still hot. Damn. ********. Damn.

Thorne swallowed the sudden knot in his throat at the very sight of Lucas in the light of day. He'd thought, maybe, that being enamored with the remembrance of the man meant that once he saw him again it would fade. After all, the surreal nature of the world that night, the heat and hunger and the way they'd felt so right - well, he'd thought maybe that had been a matter of circumstance. And the helpless way he'd been drunk on the thought of it in the days following - nothing but a matter of clutching to some shaft of light in the nightmares that followed on schedule the next night.

But no. He'd definitely been wrong. Lucas looked just as much a manifestation of something divine earth-driven as he had in the night. Even pants couldn't take away the realization of that. Thorne wondered what picture he must have painted, hanging half over the mans windowsill and swearing at a cat.

It wasn't an image he wanted to create in his mind to criticize.

He wondered briefly, and not for the first time, if he should just let himself fall out the window. But then he remembered that Lucas had been willing to take him to bed that night. And even now, he wasn't rebuking Thorne for doing the same damn thing twice in a row. And then - and then his hand seized Thorne's arm, and damn it, he was caught.

Anxiety rose like a tidal wave inside of him, nipping and biting at every thought. But Thorne let himself focus on the bite of nails into skin, the warmth spreading. He turned his hand and caught Lucas's own arm in return.

"So," he said, his voice rough and gravelly, "He isn't only handsome as an angel, but he's intelligent too." His smile curved across his face, more sure than he felt in his bones. "You really think she's the only work of art in this room?" His eyes flicked to Millie, her belly showing as she bathed herself in the light of the sun. "And I see you two are acquainted. So much for being her enemy."

A part of Thorne's mind screamed loudly at the idea of flirting - AGAIN - but mostly he just focused on keeping the tremble out of his voice. Any sign that this was nerve-wracking, no matter how much he just wanted to wax poetic about Lucas and the fact that he wasn't trying to kill him with a dumbbell for breaking in again and in the middle of the day.

His eyes lifted to the other mans, holding his gaze. The cheshire grin split something open inside of him - some wild, hot deliverance of emotion that threatened to make his hands shake with a different sort of restlessness.

And who was he to protest?

Thorne was barely landing on the interior of the apartment before he was taking advantage, swallowing his anxiety as he pulled on Lucas's hand, teasingly, but enough to draw him closer.

"But where's the fun in having it any other way?" He asked, his eyes flaring and wild. "I'd rather leave an impression on you, neighbor."

Lucas was unlucky, because Thorne was invested. And that meant that he swallowed the anxiety like a pill, swallowed the heartbeat loud like a drum in his ears, and he watched. His eyes flicked to Lucas, drinking in the sight, and he wondered what kind of encounter this would be. Without the heat of the night and the way in which they'd been wordless for most of it and speaking in a different language entirely, this was new ground. This was untested ground.

He cocked his head at the comment, shoulders rolling back. He was still aware of himself, a mess. And he was intimately aware of the space between them and Lucas's eyes and his expressions. Every word from his mouth like a spark. "I try my best," he retorted, "And I suppose I should be glad. Millie needs another man to conquer when I'm not around, and she seems to have had a fine time with you."

And it wasn't that he suddenly felt the need to exist. Maybe he just wanted to try. For once since coming back from the war, he wanted to try and pretend he could be someone worthy of this. Of afternoons spent in conversation over cats. Going nowhere. Going somewhere.

Maybe he wanted to pretend.

"How tragic," Thorne said, his voice a crackle like a lash of thunder, "Is that an invitation for me to continue trying to catch your attention in unorthodox ways? And does that make me an outlier?" His mouth curved into the sharpest curve of a grin. "I can't say I'm ashamed."

But then there was this - a flicker. A pause. The light faded from Lucas's eyes, and Thorne hadn't seen this before but he'd seen something similar. In the way people retreated into themselves, spiraling out from control. And the dormant emotions that straddled his existence - the pervasive, endless need to help - woke up so viciously that it almost made him reel, made him sick.

"I'm glad, she's usually rather sour about new folk... but she seems to like you." Thorne's voice was slow and thoughtful, the tease dropping from it until there was some new quality to it. A flare of electric concern, deep and sweltering. Carefully, he stepped forward, not as a tease, not as an invitation, but as a silent question.

"Lucas," he said. He drew the name out slowly, letting it linger in the air between them. "Eventful doesn't necessarily make me think you've had a good week." He paused, baring his teeth for a second in a show of hesitation before saying, softly, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Thorne retorted, "because she was raised by me." It was automatic, ruthless, and it made every lethargic thought in Thorne's head struggle to keep up before freaking out. Every needle of adrenaline and anxiety to his veins intoxicated him, but he kept himself grounded in Lucas's presence. He kept his focus outward. Not in.

His eyes flicked to Lucas's, holding his gaze unless the other chose to break it. Yes, he was a hypocrite, and yes, he was a man that had too many rampant demons himself, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try and hunt others. Lucas spoke, and it was like a gut-punch. And Thorne didn't know why. He'd encountered this man only briefly in the night, through a language that wasn't necessarily meant for anything but in passing.

But it hurt. This - hurt.

Because he wanted to do something. Anything. And he knew that his hands were better at breaking things than fixing them. "You're not fine." The words blew from his mouth, not in accusation, but in a soft cut through the lie. "You're not. Don't pretend that you are." His hand slid up, fingers ghosting Lucas's collarbone. And his mouth quirked into a half-smile, helpless. "You think I have a choice in how I look at you?"

He sucked in a breath, sharp. His voice rolled, low and gravelly in his throat. But not hesitant. He wouldn't be hesitant when Lucas was the one on the brink. If it meant pulling him back from the edge, Thorne would swallow everything inside of himself to do it. The smile dropped, but Thorne didn't step away. Didn't look away.

"Lucas," the name came again, and a heartbeat after it - "I'm not going to pry for your secrets. It's not my place. I don't care if you're not fine, if you won't be fine for a long time. I don't care as long as you're not dying - or else who would Millie get to terrorize?" Thorne paused. And then, brazenly, he pushed on. "And I'm no cat, and I don't make for wonderful company. But I will be company, if you ask for it, if you need it. If your ******** world flips upside down. I'm here - hell, I'm just next door." He pressed his fingers to the others collarbone, just enough that the pressure sang between them. And then he pulled back, and tilted his head to the side. "I'm not asking you to tell me your secrets. This isn't me asking you for anything. This is an offer. And it's open, for as long as you need."

His lips curled into a sardonic half-smile.

"And anyways if I ever need to find Millie, now I know where to come."

Lucas wasn't relishing the thought, but he was about to gently tell Thorne that he was sweet, a pretty great neighbor, but that he didn't know him. He was going to tell the man that they knew names and intimate details but that hardly qualified them to rely on each other. He really would have liked to have pointed out Thorne was almost as guarded as himself, if not more.

But it happened.

His nose was filled with blood and clotted bits of flesh, the tang of torn organs, the gritty crunch of bone and chew of sinew. Lucas felt it on his teeth, tasted it down his throat, felt the warm vitae that poured over his chin and painted his dark skin in bright splotches and streaks. And he knew, even with the taste and the smell cloying his senses, whose blood and body it was.

The cry he uttered was near inhuman, pushing himself away from Thorne abruptly and damn near tripping over the cat. His stomach tightened and he felt like he was going to retch; he caught himself hard against the door frame by his room, back turned to Thorne, bent in half with his prosthetic hand over his mouth. It was trembling.

Was it going to happen? Was he going to -- right now -- ?

"Get Millie," he gasped, tasting the acid on the back of his throat. "Get Millie and go, Thorne!"

He wanted to throw himself into the bedroom, lock the door, and expel his guts into the nearest thing he could thrust his head over. Lucas gripped the doorframe with his good hand, preparing to hurl himself in, when he heard the faintest sound -- it sounded like Thorne.

Lucas drew in a ragged gasp, looking over his shoulder in fear - and what he saw drew out a different breed of fear, something cold and tight and familiar. He'd seen men in his battalion suffer after job related injuries or the job itself; he'd seen it in madness, in fear, in hatred, and seeing a deepset PTSD episode in Thorne ripped up his own conception of terror. With the taste of Thorne's proverbial blood still ripe on his tongue and etched between his teeth, he turned back to the cowering man and made a decision of which fear was going to rule him.

Millie was gone (the cat had more sense than either of them, it would seem), at least, and it made it a little easier to drag himself back to his trembling neighbor. His heart was beating too fast and the fear was tightening his throat beyond his ability to breathe easily, but it wasn't about him. It's not about him. Lucas shakily lowered himself to the floor some feet away from Thorne, trying to find and hold the man's gaze, his entire body trembling.

"Thorne -- Thorne, can you hear me? Thorne, it's Lucas, your neighbor." He could tell, now, that the word falling from the man's lips was 'please.' His heart squeezed tighter. "Thorne, you're having a flashback. I need you to hear me, please, god, hear me -- you're having a flashback and I need you to look around. Look around my living room and tell me what you see." Lucas had handled these things before, he'd been taught what techniques would best shake someone in the middle of an attack, but this wasn't his squad. This was a man that had tried to help him and was suffering for it. This was his fault.

"You're in my place, you crawled through the window, remember? It's -- it's right above you, if you look up, it's right -- it's right there." Lucas' voice cracked. This isn't fair to Thorne. "Take a deep breath, look at me, follow my voice, okay? I'm right here. I'm right here with you."

"You can," he said back in a soft desperation, the edges slightly frayed but trying to be strong. "You can, you can look, you can feel around you -- nothing can hurt you, you're here with me, Lucas, your neighbor, off of Fox Street, with your cat Millicent Mucha Thorne." Lucas could hear his voice waver, but getting better, having to express the strength he was begging Thorne to find. "Take a deep breath, slow, the best you can, and look around. This is my home, Thorne, you've climbed through that window twice and taken my hand as many times."

Christ, directing his mind to what they did in the heat of the night probably wasn't going to help. Lucas would repeat himself until he was hoarse if he had to, but he wasn't going to let Thorne suffer like this. "Thorne, you're in a flashback. It's -- it's not real. Put your hands on the floor, feel the hardwood, look at me -- I'm real. No one can or will hurt you, I swear it, you are safe here." He didn't dare move, as badly as he wanted to gather the broken pieces of Thorne and hold on until he was whole again. "Remember me, Lucas, remember your cat, Millie. Remember that you were going to cook her because she'd been with me and you didn't know." He laughed, but the sound was as jagged as his breath.

"Breathe in, breathe out. Look around. Tell me what you see, Thorne, and know no one can hurt you, I wont let them."

And the last thing he expected was precisely what did happen, Thorne's fingers curling into his shirt, those dark eyes wild but seeing him. Acknowledging him. Lucas felt like he'd been holding his breath and it'd been socked out of him, he was so relieved.

"I can't make it stop, Thorne, I -- I can't see it. It's your memory, I -- " He tugged himself up into a kneeling position, but not away from Throne, instead putting a leg over him, hands sliding from the one holding his shirt to his face, the prosthetic cooler than the real one but still heated from Lucas' own body. "You're somewhere I can't reach you, so -- come back. Hold onto me, I wont let anything hurt you, okay? I've got you. I've got you."

Against his better judgment, he wrapped both arms around Thorne's broad shoulders and tucked the man's head against his chest, against his heart. "You're safe," he repeated softly, even as his stomach tightened at the familiar scent of the man and the 'memory' of blood. "I've got you." Lucas lowered his head, nose and chin against the man's dark hair. "Breathe me, the here and now, not back there. Not where I can't follow. It's gone, it's in the past, and you're here, and you're safe."

The words were repeated softly, continually, into Thorne's hair and over the shell of his ear. He held on as if he was the only link the other had between the realm of the past and reality, as long as it took. As long as he was needed.