Archive of Our Own

He could analyze it to death. He could map out the logical processes, he could identify the chemical triggers in his brain; he could remember exactly how it felt to have Zack's secret clinging to the back of his throat. He could attribute it to a number of factors- emotional duress, the adrenaline rush, heightened paranoia and anxiety, work-related stress, the possibility of being caught returning Zack to the facility far past normal hours and far out of the range of time alloted for outpatient sessions (not to mention the fact that he had never formally checked Zack out that afternoon or filed the necessary forms to even begin the process of being able to take Zack out of the perimeters of his own room without heavy supervision, much less the building).

He could do his best to rationalize it, justify it, flay it open in his best "I have a PhD and the hubris to prove it" voice and lay the very bones of the situation out, glistening, picked clean. He could blame unconscious limbic revision, frission, lust, any number of Murray's psychogenic needs- the need for affiliation with Zack, the need for autonomy from the legal and ethical restraints put on him by his position both as a professional and Zack's therapist, the simple need for sentience. The need to fight past the overwhelming wave of helplesness crashing down on him, the need to do something, anything he could for Zack if he couldn't share the secret, clear his name, break him out, change the law, rewind time, intervene. Comfort. Save.

Instead he sits in his quiet office, tunes out that side of his brain, and focuses on the memories, his own narrative, speculative voice eerily silent for the first time in years. Zack sliding his library card with the stolen magnetic strip through the security checkpoint at the front door, the satisfying slide of the doors swallowing them into the dark entry hall; the way the pale amber light from the parking lot lapped at the edges of his vision, caught Zack's eye and shimmered there when he turned at Lance's whisper. "Wait." The way his shoulders felt under Lance's fingers, warm and more solid than he'd expected, the slight defiance of collarbones as he pressed Zack to the wall, gently enough to avoid noise and pain but fervently enough to make Zack's breath catch in his chest.

A slight tremble in his inquisitive voice, "I don't understand," and then his penetrating, clinical eyes softening, betraying him as they stumbled to Lance's mouth. "I need to get back to my room before I get you in any more trouble." The surprising sleekness of his rather unkempt hair, the way it flowed through Lance's fingers, splashed against his wrists. "You're my therapist." The surprising arch of his slender body, pressing closer. "Security cameras?" The tip of his nose brushing the younger man's cheek, the hot bursts of anticipatory breath in the space between them. "I'm afraid I'm out of excuses."

"Finally." One of his carefully rationed smiles curling against Lance's mouth, the searing sweep of tongue over lower lip, the slightest hint of teeth drawing a beautiful noise out of Lance that he wasn't aware he could make as a shiver of pleasure went tripping across his skin, raising goosebumps.

The sick spiral of disappointment as he pulls away, the deceptive shine of impending tears in his eyes. "I can't," despite the hot desperation, bodies flush in every sense of the word. The peculiar pound of their hearts, loud in their shared space. "I can't... I can't touch you, the way you want me to. The way I want to." The sheepish lift of gloved hands, the terrible absence of their weight from the younger man's hips. The broken sigh, the way he leans into Lance's fingertips against his cheek.

"You can, Zack. You did."