Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a bad idea.

It was bad when he had grabbed his wallet, it was bad when he'd pulled out of the long gravel driveway, and it was, surprisingly enough, still bad.

Billy wasn't completely stupid. He'd listened to the weather report, checked outside before he left. And he thought he could make it. The front hadn't moved in completely, and he'd be damned if he was going to sit a week inside with only instant oatmeal and canned tuna.

"That's because you should have gone last week, dumbass." He cranked the steering wheel hard—and you still forgot steering fluid—as he veered right along a curve in the highway, the building snow crunching under the weight of the small Honda. Billy glanced at the illuminated green dash clock—3:49 and it was already growing dark; he couldn't believe he'd spent so long in the store. He flicked his headlights on. "But, no. Drive's always too long. Well, congratu-fucking-lations. It's even longer now."

Billy couldn't go faster even if he wanted to. With visibility so low, he could only really guess where the road was. His eyes strained against the warp field of snowflakes, willing himself to see beyond the entrancing pattern.

It had to be close to his turn, now. He craned his neck forward and with a puff of hot breath realized another issue that was only adding to his problems. Backing off the gas pedal even further, the move allowed him a little more reaction time should he need it; the hem of his polar fleece sleeve bunched in his fist, he wiped away the accumulating fog on the inside of the windshield directly in front of him. "Okay, better. Now just stop breathing and you'll be good to go."

But the clearer glass revealed more than he'd bargained for, more than just the road ahead. Red taillights caught his eye, but it took his brain a moment to register that they were, in fact, outside the car and not a weird glint of something reflected from his own interior. And the angle, that unnatural angle at which they were skewed into the ditch. . .

"Shit."

All at once his stomach dropped, his foot twisted and landed on the brake pedal, and his heavy coat found its way over his fleece jacket.

His mind raced.


Oh, God, someone else.
 

Sooner or later.

"Fuck statistics," he hissed before throwing his door open in a shower of snow, the wind drowning out any noise but itself, the icy flakes assaulting his already chapped face.

The snow he trudged through wasn't all that deep yet. It had almost begun to scrape along the underbelly of his car in the minutes before he had stopped, but he wasn't about to get stuck. He was certain he could still make it home.

But not without helping whoever was in there.

Billy could tell it was a double-cab truck, more than a few years old, the dark paint still showing as the flakes melted upon contact with the exterior. Good. The residual warmth meant it hadn't been sitting there long.

A wave of familiarity hit as he remembered a truck he'd pulled up behind during a stoplight in town—it had to be the same one, had to have been a ways in front of him the entire trip. Which at least proved it was there only a couple minutes, max.

Some kind of circular decal was pasted on the side of the door, but there was neither time nor ease for Billy to read it before he wrenched it open. Warm air escaped and the cab quickly became as frigid as the outside, snow intruding and settling itself on the form of a man.

He was unconscious, the seat belt holding him more or less upright but his neck lolling down. Billy held the head in his gloves, gently turning the man's face toward him. Older, somewhat weather-beaten skin displayed an artificial peace, but he looked alive enough. Billy momentarily held an eyelid up to reveal an unfocused bright blue eye, but couldn't remember what the pupil dilation even meant.

So instead he tapped gently on the man's cheek. "Hey!" he shouted over the wind, which was only slightly less deafening with the door as a shield—so even if the man made any weak sound in reply, it was thoroughly obscured. But he stirred a little, his head shifting against Billy's gloves and his eyes fluttering for a second before he went limp again.

Billy took the brief revival as a good sign. Other than the obvious head trauma, there didn't seem to be any visible injuries. Anything more would be hard to identify in the freezing seconds he had to look him over. And the loss of consciousness in the first place was a cause for concern, but one he had no immediate way to help.

The hospital was hot on Billy's mind. An ambulance might be able to make the journey, if he could call 911. But he didn't carry a cell phone, well, not since—

Billy started to pat the man's tan coat for any lumps that might indicate that he did. And there were none, not even a wallet. Strange. He scanned the seat and dashboard, and glanced into the backseat. Nothing.

"So that's it," he said, inaudible to even himself, as he twisted the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. Billy noticed the steering wheel—no airbag had even deployed.

Finding a reassuring pulse with his fingers on the man's neck, Billy started to unbuckle the seat belt. Almost as soon as he began hoisting the weight into his arms, he stopped. A dark hat was at the man's feet, presumably having fallen during the crash. Without thinking, Billy grabbed it and jammed it over his own stocking cap.

Grateful for the leverage given to him by the truck's angle in the ditch, Billy wrestled and then tipped the stranger's body into his arms. His muscles weren't what they were a year ago, but with the aid of adrenaline, he was strong enough to get himself and his burden back to his little car.

Failing to open the passenger door with his knee, Billy let the man down to his feet and propped him against the side of the car, keeping a hard grip so he wouldn't collapse into the snow. Once open, though, it was an entirely different matter of wrangling his head and arms and legs into the seat.

"Christ. You don't even fit. How tall are you? Jesus."

Billy glanced at the back seat, strewn with grocery bags, seeing no possible way to lay out the man comfortably. Instead he pulled the recline handle at the base of the passenger seat and the top segment shot backward. The man was now almost horizontal, the headrest crushing the tops of a few bags, and though his knees were sticking up weirdly, it would have to do.

The car had been running, the cab was still warm, and Billy only noticed how numb his cheeks were when he climbed back into the heat. He put it into drive but his foot hovered over the accelerator, seconds ticking as he decided which way to go.

Home wasn't far—he knew he could still get there, if barely. Turning back around to Lewistown, all those miles in this, into the direction of the storm where it was only bound to get even worse. . . it would be idiotic. There was no sense risking both their lives trying to make it.

Though he'd reached his decision, his resolve was strengthened when a sudden gust of wind rattled and rocked the car.

The snow was coming down harder. The man groaned next to him.

Billy's foot hit the pedal.

He'd turned off the country road onto his long driveway when the man stirred again. Billy glimpsed the whites of his eyes out of the corner of his own.

"That looks better on me than you," the man croaked.

It took a moment for Billy to understand what he was trying to say. Oh, the hat. Billy removed a hand from the steering wheel to feel the shape of the brim through his glove. Even if it was with a sense of humor, the man seemed to be talking deliriously. But at least he was talking.

"Try not to move your neck too much. I'm taking you somewhere you can rest."

Peripherally, Billy noticed the man still staring. "Thank you," he mumbled before falling silent again.

"You can thank me when I know you're okay," Billy replied, though he got the feeling that he was the only one hearing it.

The garage was cut into the hill beneath the cabin, and almost too much snow had accumulated at the base of the garage door. But it opened, some of the snow spilling back onto the concrete floor, and Billy powered the little Honda through.

Like a frozen clock suddenly ticking again, Billy snapped back into action. Heaving the weight out of the passenger's seat and staggering his way through the basement door, miraculously up the stairs, and to the couch in front of the fireplace, Billy had finally gotten the man to safety.

"Least I hope," he panted, kneeling down on the adjacent rug. He'd made the right decision. He had to have.

Billy couldn't tell if the man was unconscious or asleep. What was the difference at this point, anyway? It definitely wasn't a normal sleep, but would he wake up if he was prompted? Was that even a good thing to try at this point?

He was unsure how to proceed. Until the man woke up, hopefully on his own, what could Billy do but make sure he was warm and comfortable? What could he do but just wait until he wakes up again, long enough to see if he was okay? . . . And if he wasn't, then what?

Billy started with a thick, clean blanket, draped carefully over the limp form. Next were the man's boots, the experience of removing someone else's footwear disconcerting to Billy, but glad when he could tuck the feet under the blanket as well.

A few seconds passed as he stepped back and stared. Billy had to admit, the man looked vaguely familiar, but couldn't possibly think of where he'd seen him before. He felt for a wallet again, in the tan coat and—quickly—his back pockets, but with the same empty result. Who are you?

Billy continued on. He replaced the throw pillow with a real one, ensuring the man's neck was at a comfortable angle, which he checked again for a pulse—it was steady. What else?

"Right. Water." He quickly returned with a glass, setting it down on the side table, ready for whenever it was needed. 

Remembering the hat, Billy peeled it off of his stocking cap. It was a nice brown felt fedora, relatively high quality with a silken band around its crown and little sign of wear. "It probably does look better on you." He placed it next to the water glass.

With nothing else he could do, Billy fetched the groceries from his car.

The sun had long since set fully, the storm nearly invisible from inside the brightly lit cabin, only revealed by the white flakes that blew near enough to the glass panes to have light momentarily reflected upon them. But it could still be heard in force, low howls and weird whistlings berating the walls and windows. Billy had been through plenty of blizzards, but this seemed like an entirely different beast.

Wind was sapping heat away much quicker than the furnace could comfortably keep up with. Billy started a fire to supplement it, and the immediate area around the fireplace and couch grew warm, too warm to want to keep his jacket on. Stress slowly faded, the fire having a calming effect like always. Maybe it would help the stranger, too.

Whether or not that did it, Billy would never know, but he woke shortly after the flames had grown tall and crackling.

"Don't move your neck," Billy repeated as the man attempted to sit up.

"Yeah, got it," came a thick grumble. Brainstorming ideas after he'd put the last of the grocery bags on the kitchen island, Billy had decided to lightly wrap an Ace bandage around the man's neck—not tight enough to constrict and too loose to give physical support, it was merely there as a reminder.

Billy helped him find a more upright position. He grabbed the glass of room temperature water and knelt down, holding it close to the man's face. "Here, drink this."

"I'm not thirsty," he said flatly.

Billy held it a little closer. "You need to."

The man snaked an arm out from under the blanket, took the glass from Billy's hand, and set it back down on the table with a wry smile. "Maybe in a bit." He noticed his hat, picking that up instead.

"Your hat," Billy stated, his tone a little satisfied. "I rescued it, too."

Admiration in his touch, the man brushed off a patch of dust that it must have rolled in when it had tumbled to the floor of the cab. His decreasingly bleary eyes suddenly flickered up from the hat, taking a good look at Billy for the first time. "Who are you?" the man asked softly.

"Like I said—your rescuer." His knees having grown painful, Billy sat back on the rug. "But my name is Billy. Billy Brennan."

The man silently studied him. It wasn't just the radiating heat from the fire that made Billy feel warm; there was a powerful presence to him, one that captivated Billy even in his silence.

Billy wondered if the man had lost his concentration, maybe a symptom of his injury, but no, the blue eyes were focused. "Can you tell me your name?"

"I can," was the solitary reply from under the hat, which he had begun to put on halfway.

Billy was less than impressed with the attitude. He was only trying to figure out if his brain was injured or not. "And?"

The man sighed, placing the hat back on the table. "It's Alan."

"Alan," Billy repeated, the side of his lips pulling up. At least there was that much. "Do you remember what happened, Alan?"

Alan frowned, not appreciating the attention to his mistake. "I was driving. Until I wasn't."

"Uh-huh."

Alan brought his hand up to rub his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, I don't remember exactly what I did. It's. . . kind of a blur. There was a lot of snow, and I. . ." He tried to shake his head a little.

Billy impulsively reached out to grab the top of his head to stop him, but Alan had already stopped. Instead he turned the back of his hand to Alan's forehead. "I think you have a concussion."

"No doubt." Alan raised his eyebrows.

Billy withdrew his hand. "You should rest right here for a while. Don't do anything that'll get your heart rate up."

Alan sunk back slightly into the cushions, tension withdrawing from his posture. "What are you, my nurse?"

"No, I just play one on TV," Billy joked, a smile almost forming before it soured, his face falling back to a severe expression. "But right now, I'm the only one you've got."

"So it seems." Alan attempted a look at his surroundings; not being able to crane his head left and over the couch to see the dining area, or back to see the kitchen or hallway, he instead looked to the large windows he faced and the fireplace behind Billy, bookshelves flanking it. "Was the hospital too far?"

"Too far in that, at the time." Billy gestured to the windows, to what was beyond, in the same moment that a gust of white specks whipped against them. "And still. It's dangerous out there."

Alan's eyes locked onto him again. "So then why were you out in it?"

Billy shrugged. "Had to go to the store. Out of food."

"Not very sensible. A grocery run in a blizzard. . ."

He could practically hear the 'tut-tut' in Alan's voice, and suddenly almost felt like laughing. The entire situation they were in, so far out of the norm, and Billy's sensibility was what this man showed disapproval of.

Billy defended himself. "Well, it wasn't a blizzard when I went in. I took a little longer than planned. You know how those places are, they're like time voids."

"I hope it was worth it."

There was an obvious meaning to the statement, and he knew Alan must be sarcastically referring to the food he brought back, but Billy didn't find any humor in it. Worth it—worth it? If Billy hadn't found him, Alan could have frozen to death. "Don't you think it was?" he quietly asked him.

Alan was silent a second, his eyes a little wider as they reflected the flames behind Billy. "Yeah. Thanks. Again. I, uh. . . I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything." He didn't want Alan to feel indebted to him, that didn't seem right. Like they'd be on uneven ground. In any case, he wasn't through with helping him. "Look, you were still in a wreck. You're not fine just because I brought you here."

Alan shifted himself higher against the armrest. "Well, I feel fine."

But Billy wasn't having any of that. He raised his eyebrows. "Your head?"

"Getting clearer by the minute. I'll shake it off."

Billy jumped a little, ready to physically stop him in case he tried. "Don't. Your neck?"

"A little sore," Alan admitted, and Billy wondered just how much he was downplaying it—and couldn't believe how stupid he was being if that were the case.

Billy crossed his arms, and was reminded of another place Alan was likely to be injured. "What about your chest, your ribs?"

Alan left his mouth open a second before speaking. "I don't know." He shifted his torso. "I don't think I feel anything… weird."

Billy swallowed, his throat suddenly a little tight. "Do you mind if I check? Your ribs, if they're broken or not?"

It took a moment for Alan to react, in which he must have been processing what that meant. ". . . I guess. I suppose it can't hurt. Figuratively, at least."

Billy pulled the blanket down, revealing the blue plaid flannel shirt underneath his tan coat. The coat would have been too difficult to remove earlier, but now he helped ease Alan's arms out of the sleeves. Alan unfastened a watch that had been hidden, setting it down next to his hat.

Billy's heart raced with the silent way Alan watched him as he let him unbutton the shirt. Don't, he warned himself. It's not like that.

"I should check for bruising, too." He pushed the sides of the flannel away, then pulled up the hem of the white undershirt. Alan's stomach was about like he expected, neither obviously muscled nor especially soft, but Billy tried to not simply stare for too long.

A darker spot was apparent towards the center of his chest right below his sternum, where it must have made contact with the steering wheel. Billy hesitated, then pressed his fingertips against the forming bruise on the skin.

"Aah!" Alan jerked like electricity had surged through him.

Billy pressed softly again, testing the reaction. "Does it hurt there?"

"Yes, your hands hurt there!" he hissed. "They're freezing!"

"Oh. Sorry." Billy pulled his hands back and rubbed them together to warm his fingers up slightly before continuing. It took him a little too much time feeling all along Alan's rib cage before he finally admitted, "I have no idea if they're broken." He pulled the undershirt back down. "Wouldn't you be in more pain if they were? Maybe they're fractured. Or bruised. That can happen to bone, too, I'm pretty sure."

Alan sighed and began to button his shirt back up. "If they are, bruised or cracked, there's nothing we can do about it. They'll heal on their own."

"You still need to go to the hospital. Whenever—" Billy looked at the dark window, only to see the reflection of him kneeling next to Alan, a glimpse of reality that unsettled him. "Whenever we can." He stood up and took a step before pausing. "Maybe I should call them."

"Call who?"

"The hospital. Tell them what happened."

Alan frowned. "What good would that do? We can't get there. And I feel fine."

Billy didn't want to push it; the hint of sharpness in Alan's voice was enough to make him consider what would happen if Alan no longer wanted to stay. Whether or not he would physically stay wasn't in question—he had nowhere to go—but his cooperation was something Billy desperately needed. He didn't push the hospital issue, but he wasn't giving up on it. His concern wouldn't go away entirely until he'd taken Alan there. "Okay. Is there anyone else you should call to say you're fine? Um, uh. . . a wife?"

"No," Alan replied flatly, adjusting the pillow behind him. "No one that can't wait."

Billy nodded, the information somehow a relief. He tried telling himself that it was because he wouldn't have to keep the phone plugged in for any length of time, but he knew that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was probably pointless, and he tried to put it out of his mind.

He glanced down at the end table, to the full glass of water still sitting there, probably stale by now. He picked it up. "Can I make you some coffee? Would you at least drink that?"

Alan looked glad at the change in topic, and genuinely interested at the prospect. "Yes, that'd be great—thanks."

Billy busied himself in the kitchen, pouring water into the coffee maker, placing a filter in the basket. "Low on filters," he noted out loud as he shut the nearly empty container.

"Sorry?" came a call from the other room.

Billy stilled. "What?"

"You said something?"

Billy's face warmed. He stepped to the edge of the kitchen. "Uh, not to you." He went back to making coffee, but realizing how rude that sounded, he explained, "I mean, to me. I talk to myself. It's a habit here. It helps." Billy had to raise his voice a little even though the kitchen echoed. But it was probably a good idea to keep Alan talking as well, keep his brain occupied in case it needed to be.

Billy flicked the maker on and started to wash two of the nicest coffee cups. He didn't know what to say, what would be a good way to keep the conversation going. But he didn't need to, as Alan called out with blunt curiosity, "How long have you been here?"

This was definitely not the direction Billy wanted the conversation to go. He decided on one superficial truth. "Since summer."

"How is this place yours?"

Billy grimaced. He didn't answer right away, and instead set the clean coffee cups down on the counter and walked past the burbling machine. "It's my family's cabin. My grandparents'." He returned to his spot next to Alan.

"Cabin?" Alan's eyebrows shot up. "This place is bigger than my house."

"A few of us usually stay here a couple weeks during summers. We're somewhat. . . affluent." Billy smiled a little, abashed.

Alan snorted. "No kidding."

With a sudden inclination to share, Billy said, "This was always my favorite place to travel to."

Interest sparked in Alan's eyes at the mention of travel. "You from Bozeman? Billings, maybe?"

Billy nodded, then shook his head. "My dad is from Bozeman. And my grandparents still live there. But I was born in Chicago, and mostly live there. Lived. I don't really know if I want to go back."

Silence hung in the air in wake of the heaviness in Billy's tone, the emotion behind his sentiment. He hadn't really meant to start in on his issues, but it was all too easy after being alone for so long. And there was something about Alan that made him feel safe, a kind of noble authority he trusted without hesitation.

If there was any awkwardness to be found in the quiet, Alan didn't seem to pay it any heed, his face pleasantly neutral. Billy felt a draft at his back and turned around to find the flames barely licking through large chunks of embers. He added a few more split logs and stoked the established coals. 

As the fire brightened the area once more, Billy's eyes fell on the angry, dark-pink line on his left forearm. Startled, he realized he had been wearing only a t-shirt, having taken his jacket off earlier. He'd been so distracted, he hadn't remembered. . . A finger automatically traced the other visible scar, the one on his collarbone that curved up a few inches onto his neck. Were these what Alan had been staring at this entire time? Of course, Billy thought a little bitterly. 

He tried to put it out of his mind and come back into the moment. His and Alan's breathing, and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds heard in the house. The wind was still howling outside.

Billy stood up suddenly. The coffee had to be done brewing.

When he returned from the kitchen bearing two steaming mugs, he remembered an issue from earlier—a better conversation topic, in any case. "You know, when I, uh, found you, I looked for your wallet but I didn't—"

"Oh. Yeah, you wouldn't have, I keep it tucked between the seats when I travel," Alan explained. "Bad habit of mine."

Billy set a mug on the end table where Alan could reach it. "Well, then it's still there."

Alan picked it up gingerly and took a cautious sip. "Hm. Depends. Did you lock the door?"

"I—" Billy didn't quite remember, but the mental image wasn't coming to him, so he guessed not. Locking the door was the last thing on his mind at the time. "Nobody's out in that. The snowplow will find your truck first, and probably call in a tow."

Alan sighed. "Great."

Billy didn't sit down, and instead placed his hand briefly on the edge of Alan's shoulder in thrilling experimentation. "We'll get it back," he promised, before heading back into the kitchen to add cream and sugar to his own coffee.

A question occurred to him when he imagined the wallet in the seat, the driver's license that had to be inside and what was on it. "What did you say your name was? 'Alan. . .'?" he prompted, heading back.

"Grant. Dr. Alan Grant."

"Dr. Alan—oh—" Suddenly looking up, Billy stopped in his tracks before changing course straight for the bookshelf to the right of the fireplace. "Oh yeah. I read your book," he stated as he pulled one free of the others.

"You did? Oh. And you didn't. . . recognize me?"

Billy hesitated. It was why he'd seemed familiar. Out of any suitable context, though, Billy's mind hadn't made the association. In fact, it was mostly the name that had been established in his memory, first from the book and then when that whole InGen story had made its way into the news following the incident in San Diego. Billy knew better than to bring that up. Alan—Dr. Grant—must get enough questions about it already. He tried to avoid the response Alan seemed to be fearing. "Sorry. Didn't look at the dust jacket once I took it off."

Alan's voice held relief and a tinge of disappointment. "That's okay. I've only gotten dustier since then. Did you like it?"

Billy smiled, setting his coffee down so he could flip through it. There, on the back flap, was a small black and white photo of Dr. Grant, a different hat on his head and a smoother, younger face. "Yeah. Yeah, pretty sure I did—I read it years ago."

"I take it you were interested in paleontology?"

"Are you kidding?" Billy turned randomly to a page with a sketch of a Velociraptor skeleton, and a sudden wave of nostalgia hit him. This was one of countless books on the subject he had devoured during that part of his life. "I actually. . . I was majoring in it. Might've even gone to grad school if I'd made it that far."

Alan sat up a little higher, placing his empty coffee cup next to Billy's full one. "What happened?"

Billy closed the book. "Life. Life happened." He took a deep breath, about to elaborate, but he hesitated and the moment was gone. "Minor stuff I should have pushed past, but didn't."

"Doesn't sound very minor."

Billy turned his back to Alan as he returned the book to its spot. He hated the smallness of his voice when he responded, "Comparatively."

More silence, and when Billy turned around again, Alan was staring at him with a kind of gravity in his gaze. "Was it when you got those scars?" he whispered, not unkindly.

Billy hadn't expected this. He knew Alan had to have been wondering about them, but to actually say something? To ask outright? He seemed more like the private type that actively avoided asking overly personal questions. Either his scientifically-minded curiosity had won out over his better nature, or Alan must have hit his head harder than either of them had thought.

In any case, he doubted Alan wanted to know the full story. "No," Billy said, most of the sound getting caught on the way out. But that was at least the truth. Seconds seemed to take minutes as he struggled with fear and a strange itch to say more. He cleared his throat. "These are from. . . something different."

Alan was still staring. "Sorry," Billy heard him say, and for once Billy wasn't paying any attention to Alan's face—but to his neck, where the loose Ace wrap had become a little mussed.

Billy's heart was beating hard. He walked away from the bookshelf and past the couch, Alan doing something of a double take as though he had expected him to sit down again. In the kitchen, Billy unwound a cord that had been coiled around the handle of the phone and plugged it into the wall jack.

"What are you doing?" Alan called out.

Billy opened a drawer, fished out a phone book, and started flipping through the pages. There it was, the number for the non-emergency line. For a wild second he wondered if it was too late in the evening for something like this, but of course not. It doesn't close. "What I should have done hours ago—I'm calling the hospital."

"What?"

A soft thud came from the other room and Billy dropped the phone, at Alan's side in an instant. Alan was on the couch, his feet on the floor and his arms out in an undignified splay.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he claimed, trying to wave Billy off with a bat of his hand.

Billy ignored it. He momentarily touched one hand to Alan's shoulder and another against his cheek. "Are you dizzy?"

"No—yeah, I stood up too fast. I'm fine." Alan sighed, sitting up straight. "I'm just. . . I should be there when you call. And I need to get off this damned thing, it's hurting my back."

"Fair enough." Billy eased him up, offering an arm for Alan to hold on to as he guided him to a chair at the dining table. He brought a refilled cup of coffee and set it down on the table.

The call didn't take long. Billy dialed the number and laid out the situation. He told them their names, where they were, relayed any relevant symptoms, and after quizzing Alan, gave them the license plate number for the truck so that it wouldn't set off alarms whenever it finally got reported. As expected, they wanted Alan to come in as soon as possible. Billy didn't know when that would be. He'd look at their options in the morning.

Billy nested the receiver, leaving the phone connected for now, in case the hospital decided to call back. It wouldn't matter for just tonight, no one else would try calling so late, or so early.

A weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was still worried about Alan, but maybe it was good enough, at the moment, to be reassured that he was doing what he could. Billy retrieved his cold coffee from the other room and pulled out a chair, sitting down across the table corner from Alan. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Alan looked like he didn't agree. He sourly took a sip. "They still want to see me?"

"Yeah. We have to be sure you're okay."

He sighed. "I guess."

"Alan, please. I need to know you're okay." Alan's eyes met Billy's and he held his breath. They stayed that way for a little too long—too long for it not to be clear that something was going on. Billy finally looked down at the table. What the hell had just happened? He was being too obvious. He had told himself that it shouldn't matter, of course he wanted and needed to help Alan whether he was attracted to him or not. That it wouldn't matter, especially to someone like Dr. Alan Grant.

Alan's demeanor seemed to change. He relaxed in his chair and tension eased from his face. "All right, Billy. I get the feeling we'll be here for a while, though."

A well-timed gust of wind rattled the dark panes near the other end of the table.

"It has to stop sometime." Billy chugged the remainder of his coffee, collected both cups, and took them to the kitchen. When he came back, Alan was getting up from the table. "Need to lay down again?"

But no. He asked for the bathroom and Billy showed him where it was, leaving Alan to his own devices and hoping he wouldn't collapse while he was in there.

By the time Alan got back out, Billy had nurtured the fire back to its previous candescence. Without diverting his gaze from the flames, Billy asked, "What time is it?"

He heard metal scrape momentarily against wood. There were plenty of clocks in the house, but Alan must have been reading the time from his watch. "Eleven-oh-two." Alan sat down on the couch. "You should go to bed."

Billy finally turned around. "And leave you here all by yourself? What if you die in the middle of the night? What kind of host would I be if I let that happen?"

Alan stretched out, pulling the blanket over himself. "If I do, you probably can't stop it."

Despite the actual lingering danger being pointed out, Billy couldn't help but smile at the exchange. "Well, in case you're still alive and you need anything, I'll just, uh. . . hold on, I'll be right back."

Billy got up and returned shortly with a large lump of cotton and polyester in his arms—a pillow and a sleeping bag that he rolled out across the oval rug. "It's freezing in my room, anyway," he added, declaring one more excuse to stay next to Alan.

Alan smiled and didn't say anything. Billy shut off all the lights and closed any of the remaining open curtains, frowning at how much snow he thought he saw. He loved snow. Just not right now.

The fire made plenty of light for Billy to see his way back to his sleeping bag. Once in it, though, he felt in no way like sleeping. It was probably the coffee. He shifted onto his left shoulder and looked at Alan, whose face was bright with reflected firelight. He wasn't trying to sleep, either.

Sifting through the recent hours in his mind, Billy still couldn't wrap his head around how Dr. Alan Grant came to be on his couch. What was he doing anyway, driving through a storm? It must have been something to do with his dig. "So were you coming up from Bozeman? Heading to Hell Creek?"

Alan looked a little surprised at the sudden inquiry. "Yeah. Have you ever been?"

"One summer, a long time ago. I found a T. Rex tooth. I don't think it was your dig, though." Billy began to fiddle with the zipper on the sleeping bag.

Alan repositioned his pillow, turning his gaze toward the ceiling. "No, I wouldn't think so. I was probably still in the other corner of the state, at a nice site I had until funding ran out, the fossils ran out. . . other stuff ran out. I like my new spot better, in any case."

Billy was still confused. "But you're going there in the winter? Isn't that pointless if there's snow?"

"There isn't always snow," Alan retorted. "And I wasn't going there to dig."

"So then why?"

Alan breathed deeply and sighed. "I take a trip each winter break after I've finished grading. There's paperwork I need to get to the Park office at the marina before summer comes, and I always run out of time after the semester starts," he explained in an odd tone that Billy figured was similar to his teaching voice.

It sounded like a lot of driving just to deliver paperwork. "Couldn't you mail it?"

"I used to. They lost it one year. I've never had a worse headache in my life."

Billy hummed apprehensively. "That seems more like an excuse than a reason."

Alan shifted again to face Billy, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You're right. I like the miles on the road."

Billy felt an odd sense of satisfaction, getting Alan to admit to something like that. Maybe he was really starting to know him a little. He basked in the feeling, right up until he fully realized that Alan's trips, by himself, were a regular occurrence. "And you take these trips, without even a cell phone?"

Alan frowned. "I don't like cell phones." He paused for a second, and then turned the question back on Billy, "Why didn't you have a phone?"

"That's a long story." Alan looked like he was waiting for Billy to explain. Billy deflected. "Look, I don't know why you didn't just stop in Lewistown until this storm was over."

"What can I say, I'm cheap," he deadpanned, more like it was an inside joke than like he really believed it.

Billy's eyes followed Alan's hands as they pulled the blanket snugly up to his chin. He had to smile. Alan looked comfortable. "Well, this is the cheaper option, I guess. Hotel du Brennan. Free of charge. Not sure the mechanic's bill will be, though."

Alan sighed. "I thought I could clear it well enough to make it to Jordan. I didn't know it was going to be this bad. It usually isn't."

"It's the unusual times you've got to watch out for," Billy declared, only to immediately regret the words his tired mind had made him say. Profound, idiot.

Alan raised his eyebrows. "Like ending up in the care of a stranger?"

Billy opened his mouth slightly, unsure how to respond to that. Alan didn't feel like a stranger to him anymore, and though there was clearly humor behind his remark, Billy wondered—did he still seem like a stranger to Alan? "You don't have to watch out for me. At least, I hope you don't think you do. I swear I'm harmless." He held up two open hands out of his sleeping bag.

Alan smirked, keeping his eyes closed longer as he blinked. "What's your deal, then?"

Billy's stomach sank a little. Maybe the question was intended to be innocent, or maybe the long night had taken its toll on Alan's tact. Maybe he didn't even realize that it was the same question as asking where the scars came from. "Why do you think I have a deal?"

"Because, young people don't just live alone out in the middle of nowhere," he stated, matter-of-fact.

"Says who?"

"Says logic."

"Maybe I'm not as young as you think I am," Billy suggested lightly, hoping it wasn't too obvious what else he was trying to say.

Alan didn't seem to notice any further meaning beyond Billy's ridiculous rebuttal. He laughed, deep in his chest. It was a good sound. "Oh, yeah. You're practically ready to join the AARP right now, I can see it. Send in your application and be sure to mention me, you'll get a good discount." The wry smile was back in full force.

AARP? Jesus, he wasn't geriatric. "Oh, come on. You're not that bad."

Alan laughed again, something Billy decided he could get used to. "'Not that bad'? I didn't know old equals bad, but I guess I'll take the compliment."

It took Billy everything in him not to pull the rest of the sleeping bag up over his face. "That's not what I meant. Of course old doesn't equal bad. I just mean. . . you're pretty decent for your age."

"And the praise keeps getting higher. I'm blushing."

Smooth one, dumbass. Billy huffed. He just couldn't win. "Hey, isn't it about four hours past your bedtime? You must be pretty exhausted."

He was half surprised Alan didn't throw a pillow at him, given the look on his face. "Oh, go to sleep," he grumbled as he turned his back to Billy.

Billy grinned. "G'night, Alan."

"Good night, Billy."

Color faded back into the room as Alan watched the curtains glow brighter, movement shuddering behind them; the wind was still pelting snowflakes against the cabin windows, the storm raging unsubdued even with the sunrise.

He lay motionless on the couch, waiting long past the point where he could discern the furniture he'd need to maneuver around should he get up. His neck was stiff and his ribs ached, though Alan suspected the latter had less to do with injury and more to do with his extensive rest. Even so, he'd slept well.

The howling outside and the quiet inside produced a deep feeling of coziness that Alan hadn't experienced in years. In the fireplace, embers had transformed into grey ashes, no longer contributing heat and leaving the place colder than ever. The blanket was more than sufficient to keep him comfortable, though its presence was holding him prisoner to the heat it captured.

Then there was the matter of the form that lay next to him on the floor. The young man Billy was still fast asleep, his face pointed towards the couch and Alan. An arm had found its way out its confinement, a relaxed hand the nearest part of him. Slow but powerful breaths pushed the top of the sleeping bag into the air a few centimeters and back down again in a reassuring pattern. His long eyelashes were pressed against his cheeks, rapid eye movements flickering them slightly. He's beautiful, a thought that brought warmth to Alan's face and a skip of shame to his heartbeat.

Alan wondered if Billy would wake up if he left the couch. Billy had seemed so concerned last night, that perhaps, even asleep, he was unconsciously in tune with what Alan was doing. Was the young man a light sleeper, or currently dead to the world? Alan couldn't tell, but after all Billy did for him yesterday, it would be a shame to disturb him so early—a sentiment that kept Alan still for another half hour.

And when that wasn't enough anymore, and despite the chill of the room, he pulled off his blanket and pressed his feet down on the rug around Billy. His socks made no noise against the smooth wood floor beyond as he stepped toward the window furthest from the fireplace, one that was in front of the dining table. He parted the curtains a few inches, enough to see the snowy landscape but not enough to significantly brighten the room.

The cabin must have been in the hills of the ranges he had always admired while driving past, though whether they were north or south of the highway, Alan couldn't tell. He knew he had to be facing south, but the air was so thick with snow, it was impossible to distinguish any distant terrain.

He watched it come down a while, then turned his attention back into the house. Beyond the dining table, past a jutting bar, was the open kitchen, inviting him in with the possibility of some kind of breakfast. Alan spied his mug from last night on the counter and refilled it with the remaining coffee from the pot, cold and stale. He briefly considered warming it up in the microwave, or trying to make some fresh, but both options would stir up too much noise. 

Such a turn of events—it was Friday, he ought to be in Jordan right now, leaving his motel room to find a good breakfast. Instead, it was an icy blue morning in a stranger's house, the world as far away as he'd ever known it to be. Even further than in the dead of night at the dig.

He should be annoyed; it always left a bad taste in his mouth when things didn't go according to plan. But all his mouth tasted was cold coffee, brewed by a foolish young man that, maybe he didn't know very well, but felt oddly comfortable with, anyway. It wasn't the trip he had planned, but it wasn't a bad trip, either. Despite the accident.

Alan took silent steps to the corner of the kitchen, observing the open space of the cabin from his new vantage point. Rich, large, and more than a little lonely. Alan understood lonely, but it certainly didn't seem to suit someone like Billy. He'd talked about family, about not wanting to go back to Chicago. And he'd been here for half a year. Whatever his reason was, it kept him away even during Christmas.

It was the first week of January. Either Billy had already taken any decorations down, or they had never been put up in the first place. The only remnant of the holidays was a tiny, half eaten gingerbread house left on the kitchen counter. It looked like a child had made it.

Something even weirder caught Alan's eye, and he moved forward, around the breakfast bar, and back into the dining room. Along the wall by the table were framed pictures, set about in a pattern that made it clear a few were missing from their respective places. Of those that remained, one was of a nice looking elderly couple, one was a wedding photo of a different couple (clearly from the late sixties), and others seemed to be of kids during various ages of their lives. He recognized a younger Billy, often next to a slightly older girl that shared his dark eyes.

Whether or not it was Billy that removed the missing photos, Alan didn't know. Curiosity itched at him, but it wasn't his business, and he certainly wasn't going to ask Billy about it. He'd already asked too many nosy questions, last night. What came over him, he wasn't sure—something about Billy made him want to know more. But that look on his face when he'd asked about the scars. . . Alan had gone too far in that moment, and unless Billy brought it up again, that was probably the end of it.

He moved back to the window.

It wasn't necessarily a surprise to Billy when he found that Alan had already left the couch by the time he'd awoken. He'd always been a heavy sleeper, and while he was hoping he'd notice him get up, Alan must have been as quiet as a mouse. Or the wind had masked the noise.

No, what was more shocking to Billy was the way he found Alan looking out of the furthest window, a comfortable posture despite his neck, and his coffee mug in hand—the image seemed incredibly natural to Billy, as if he woke up to the sight of it every morning.

Billy tried to shake off the wave of nerves that the thought stirred in him.

He approached Alan, his eyes squinting from the increased brightness. After a moment, in which neither said anything, Billy's eyes finally adapted and he caught a glimpse of just how much was coming down, and how much had accumulated during the night. "Woah."

Alan took a sip. "Yeah."

Billy didn't even want to start thinking what they would do about it. Instead, he looked at Alan, running his gaze briefly over the naturally-lit skin. A momentary, intangible worry had crossed his mind in those seconds, that maybe the stark daylight would reveal an unpleasant quality that he hadn't been able to see in the firelight, but no—it was better, even, than that complimentary dimness—instead a reality was brought to him, of sharp blue eyes and severity that was attractive all the same. He was Alan Grant, and even if his fame was something Billy never followed, associated with a media circus he had thought of only a handful of times, he appreciated this—Alan, in silent company here in front of him. And that was more than enough.

Billy noticed the coffee cup was practically empty, and even worse, realized it had to be the rest of the cold stuff from last night. "I'll make us fresh," he said, grabbing it out of Alan's hand and heading to the kitchen.

Sometime later, they both sat at the dining table, hot coffee in hand and a fire going again. It had begun to seem routine. A routine with Alan. Don't, he told himself for the millionth time.

"The snow's stopped," Alan said, staring out the window.

Billy got up to have a closer look. It wasn't quite true—sparse little flakes still floated down where they were, but it was all just icing on the cake. A slight breeze whipped up the top layer along larger snow banks, saturating whorls of air and knocking loose the accumulated load from conifers scattered down the hill. But visibility was fair, and the far ranges could be discerned once again, their tops white and bright with a passing patch of dim winter sun.

The real storm was over, but little good it was going to do. Unless Billy were to get outside and start shoveling the entire quarter-mile driveway, they weren't going anywhere. Now, if he had a large snowblower, or a big damn truck—

"Oh." It was an idea, a good idea, and he could have slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier.

After searching two and a half miscellaneous drawers, he found the small black notebook containing a few numbers scrawled inside, the most recent one from back in the fall, when he had encountered a familiar face during one of his supply runs. He'd known she was a neighbor when she had approached him at the hardware store, though one he hadn't seen in quite a few years. But he'd accepted the phone number gladly, knowing his stay would be long enough to warrant some friendly connections. 

He dialed it and waited with bated breath. A woman's voice echoed from the receiver after only a few rings. "Hello?"

"Marge! Hi, this is, uh, Billy Brennan."

"Oh, Billy, hi!" she practically shouted. "How are you, hon? Are you doing okay where you are? Do you need help? This must be hard for you, you aren't usually around in the winter!" It was as if she had already known it was about the storm, and of course. Why would anybody be calling on a morning like this if it wasn't?

Billy cut to the chase. "Actually, I do need help. I have, um, a friend here with me that needs to get to the hospital—"

"Oh dear!"

"—and I only have my Honda, you see, so we can't really get out of the driveway. There's got to be someone around with a truck and a plow attachment, right? If they could help us, I mean." Alan, who had been following Billy's actions with a look of curiosity, met his gaze and raised his eyebrows. He should have thought of it, too.

She hummed almost theatrically. "Well, I know Phil is in charge of one of those monsters, at least. He usually covers the roads heading east from his place. But you're to the west, aren't you?"

He didn't know. "Uh. . ."

"Yeah, you are. But I'll call him and if he's already headed out, I'll leave a message."

It was the best they could have hoped for. "Thank you so much, Marge. He knows where we are?"

"You betcha. It might be a few hours, though. How bad is your friend hurt? Are they gonna be all right?"

Billy smiled as he stared back at Alan. Already the situation seemed less dire. "He should—he should be fine, but he still needs to be looked at."

"Of course, yeah. Call me when you get back home, okeydokey?"

"Will do. Thanks again, Marge."

"No problem, hon. Be safe out there."

Billy hung up the phone, taking a deep breath to make up for the ones he seemed to have forgotten during the conversation.

"Well?" Alan called from the table.

"Well, it could be a while. But I think we'll be out of here before the morning is through."

Billy offered him breakfast, and Alan joined him in the kitchen, seemingly to help, only to take the entire operation out from under him. Despite his neck and Billy's protests and non-threat of reminding him whose house this was, Alan went ahead and whipped up a good batch of scrambled eggs and a few sausages to go with.

They kept an eye on the buried driveway after breakfast, but Phil seemed to have missed Marge's call.

"There's a TV in the den, if you want to watch something," Billy offered. For a second, he let himself imagine being down there in the dimness, snuggled up next to Alan on the smaller couch.

"We probably shouldn't get too distracted. . . Is that how you've been spending your time here?" Alan asked dryly.

Billy laughed. "Kids these days, right?" They were standing by the window, and Billy brushed past him on his way into the living room. "Not only. I've been reading a lot, too. It's great to get back to it."

Billy pulled a book off the shelf for himself, and one for Alan, who had followed him. They read in silence, which was fine with Billy. He didn't bore easily, and in any case, it was an oddly intimate thing to be doing. Just sharing space with Alan, doing everyday stuff, was nice.

Over an hour passed before they finally heard the roar of an engine. Billy went to the window and saw a large grey truck nearly at the house. A hand was visible behind the windshield, giving a small wave of acknowledgment up at him. He waited for a moment as the truck reached the garage, turned enough to shove snow away from the garage door, and repositioned itself to leave. Billy wondered if he shouldn't go down there and thank Phil in person, but there was no need. A grey-haired man opened the driver's side door, waved again and gave a thumbs up. Billy waved back, and Phil shut his door and drove back down the cleared path.

Billy called the hospital before they left to let them know they were coming. "There's a report about your truck," he informed Alan, hand over the speaker. "It's been towed. I told you."

"Hm." Alan was fastening his watch.

"I'll find out where they've taken it."

When they were both ready, Billy helped Alan down the stairs, into the garage, and got him settled in the Honda. Alan had been in it before, mostly asleep, so he was examining it like it was the first time.

"Didn't you say you were rich? Why are you driving this piece of junk?" he teased.

"Hey!" Billy tried to look offended, but he smiled instead. "I bought it myself. First real thing I ever did. My family's rich. I'm. . . not so much."

As soon as the garage door was open, he backed out, turned around, and they were off.

The highway was freshly plowed, high walls of displaced snow surrounding them as they headed west. But it was still a slow journey—the road was icy in places and Billy wasn't about to drive Alan off into another ditch.

Alan seemed to appreciate the caution, relaxing back against the seat and apparently lost in thought as he gazed across the bright, snow covered terrain. Billy wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but decided that was too personal, and instead asked about his latest findings.

That was a topic Alan was all too glad to discuss, going into detail about his 'most pristinely intact Velociraptor skull yet,' found only last summer at Hell Creek. Billy listened well and asked encouraging questions, old knowledge flooding back to him easily, a little amazed at the energy the conversation stirred up in both of them. He was glad Alan's experience on that island hadn't completely ruined something he was clearly so passionate about.
 
Noon came and went as they talked. The sky had cleared up further and sunlight now streamed in, making it warm enough for Billy to take off his gloves.

Buildings cropped up along the highway, and the highway became the main street of Lewistown. It wasn't much further until they found the mechanic's, and they'd spotted Alan's truck even before diving right into the parking lot. Billy pulled up next to where it had been unceremoniously dumped in front of the shop.

"Keys?" Alan held out his hand.

Billy dug into his coat, passing them off. "I'm pretty sure I didn't lock it. But don't you think you need to talk to whoever's in there, first?"

Alan paused. ". . . I guess." He got out, stiffly, and disappeared into the building.

Less than a minute later, Alan reemerged, a man in grease-stained coveralls at his heels. Alan came around to the driver's side of his truck and opened the door, reaching across the seat and retrieving what must have been his wallet. His hand slipped inside his coat then moved on to the rear door, pulling out a tan cloth backpack, a soft, brown leather bag, and a thin, black document folder—all from where they must have been hidden on the floor. Billy felt a little stupid for not having noticed them before, but he chalked his oversight up to the panic and adrenaline at the time.

Billy slid through the gap in the seats to pull the back door open for Alan and his bags. Alan loaded them up and closed the door, turning back to the mechanic and tossing him the keys. Billy heard the muffled words of their conversation, but Alan relayed the info anyway after he climbed back into the Honda.

"He hasn't looked at it yet, but they're open till five."

Billy nodded as he threw the car into drive. "We should be done before then, don't worry. We'll come back after."

As they reached downtown, usually bustling with activity, only the desperate could be seen plodding along the sidewalks. Past the densest bunch of buildings, the road began to steepen. The incline was a strain on the Honda's automatic transmission, but anything other than flat seemed to be, these days. Town largely thinned out as the road took a large curve to the right, then straightened to continue as the highway heading west.

Billy dove off right onto a side street, a sudden turn that he had just remembered. "Sorry. I don't usually go much past the library."

"Oh, where are you taking me?" Alan lamented, sounding half-amused and half-exhausted.

Not one to let the rhetorical nature of a question prevent a sarcastic response, Billy answered, "Now that you mention it, the hospital does seem like a good idea."

His cartoonish tone earned him a soft huff out of Alan, and Billy smiled.

Billy cranked the steering wheel, pulling into the parking lot. "Have you been here before?"

"I remember a student had to be driven here from the dig to get an ankle looked at —what was it, the summer before last?— but no, I never needed to visit. Until now." Alan sighed. "What about you?"

"Once, when I was eight. I broke my arm falling out of a tree. I was climbing higher than I probably should've."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me. . ." Alan hadn't seemed to notice they'd actually arrived until Billy was choosing a spot. He wiped the foggy window with his sleeve. "Is this it? It looks more like a school than a hospital."

Red-brick and rather flat, it was true that the Central Montana Medical Center was less than imposing upon the world.

"It's what there is around here, and it'll do perfectly fine." Billy shifted into park. "Okay, let's get you checked in."

An irritatingly long wait followed the grueling initial paperwork, but Billy knew their issue wasn't exactly the height of emergency. Not like. . . Shaking his head, he swallowed hard and started to tap his nails on the plastic armrest, trying to distance himself from the sterility. He just wished they'd hurry, for Alan's sake and his own. 

The place didn't even seem very busy. Minutes crawled by, spent listening to the occasional page for a staff member and staring at Alan's hand on the armrest next to his, studying the tanned lines and fighting the urge to find out what it felt like.

Eventually a nurse called for Alan. When Billy didn't follow and instead wished him luck, Alan seemed taken aback at having to leave Billy behind, as though it had only now occurred to him that Billy wasn't going the rest of the way with him.

"I'll be back here at three," Billy added hastily, taking one step backward.

Alan's confusion turned into a scowl, and Billy's heart beat a little harder at being the object of that look. On a higher level, he didn't want to leave Alan alone, especially at such a vulnerable time, but he couldn't stay. Even if the bright lights and familiar smell didn't make his skin crawl, it wasn't his place. It didn't matter that it felt like he'd known Alan for years, it was actually less than a day, and it simply wasn't his place to stay, like. . . like a loved one would.

Billy watched Alan being led through a door while he ran his fingers over the teeth of the keys in his pocket, then turned around and walked out.

It was almost automatic when he pulled into the parking lot of the public library, somehow a conscious decision and at the same time, wasn't.

And he knew why. There weren't many places he could have parked that wouldn't have produced this feeling of haunting nostalgia. The whole town, the town he long ago loved to come back to in summer and run around like he owned the place, was tainted. The library was always the most comfortable, and maybe, just maybe, the good here could outweigh the bad.

The car now turned off, he knocked his forehead against the steering wheel.

He existed every day at the cabin, so what made it different than the rest of the places they'd been? He guessed that it was because he had become complacent and a little numb, he'd been there too much for it to be painful anymore. It was still hard enough to go to the Albertson's every month, though. Which was why he always put it off. Which was why he was in this mess in the first place.

He had been getting over it, bit by bit, or so he told himself. And then Alan came along, shaking everything up—giving Billy something to do, something to feel for again—but also dredging up ill-buried memories he'd rather not think about again, especially with the way he came crashing into his life.

It was a mess, and he didn't know how to fix it. Part of him wanted to tell Alan everything, spill his guts like he'd seen people stepping into confessionals to do when he was young. Another part told him that would be just about the worst thing he could do, unloading baggage that would make Alan want to run away the first chance he got.

Maybe he wanted to let the whole thing fade away, maybe he wanted Alan to ask him about it—but he knew Alan wasn't going to, not again.

"Or you could just suck it up, like a normal person." As the minutes had dragged by, he'd gotten a little calmer. Billy opened his eyes, looking at the dim dashboard clock. He wanted to head back, but it wasn't time yet.

He closed his eyes again. He decided he would do anything to not scare off Alan.

Alan was already waiting at the edge of the lobby when Billy hurried back through the doors, a chilled breeze chasing after him.

"They all done with you?" It seemed they had given him a neck brace, which he looked mortified to be wearing. Billy was conflicted with an urge to laugh and the very real concern for Alan's well being, but above all that, it was relief he felt—the hospital didn't seem to think he needed to stay. He was going to be okay.

Alan held his hands open to concede. "I'm all yours."

Billy shot glances at a few of the nurses, mostly to see if any were going to approach them to give Alan some kind of final paperwork or information or instructions before he left. It seemed not, all of them going about their jobs, except one sifting through files behind a desk who suddenly met Billy's eyes and smiled. He smiled back automatically, only to notice Alan had stepped far enough away from him to prompt the doors to open.

He followed Alan back into the hostile wind, catching up and placing a hand on his shoulder to direct him towards where the Honda was parked.

They shut their doors quickly and Billy started the car, the heat blasting again as they turned out of the parking lot. "So what's the prognosis? Are you going to live?" Billy prodded lightly.

Alan scratched his chin where it met the top of the brace. "If I can survive being trapped in this for a few days."

Billy smiled. "I knew you'd look great in one of those."

"I look like a dog."

Billy couldn't help it when laughter rose up through him, when an odd kind of joy settled itself in his chest—a feeling that hadn't happened for all of these long months.

They slowed down at the curve as a large yellow snowplow turned left in front of them, heading back into the Montana Department of Transportation facility.

"Oh, come on, you guys can't be remotely close to done," Billy muttered back at the retreating truck in his rearview mirror.

The skyline of the northern range was harder to distinguish when muted in snow, and somehow the shade of white made it seem more distant and grander than it was in the summer. As they sunk back into the heart of downtown, only the section of horizon straight ahead was left unobscured.

A mere handful of other cars were still active on the road, leaving empty civilization to pass through easily. It took a red light, which stopped no one but them, for Alan to speak again. "I can't believe you left me alone in there."

The matter had obviously been bothering Alan since Billy had watched him walk away. Billy came down a little from his good feeling, clearing his throat. He tried his best to keep the light tone of the conversation going, before it devolved into something that he'd regret saying so soon. "I'm just a Good Samaritan, not family."

"Yeah, well, I could've used the help."

The light turned green and Billy's foot hit the pedal. "What, changing into your gown?" he joked.

"Among other things." It was a quiet, sincere way in which he said it, startling Billy. He was sure Alan wouldn't admit to needing help easily. What made Billy different for him? What made him comfortable enough to even say that?

Another feeling was now twisting Billy's insides, the one from last night, ever present now and only growing stronger. A certain possibility was making itself clearer, but one he still had little faith in seeing actualized. He'd just find out what else Alan needed, and go from there—however far he could go without totally screwing it up.

Billy cranked the steering wheel as he pulled into the mechanic's. "Here we are."

"More paperwork," Alan huffed, peering down at the stack on the counter. "Accidents are more trouble than they're worth, Billy. I don't recommend them."

Even with that sage advice, Billy was having a hard time keeping his attention on the important matters at hand. He tried looking anywhere else in the little lobby—at the grimy off-white linoleum tiles, at the commercial chairs with yellow foam poking out of split seams, at the twenty-five cent gumball machine leaning in the corner—his eyes were always drawn back to Alan. Not for what he was doing, what he was writing, but for how he was. It didn't matter that Alan was just standing there, elbow on the counter; every breath and shift in his weight was somehow fascinating.

Silence and pen-scratching eventually broke into a conversation about logistics. The brown truck was visible from the window, and the mechanic was gesturing to the front of it.

It was fine, luckily enough. Some work would take the worst of that dent out. It'd still be a little bunged-up, sure, unless Alan got a new fender, but he'd need to find a replacement somewhere else. He could take it home right away.

But that was the issue—they were talking about its condition like driving it immediately was even an option.

"Alan." Billy came up behind him, arm hovering a moment before placing a hand on Alan's shoulder. "Alan."

"Hm?" Alan broke his concentration away from the mechanic with a turn of his head, not quite looking at Billy but now listening to him.

Billy spoke softly next to his ear, keeping it low to exclude the mechanic. "You can't drive yet—your head, your neck. You need to give it at least a few days."

Alan turned them around completely, Billy's arm slipping off only to have the position reversed with Alan's hand pressing gently between his shoulder blades. He led them next to the door a few yards away. "I know."

Cold permeated the glass, raising goosebumps on the back of Billy's neck as he tried to make sense of the gravity in Alan's voice. "Good. Then we'll leave it here, and you can come back for it when you're ready."

Alan tried to nod, despite his confines. "Sounds like a plan." His eyes wandered past Billy, to a car zooming foolishly down the street, distracted.

A pit formed in Billy's stomach. "Okay. So then let's head home." He jerked his head towards the door.

And there it was. Alan shifted uncomfortably. "I can't impose like that. I'll get a room somewhere."

"Alan." The instinct was to talk fast, act fast—Billy knew he was losing right now. If he couldn't get Alan to go back with him, then the possibility that had been getting clearer and clearer would simply evaporate. It was insane how much Billy's vision of the immediate future had begun to hinge upon this outcome, that this man he barely knew would continue to be there, want to be there with him.

And if he didn't? If Billy had to go back to that quiet cabin, left alone with his loud thoughts? That had been all there was for months, an existence he'd maintained out of choice—a choice he no longer wanted. Yesterday, leaving was an inconvenience. Today, the prospect of returning by himself was downright terrifying. 

So he was terrified and he was losing, a combination that usually didn't work out in his favor. He didn't know if a move now would save the situation or utterly destroy it. 

In the back of his mind, he tried to tell himself there was always a chance he could meet up with Alan again, somewhere down the road, and try to pick things back up; to make his move when they had known each other for longer than a day. But how? Though he seemed to enjoy Billy's company, Alan also didn't seem like the type to socialize for the sake of socializing. Enough time and distance, maybe Dr. Alan Grant would forget—forget the accident, forget any feelings, forget Billy. Not completely, of course, but perhaps the memories would fade enough that it wouldn't matter anymore.

Time wouldn't make anything better. He had to make a move, now.

Billy returned his hand to Alan's shoulder, stronger than before, as if to steady himself when he finally captured Alan's gaze. He didn't talk fast. He let his heart beat hard a moment and swallowed. His hand slid slowly from Alan's shoulder down the sleeve of the tan coat, trailing the tip of his middle finger along a seam until he met the back of his hand. Billy slipped his fingers inside Alan's hand for the briefest of moments before letting it fall away again. "Alan, I. . . I'd like you to come back with me."

Alan's expression was hard to read, almost blank with his lips slightly parted and his eyes boring into Billy's. He stood a little straighter but attempted an instinctive duck of his head, drawing a thumb to rub against his bottom lip a few seconds, then spoke softly, "I thought that you might've, um. . . but don't you think I'm a little. . ."

"Alan."

"Look, this isn't a good place for this conversation." Alan glanced over at the mechanic.

Billy copied his motion. "Yeah, it's not ideal." The mechanic appeared busy but Billy could practically see the strain of his ears. "So come back with me. If you want to talk about it."

Their eyes met, and Billy saw something in Alan's that let him know what the answer was, even before Alan finally said, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Steering fluid!"

Alan jumped a little in his seat at the sudden change in topic.

"I can't believe—an auto shop and it was right there and I—" Billy groaned and patted the dashboard. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I think the car will forgive you."

The wind had picked up again and blew ropes of powdery snow in front of them, slithering like snakes across the asphalt.

"If I'm lucky, but you've gotta remind me to get some when we finally pick up your truck."

Alan huffed, amused. "I don't know why you'd think my memory is any better than yours."

"I've had more than a few tries, I might as well enlist some help."

Daylight was fading fast as they turned onto the country road, a route that was starting to be familiar to Alan. Familiar, and surprisingly comforting.

The entire trip back and they still hadn't talked about it—whatever they had going on right now, whatever feelings Billy had developed that had made him look like he wanted to kiss Alan right there in that dingy little lobby. It wasn't the place there, and it didn't seem the place in here, either, not with the roaring vents and Billy's eyes on the road.

It was fine, they'd get to it eventually. He hoped.

He suspected Billy was only thinking about this in the short term, about keeping him around hour to hour. But it escaped Alan what he might want after those hours, after this weekend. A relationship? The thought made Alan a little anxious, if only because he was uncertain how that could happen. Though Billy seemed to have put his own life on hold for whatever reason, Alan didn't want him to resume it solely around him, because of him—it wasn't right, and it might not even work out.

'Might not even work out'? You're getting ahead of yourself, Grant. Nothing's even started.

Maybe Billy had the right idea—hour to hour.

A twenty-four hour difference resulted in the same space being occupied, both of them comfortable in the roomy cabin and a fire going once again. Not much seemed to have changed from an outside perspective, but priorities had shifted fundamentally—their talk wasn't to wait out a storm, and their company was a choice instead of a necessity. No matter how amiable that necessity had been, this still felt better. To Billy, it felt a little like a victory.

They were lounging on the couch after a simple dinner of chicken and stir-fried vegetables. Alan had rested while Billy cooked; it seemed the neck brace was doing its job of reminding Alan that he should let himself heal.

"I don't know what you plan to do with me," Alan said finally.

"What do you mean?" Billy replied, knowing exactly what he meant. They'd exchanged more than a few lingering stares as the evening wore on, but neither of them had actually started the conversation they said they'd have. Until now.

"I can't stay forever," he explained gently. "I have class on Monday."

"I know." It was Friday evening, and Alan would have to leave by Sunday afternoon, if not earlier. While he shouldn't be driving just yet, there were probably things he needed to get ready back in Bozeman.

Billy was at a loss what to do. Maybe he'd been too impulsive, maybe he'd dragged Alan back here for nothing, after all. Where on earth could they go with this? Alan had to leave, and Billy was stuck here.

And he knew there was another conversation he had to have with someone, with Alan especially. Whether they got together or not, whether it affected anything, he needed to talk about it.

Billy sat quietly for a moment more. To hell with it. "Do you really want to know?"

Alan regarded him. "Know what?"

"How I got these scars." He traced the raised line along his left forearm.

Alan looked down, watching the motion. "Not unless you want to tell me, Billy."

Billy nodded, swallowing. "There was an accident. A car wreck. Someone died."

Seconds passed in which neither did anything, then Alan breathed deeply. "I see."

"It was my brother," Billy said, hardly above a whisper.

"Your brother." Maybe just to keep him talking, Alan asked, "Older or younger?"

"Younger."

The conversation was losing momentum, and Alan seemed to understand that Billy needed him to ask the question. "What happened?"

Billy nodded to himself slowly. He felt a little dizzy, thinking about it on purpose. After a long moment, he began to explain. "It was the Fourth of July, our big family fireworks show we do every year at my cousin's estate. I'd had more than a few, and I needed a ride home. My brother offered. I should have found another way back home, for the both of us, but. . . I didn't." Billy took a few deep breaths. "He's— he was a good driver. I just didn't realize how much he'd been drinking, too."

Alan listened silently, patiently.

"I remember most of it. He was going too fast on the curve of an off ramp. I was lucky. He wasn't.

"I could handle the injuries. I could handle the weeks in the hospital, the wasting away. I just. . . couldn't handle the looks on their faces. They'd all visit, but eventually I'd wished they'd stopped. My mom, she kept talking about how she was sorry. I think that was the worst part—they didn't blame me. Or at least, half of them didn't, and half of them did. I couldn't stand it."

Billy stood up and began to pace, eventually ending up in the dining room. Alan rose up and followed him.

It was easier than he thought it would be to get the words out there. And Alan was being so good about it. "When I left the hospital, I grabbed a few things and came here."

"Do they know where you are?" Alan's eyes flickered to the gingerbread house. Billy followed the glance.

"Yeah. My sister's kid sent that through the mail," he explained with a wave of his hand. "They all know, but thank God none of them have bothered to drop by. Just. . . harassed me with calls. That's why I ditched my cell phone, and unplugged the landline."

Alan sat down in a dining chair and Billy joined him. "I'm amazed you were out in that storm at all. I once knew someone who'd survived a wreck like that. They said they couldn't stand to ride in a car anymore."

Billy grimaced. "I'm fine if I'm the one driving. I've got control."

Alan tried to nod, the brace in the way.

"You know what someone told me, after the accident?" Billy paused a beat, not for an answer, but reign in the shake of his voice. "They said, 'It was bound to happen, sooner or later, to someone. Because it always does—it's statistics.' As if. . . as if that was supposed to make me feel better about it."

"That's terrible."

Billy held his hands out in front of them on the table, running his fingers nervously against each other. "But I guess it does. It happened to you."

Alan laughed, not quite humorously, but enough to break the weight of the conversation. "What happened to me was my own damned fault. But what happened to you, Billy, that's not on you."

Billy rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I know. I know, but even then. . . that hasn't helped me get over it." He stood up again.

"I'm no expert, but isolating yourself without much to do, and all the time in the world to dwell on it—doesn't seem like the best way to get over it."

"Yeah, I've figured that out." More than figured it out, really. It's not like he didn't know it, it was there somewhere in the back of his mind. But it took Alan, it took worrying over someone else, to realize what it had been doing to him.

Alan pointed loosely at Billy. "What you need, is a distraction."

Billy smiled, coming to stand over him. He locked eyes with Alan and his heart raced. "Truth is, you're the best distraction I've found so far."

Alan got up and now looked down at him, their faces suddenly very close. "Is that what I am?"

It was what they'd been waiting for, the necessary excuse of words to get to this point. Now that he could, Billy kissed him. He grabbed Alan's upper arms and stretched himself a little higher, so Alan wouldn't move his neck when their lips met.

There was tension beneath Billy's fingertips that was gone the moment Alan pushed his lips back, the second he opened his mouth and let their tongues slide together. Alan's hands moved to his back, settling on his waist. 

Kissing Alan felt like the easiest thing Billy had ever done, and he basked in the satisfaction of it, but there came a point when their breaths began to suggest something more and Billy had to break away. "Look, I want you to know. . . this isn't what I've been trying to do, I'm not in it just to. . ."

Alan raised his eyebrows. "Seduce me?"

Billy ducked his head. "Yeah. Anyway, we probably shouldn't do anything right now, you're kinda broken and I'm kinda. . ." He shrugged. 

Alan's hands were still on his waist, his thumbs now rubbing along Billy's t-shirt. He nudged Billy into another long kiss before breaking away and sighing. "I know. It's not the time."

There was something of an agreement between them now. After Billy had told Alan about the accident, he opened up about other details of his life—a few stories of his childhood, highlights of his life working for the family business in Chicago, and, most interesting to Alan, his unfinished education. The agreement, as Saturday came to a close, seemed to be focused on finding a way to keep going with whatever they had. Alan didn't know when, but at some point it became obvious that Billy wasn't planning to stay in this place anymore.

"I'm not sure what I want to do." There was a slyness in Billy's tone, one that seemed to say, I'm open to suggestions.

And Alan could definitely suggest a few things. "If you're interested, I'm always looking for volunteers at my dig in the summer. You don't even have to be a student. Just. . . folks that have an interest and can stay awhile." Those two factors weren't exactly qualifications—Alan didn't just let any Joe Blow that fit that description onto his dig site.

And Billy knew it. "Why do I get the feeling you're making that up?"

Alan paused a second too long. He wasn't a very good liar. "Would you care if I was?"

Billy laughed. "I don't have to be a paleontologist?"

Nestled together on the couch, Alan readjusted the arm Billy was leaning against. He wanted to lay it across Billy's shoulders, but the brace prevented that. "Well, it's never too late to become one. Even if it's only. . . honorary. At first."

"You're talking like I'll be making a career out of it."

"Careers are for people in monkey suits, Billy. I just dig in the dirt." Alan imagined what that would be like, spending summer days side by side with Billy.

He got the response he was hoping for. "Then I think. . ." Billy began slowly, threading his fingers through Alan's. "I think I'd like to dig with you."

"Hat, coat, keys, wallet. . ." Billy pointed to each item in succession. Alan's bags were already in his truck again, and finally Billy had replenished the Honda's steering fluid. "Pretty sure that's everything."

Alan shifted his torso to take another look at the bags and boxes Billy had piled on the back seat. "And you're not forgetting anything either, right? Nothing we should go back for?"

It's not like Billy had brought much with him in the first place, not enough that his grandparents would mind, in any case. There was still a lot back in Chicago. He'd go get it someday. "Nope, we're good."

When he had finally told Alan what he'd decided to actually do, he was uncertain how he'd react. But Alan seemed thrilled about the idea—for the most part. With Billy becoming a student again, Alan's student now, it was uncertain how that would affect their relationship. He supposed they would just have to find out.

Billy grasped Alan's thigh, locking eyes with him. "Remember, if you don't feel well, if you have pull in somewhere, it's no big deal, I'll be right behind you. Just don't run off the road again."

Alan smiled. "If I do, you'll be there to rescue me."

It was almost like a question, one Billy didn't know how to reply to. Yes? Too matter-of-fact. Of course? Too blasé. Always? Too. . . soon. The silence went on too long and it became clear to him that there was only one thing to do. 

He answered with a kiss, slow and sweet, not caring one bit if the mechanic or any passing cars could see. Alan seemed to understand quite well, and when at last he climbed out the door to get in his own truck, he gave Billy a look that let him know—it was just the beginning.