I disclaim. I don't own the characters etc. etc.

I promised myself I was not going to write another GQ fic for at least a month. I was going to concentrate on something else. But I had this nagging little voice in the back of my head that just wouldn't shut up until I wrote this.

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His eyes were not deceiving him and when the knowledge finally registered in his brain, he wanted to scratch them out so he couldn't read the words again. But he did. He read them over and over and over again. And they didn't change. They always said the same thing. The pain never subsided. Even after the hundredth time, the complete disbelief did not vanish from his face.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he hit print and waited for the ink to dry before he slipped the paper into his pants pocket and turned to leave.

He'd waited years for this moment, dreaming up scenarios and celebratory laughter and it all came tumbling down in an instant. The pain in his stomach made it hard for him to stand up straight and his ears ringed with pounding, pulsing blood. It couldn't be true...but it was.

When Dillon was six, they stayed in Prague for a little over a month. He liked Prague and its history. He liked the buildings, the flowing gardens and the art. One day when he wandered off while at Prague Castle and stared at the Basilica of St. George and the Romanesque architecture in fascination, a man tried to grab him. If it wasn't for his mother's broker, Liam, who knows where he would have been.

The odd thing was, he never tried to run away, he didn't try to scream, he just went numb. And after all the commotion Liam gripped him by the shoulders and assessed him for injuries, and seeing none, swallowed him into an embrace.

His skin was ice cold and the warm tweed from Liam's jacket tickled his nose. He carried Dillon all the way back to the limo and sat him down in the back seat beside him and resumed holding him.

'Jesus kid,' he'd said, 'you scared the hell out of me.' There was no anger in his tone, but fear. Dillon had never heard such fear from anyone. Even when he'd slipped off the monkey bars in Poland and broke his arm, his mother had never acted like this.

But Liam was different. Liam didn't hide his emotions, didn't make him beg for affection. Never told him it wasn't manly to cry. And so in the back seat, Dillon looked up at Liam and ran his hand over his damp cheek, looking into those kind blue eyes and finally let his own tears fall. He shook and sobbed in the man's arms and neither let go for some time. And because he knew it would be okay, he cried often when he thought of him.

It was Liam that taught him about movies and history and fine arts. It was Liam that brought him to museums and art shows and together they saw the Sistine Chapel for the first time. If not for him, Dillon would have spent all his time locked up in five-star hotel rooms, making friends with the maids and room service staff.

He was the closest thing to a father Dillon had ever known and his mother took him away; took Liam away to hurt him.

She had said she didn't need him anymore, that her finances were in order and it was a waste of money to keep him on her team. Dillon never believed that lie. He knew it was jealousy and spite. Because he looked at Liam with love and looked at her with trepidation.

Dillon used to have wild, vivid nightmares. Sweaty hands and stale breath. He'd wake up soaked in sweat and his eyes would barely be able to focus. During that time, he was always between waking and sleep, nightmares and reality. And it could have been worse. It would have been if Liam had never rescued him.

So Dillon made a silent promise to the man that had practically raised him that when he was old enough, he would find him and there wouldn't be anything his mother could do or say to deter him. He would look into those blue eyes and tell him thanks. Thanks for caring when no one else ever had.

He'd been actively searching for at least a year and finally he'd gotten a lead. But it was too late.

Because now that man was dead and instead of looking into kind blue eyes, he would look at a marble grave.

Dillon didn't exactly remember how he'd gotten there. He knew he'd walked, but he wasn't sure how he had actually gotten there. It took him a moment to summon up the courage to walk through the steel gates and once he made it past them, he had the urge to turn back around and run. He'd never dealt well with death.

Seeking out the plot of earth that held his once friend, mentor and father-figure, Dillon walked slowly until he spotted a vibrant brownish-red standing grave. It was different from all the rest. He should have spotted it the second he walked into the cemetery. It was loud, yet classy and had a high polish just like the man.

It had been an hour since the rain first started and ten minutes since he'd noticed. Now the chill was penetrating right down to his bones and he couldn't ignore the sting that pricked his skin under layers of denim and cotton. He shivered, not exactly from the cold. He didn't know what made him turn around, but when he did Georgie was standing there and it was as if he sensed her there all along.

"Georgie?" The word broke from his throat and his own voice sounded hoarse and foreign to his ears.

Georgie gasped. His hair was dishevelled, falling onto his forehead and covering his ears and his skin was a pale shade of blue, but his eyes...his eyes looked haunted. They were rimmed red and she wasn't sure but she thought he might have been crying.

She felt his fear. It radiated off him in sharp, twisted waves. It was the kind of fear that claws at you in the darkest part of now, then, forever. Infinite, tainted knowledge. The kind of fear that breaks your body into sweats and sends your brain spiralling into obscurity.

"A-are you okay?" she tried, desperate to see that look in his eyes gone.

He turned to her, not really seeing her. His throat felt tight and his hands shook when he brushed the hair from his face. "No." It was hard to say, but it was the truth.

She didn't hesitate and in two quick steps was at his side and coaxing him into her arms. There was nothing in him in that moment that could resist. He found his own arms encircling her, bringing her closer and holding her tightly, tangling his fingers into her hair.

Her skin was warm next to his and the heat brought him back to reality. He didn't want to pull away and she didn't want to let him.

Taking his hand, Georgie urged him along side her. "Come on, we'll go to my house."

He hesitated.

"It's okay, Mac's at the station and Maxie isn't home," she assured him.

After the nightmares had broken, Dillon used to dream in blue. Only blue. Differing shades, but only one colour. He wasn't sure when he'd weened himself out of it, but would never forget those dreams. It was like he was stuck in some Picasso painting. The dreams were sometimes a fusion of cubism when he'd had a good day, but he could never get away from the blue or the feelings it invoked. Other times he dreamt of one painting in specific.

He dreamt of 'The Old Guitarist.' He dreamt of the sadness and bony, contorted figure of the man listening so intently to his instrument. He dreamt of the passion and the will to live. He dreamt of being blinded by blue and fixated by almost silver light on his face -it was still blue though, always blue. Sometimes there were only glimpses, just splashes of tattered clothing and the dejection that came with the man's station in life. He dreamt the feelings and sometimes he wondered if they were dreams at all.

They walked in silence and the rain continued to pour down on them until they were a block away from Georgie's house. It slowed to a drizzle and then even less, until all that remained was the gloomy gray sky and wet ground.

They were both sopping wet when they walked through the doors so he waited on the welcome mat while she went to grab him a change of clothes from Mac's room. She returned a few minutes later and then went off to change herself.

Dillon waited in the quiet living room, his heart beat setting to the sound of the grandfather clock in the corner. She walked down the steps slowly and he turned when she reached the last one.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, handing him a towel.

"No." He didn't exactly feel comfortable discussing it with her. How could he tell her --or anyone that the man that had meant so much to him was now dead. It was sacred now. The only time he'd ever felt like a whole person and he feared he would never feel that way again, because he was unworthy. He had to be, otherwise they would stay.

Georgie watched him ruffle the white cotton through his hair until it was reasonably dry and stood on end. "Okay, you don't have to. We can just sit here."

He wasn't sure why everything and everyone turned from him. It started with his father who'd left him at birth and it rolled on a continuous cycle since then. He wasn't sure what it was about him that made people leave. He could see it in Georgie's eyes. See that she wanted to leave, to run. It was only a matter of time.

It was a long time before he spoke. "I just...I feel so alone."

Dillon knew he shouldn't trust her with that information because sooner or later she would use it against him. He expected to see pity in her eyes, but it wasn't there. Instead there was understanding and he'd never hoped for that.

Gerogie bit her bottom lip and then released it. She had to summon up the courage to actually acknowledge that there was something wrong with her. That she wasn't as well put together as she always portrayed. She knew he needed to hear it. Needed to know that he wasn't the only one in pain. "I felt that way after my Mom left. If I didn't have Mac or even Maxie..."

He was surprised and maybe a little shocked that he hadn't realized sooner that she too had been alone, that she knew what it was like to feel the slap of rejection and the heavy hand of isolation.

"I don't want to be alone anymore." He'd been alone too much. Spent too many nights and days in a hotel room with only black and white faces to keep him company. He didn't want that anymore. Not ever.

Instinctively, she took his hand. "You're not."

end.