FIC: "High Sierra Hopes" (2/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: 12/09/2000
FANDOM: 'Profiler'
PAIRING: George Fraley/John Grant (slash)
RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to NBC, to Court TV, and to the respective actors of the series. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS: Slash, explicit male/male sex, drug withdrawal
SUMMARY: This story is revisionist history ("Alternate Reality") set in the fourth season, when the VCTF travels to Yosemite National Park on a case. Instead of a mistake that nearly costs George his FBI career, John intervenes and changes George's destiny -- and his own.
DEDICATION: To my friend and 'little bro' FatJoey, because we really got to know each other first at the George Profiler list.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'Profiler' was one of the first fandoms we participated in on line, and we ended up working on this pairing, because a Profiler list featuring George/John was one of our first 'playgrounds.

Part Two

John knocked on 228, first softly, then more firmly when there was no answer. It wasn't even midnight, and he doubted George could be asleep. "George?" he called. "Are you there?"

The door opened a crack, and John could make out George's eyes and pale face in the dark room. "What is it?" George asked.

"Can I come in?"

George hesitated. "John, I'm not feeling well. I'm a little sick from dinner. I'm just going to go to bed."

John pushed against the door. "Let me in, George. I want to talk to you."

George stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance. John reached out quickly and grabbed an arm, helping to steady his friend and co-worker.

"I never thought you did," George murmured, barely audible.

"Sit down. I'll turn on a light." The only illumination came from an adjacent room, obviously the bathroom. John turned on the lamp by the bed.

George sank into the overstuffed chair in the corner. He looked shaky and sweaty, like a man coming down with a bad case of the flu. John almost wished this were the case. Was George in withdrawal, or was he nearing an overdose?

John sat down on the end of the bed. "Talk to me, George. You're bottoming out."

"I'm all right," George said stubbornly. "I'm doing the best I can."

"You're still using, aren't you?"

George smiled cynically. "'Using'! I love that. It's like I'm on heroin or cocaine."

"What are you on, George?"

George stared at the handsome young man, taking in the strong features, the straight nose, the perfect mouth, the dark blue eyes. John was the picture of health and testosterone. To George he resembled some Greek god, carved out of marble. Even in the Sierra Mountains, John glowed like an urban prince. It was unthinkable to sit in this room and debate about the drug that had George bloated, nauseated and constipated. How could John conceive of such a state?

George dropped his face into his hands. He shook his head silently.

"George, damn it, don't do that!" John jumped up and moved toward George. "Talk to me!"

"I'm going to be sick," George mumbled.

John glanced quickly around the room and dove for a wastebasket. He held it under George's chin as the man started to heave. John wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the back of George's damp head, guiding him. George's body convulsed with nausea, although the results were minor, mostly stomach fluid. George must have been puking for a while.

As George's heaving subsided, John took the wastebasket into the bathroom and set it in the shower. He sprayed hot water into the receptacle for a minute or two before returning to his friend.

"I'm going to get some ice," he announced, grabbing the bucket. "You need to get some fluids in before you get dehydrated."

George didn't answer. He had lowered his face into his hands again, and now he appeared to be weeping. John glanced around for the key card, didn't find it, so he wedged the door open with the swing lock. The ice machine was down the hall and in an alcove. John filled the bucket.

George was not in clear sight when John returned. "George? Are you in the bathroom?" He walked to the door and glanced in. George was bent over the toilet.

"That burger didn't agree with me," George said weakly.

"You hardly ate any of that burger, George. I haven't seen you eat much all day."

"I'm having some trouble."

John filled a glass with ice and cool water from the bathroom sink. "Drink this," he ordered, pushing the glass into George's hand. "Let me know when you think you can go lie down. Do you want me to call Bailey?"

George shook his head violently. "No, please! Bailey will have me suspended or worse. Please . . . "

John crouched down next to George. "What are you on?"

"Oxycodone. It's a pain killer. A narcotic."

"Are you in withdrawal?"

George shook his head. His face was contorted with emotion. "Every time I try to stop, I can't. It's a drug you have to get off in stages. Cold turkey won't work . . ."

John stood up and reached down to help George get on his feet. George handed him the glass of water, sloshing it on John's sweater. "Sorry," he choked out. "That's such a beautiful sweater."

"Don't be ridiculous, George," John admonished. "You sound --"

" -- like a queer?" George finished.

John helped George into the bedroom and down on the bed. He handed back the water. "I'm going to ignore that, George, since you're upset and sick. Have you talked to a doctor? Lots of people get hooked on pain killers." John reached behind George and stacked the pillows.

"I've made it worse, John. I'm taking uppers part of the time, because the Oxycodone makes me so dopey. Then I'm too edgy to sleep. What's the point of talking to a doctor? They'll only want to put me in rehab, but I can't go. I just can't fight this right now. I need more time." George was starting to shiver.

John knit his brows, clearly unable to understand. "Why not just go to rehab and get it over with? The Bureau will support it."

George shook his head. "I can't!"

John angrily paced the room. "Why are you so proud? You've had problems in the past and asked for help. Bailey's always supported you -- and I haven't been that bad, have I? Can't you trust us?"

"I don't know who to trust, John. I feel so alone and trapped." The shivering had become shaking. George's cheeks were flushed and wet. He glanced up at John's worried face with a look of horror. "My god, John. I've wet myself."

John reached down and lifted George up. "Let's get you out of these clothes and into that soaking tub. You're really sick."

George allowed himself to be led back into the bathroom. He stood unsteadily as John started the bath and then gently stripped off his clothes. He let John help him step into the tub, and he relaxed back against the cool porcelain as the warm water enveloped his crawling skin. It felt like being embraced by a lover, something he had not experienced for some time. He closed his eyes and started to imagine. John's hands, wiping the soft washcloth over his back and arms, fueled his fantasy. He let himself go.

John noticed but ignored George's erection. He wouldn't let himself worry about the implications right now. George was feeling poorly and having a common human reaction to the comfort, one he himself would probably have in a similar situation. It didn't mean anything.

* * * * *

John tucked the bed covers around George's still form. George had managed to drink two and a half glasses of water, although he was loathe to do so after his accident. John had laid a towel under the man, in case the episode repeated itself. While George slept, John used George's computer to research the drug on the internet. He found it was a narcotic analgesic with some of the same symptoms as opium. An overdose might cause slow breathing, dizziness, clamminess and small pupils. He didn't believe George had o.d.'d, but he wasn't sure. He knew he should probably call Bailey, but George was so adamantly against it.

John knew he needed to stay with George, so he propped open the door again and returned to his own room to grab some clothes. He had a message from Rachel asking that they have a private talk about George in the morning. He also had a message from Bailey, telling him to contact the Mariposa County Sheriff's office and the Sacramento office of the Bureau first thing in the morning. He grabbed his shaving kit and pulled a T-shirt and running shorts out of his bag. Then he returned to George's room.

George was awake.

"I thought you'd gone," George said softly.

"Just to get some clothes. I don't want to sleep in these."

John stood awkwardly, wondering if he should change in the bathroom. George's intense stare was focused on him, and the memory of George's erection popped up behind John's eyes. "Umm . . . I'll be right back," John said, going into the bathroom. He changed quickly, brushed his teeth, urinated and washed his hands. He left the light on and pulled the door nearly closed. He hoped George would be asleep again. He wasn't.

"How you doing?" John asked.

George nodded. "Much better. I alternate between burning up and freezing, but the nausea seems to have subsided."

"That's good. Be sure to drink your water if you feel like you can." John motioned at the glass on the bedside table.

"Where are you going to sleep?" George asked pointedly. The room held one king bed.

"Next to you. There's plenty of room."

"Be still my beating heart," George quipped. "I've been waiting nearly four years for this."

"Shut up. That's not funny."

"No, it's not," George agreed.

John turned off the bedside lamp, and the room turned dim, the darkness broken only by the cracked bathroom door. John climbed in next to George, his legs brushing the plush bath towel he had spread out in case of accident. He was careful not to lie too close.

"I won't bite," George said.

John didn't answer.

"If you feel like talking, let me know," John said after a few minutes of lying in the dark. "I know I've never been much of a confidant, but I really do care."

George cleared his throat. "Tell me about Coop. What did you feel when he died?"

John stiffened, surprised at the question. "Why do you ask that?"

"I just wondered. I always thought Coop's death was particularly hard on you, but you didn't seem to show it."

"It's weird you should ask, but I've been thinking about Coop's death lately. I guess because of . . . of Kate."

"It's been a hell of a year," George said with a sigh. "For all of us."

"You know, George. I was pretty screwed up right after Kate died. I think for a month or so I got drunk nearly every night. I didn't sleep in my bed and I ate crap or nothing at all. I either didn't work out or I worked out two or three times a day. I really had a hard time coping."

George sighed again. "And you didn't go to a shrink or reach out to a friend. You 'handled it.'"

John fidgeted. "I talked to Rachel about it. But I guess you're right for the most part."

The two men lay silent for several moments.  The comforting drone of forced-air heating sounded overhead. Then George reached his left hand over toward John, awkwardly grabbing for John's hand. John complied with George's wish and took his hand.

"Richard is dying, John."

"What?"

"He has AIDS, full blown. He's in the final stage. That's why I wanted to stay in Atlanta."

John couldn't speak. How could George's partner be dying and the team be totally unaware?

"No one knows. Bailey knows Richard's been ill, but I told him it was diabetes. I just couldn't face what you all might think if you knew I lived with a man who had AIDS . . . It's one thing to be a Jew and a gay male . . . or maybe that's really two things . . . I don't know. I just couldn't have you wincing every time I sneezed or not wanting to use the same bathroom . . . or whatever. And I didn't want pity."

"George --" John sputtered. "For Christ's sake! You're talking about your friends -- about your team. We're not idiots. We know about AIDS."

This time George's sigh sounded a little like a sob. "Richard was HIV-positive when we moved in together. We've always practiced safe sex because of it. His T-cell count only started to drop last year, but when it happened, it happened fast. He's been in and out of different clinics, but there's nothing left to fight for now. He's in a coma in a hospice in Atlanta -- Haven House. They specialize in AIDS patients, and they're so good to him there --" George stopped abruptly, gulping. "He could die any time."

"Jesus, George, I'm sorry." John squeezed the clammy hand.

"The Oxycodone helped me cope, John. It didn't just ease my physical pain from the accident -- it fuzzed out the emotional pain. The longer I took it -- the longer I watched Richard deteriorate -- the less I wanted to stop taking it. We haven't been able to . . . to have sex . . . for a long time. The drug made me not care about that either. I knew Richard was going to die. Frankly, it will be a blessing now when he dies. He's had a brain tumor for a couple months, and he didn't even know me before he went into the coma."

"I just want it to be over now," George said brokenly. His body started to heave with emotion, and he dropped John's hand and turned away.

"George --"

John rolled over and put his arms around the weeping man.  "George, it will be okay. I'm here."

George turned around and accepted John's strong arms. The two men came together, the warm skin of their faces brushing one another. John rocked George gently as he cried, blinking back his own inexplicable tears. Loss seemed the most inevitable part of life, and part of John rebelled against it. He squeezed George harder.

"John," George gasped, breathless from the tears and the hug. "Don't."

"Shhhhh . . . . it's okay. Be still. I'm here."

John's husky voice breathed into George's ear, and a shiver crept up George's quivering limbs. His erection grew like a flag between the two bodies, and neither man was unaware of it. John's grip seemed as desperate as George's, and his taut, muscled leg pulsed against the hardness of George's groin. George's eyes were squeezed tightly shut in the darkness and he held his breath, expecting spasms of completion. There was no way to stop it now, no reason to stop it. The drug had turned off his sexual desire for weeks, but this was stronger than any drug. This was the most powerful thing in the world -- the power to destroy -- the power to heal. John Grant was that power.

The End, Part Two