You think I have cancer?

"I'm just not hungry, Foster. I'm sorry."

Foster's brows drew together as he regarded Gabriel: his too-lean frame, his cheekbones beginning to stand out too sharply. Foster looked down at the generous bowl of chowder in front of the other man. "Did you even take a single bite?"

"I'm sure it's great, Foster. It smells wonderful. I'm just still full. I only ate a few hours ago."

"That was lunch. Six hours ago. And today I was with you all day to know. You can't tell me you snacked. I know you didn't."

Gabriel shrugged. "It's … it's probably just a withdrawal symptom."

"We're not even sure you were physically addicted, Gabriel!" Foster said, frustrated. "And anyway, the drugs you were on – they were suppressing your appetite. Going off them should be giving you the munchies, not having the opposite effect." He trusted Gabriel. If he hadn't, he'd have thought he was using drugs again on the sly, but Foster was sure that wasn't happening here. For the last few days especially, he'd been making a special effort to be with Gabriel constantly, watching him, trying to figure out what the other man was doing that was sabotaging his recovery, because he was still losing weight.

"Maybe in another week, I'll be better. I probably just have a stomach bug." He smiled warmly at Foster, either not noticing his frustration or not responding to it. Either was possible, as Gabriel had an annoying habit of ignoring emotional responses he didn't have a use for. "Let's just wait and see." He stood up, supporting himself on the table as he got to his feet. Foster's eyes darted back and forth between Gabriel's hands where he used them to push off the furniture. "I'm going to go lie down. Need my rest if we're going to do anything later, hm?" He wiggled his brows suggestively and headed off to the bedroom, leaving Foster to ponder.

Four nights ago, they hadn't had sex because Gabriel had been 'too tired.' It happened, but to happen to a man in his late twenties, in otherwise good shape, with an easy job and few responsibilities, in the late stages of a relationship that he was otherwise wild about… it was odd. Foster hadn't thought too much of it though. But two nights ago they'd had to stop in the middle because Gabriel literally couldn't do it. Last night Foster had topped, missionary, and they'd had a good time … but his partner hadn't been all that engaged.

Foster looked at the full bowl of chowder and the untouched spoon next to it. He thought about Gabriel needing to push himself up from the table and a dozen other little signs that something was wrong – seriously wrong. He stood abruptly and strode to the bedroom. He hesitated outside the door, gathering his thoughts. He wouldn't barge in and confront an ailing patient, and that was exactly what he suspected he was dealing with. He walked in more slowly, his manner reserved.

Gabriel was laying down, a magazine next to him like he intended to read it, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. There were a lot of things that happened like that in the last week – he said he was interested, wanted to go out, or watch TV, or read a book, and … instead he'd fall asleep or just zone out, like anything beyond the most basic activities of living day to day was too much. Now that Foster thought of it, the only things Gabriel was doing was washing, going to work, eating a little (and a lot less than Foster would like), and trying to perform in bed, something he'd been failing at recently. He cuddled well. He was affectionate when Dexter wasn't being irritable about missing the drugs.

Foster stood at the side of the bed. "When was the last time you saw a doctor?"

Gabe smiled up at him, heavy lidded. "I see Dr. Foster every day." 

"A real doctor."

Gabriel snorted softly. "You mean not one of those mad scientists working for the government, with all their needles and mysterious injections?"

Foster's eyes widened as his mind fathomed a possible explanation. He nodded slowly.

"It's been months," Gabriel sighed. "Months and months."

Foster couldn't keep up the charade of a good bedside manner any longer. He climbed on the bed and straddled Gabriel's thighs.

"Oh-ho-ho!" Gabriel laughed. "Not waiting until later, are we?"

Foster smirked. He pushed up Gabriel's shirt and started palpating him methodically. At first Gabriel squirmed happily in response, then he realized this wasn't for his arousal. He stilled. "What are you doing, Foster?"

"Looking for masses."

"You think I have cancer?"

"You have something. I'm sure of it. I'm just not sure what it is."

"Foster…" Gabriel caught his hands and yanked him down. He was still strong – he just didn't have any stamina. He kissed him. After a moment of tension, Foster returned it. The hard press of lips turned soft and sweet, with a slow caress of Gabe's fingers along the back of his shirt, progressing to his head and tangling gradually in his hair. Foster gave a soft moan. Eventually they parted.

In a level, normal tone of voice, Foster said, "You're not going to distract me."

"Mm. Then I need to work on becoming a better kisser. Come here. Let me practice." He pulled him back and Foster let him. About a minute into it, Foster began working his hands across Gabriel's abdomen once again. "Agh!" Gabriel pushed him away. "Would you stop it? The last people who were poking and prodding me made me-" Gabriel cut off mid-sentence. He rolled onto his side, facing away.

Foster immediately spooned up behind him. When his presence wasn't refused, he wrapped an arm around Gabe and hugged him.

Dexter told him, "I don't want to see any doctors anymore. No needles. No gowns. No straps." He paused. Foster listened. Gabriel had never told him what had happened. "No lights. No tubes." Dexter curled inward more tightly. Foster kissed the middle of his back and hugged him. "No…" His voice turned vulnerable and raw. "I want dirt, and blood, and life. I want to shoot up and feel good and forget it all. I want to be with people so I don't have to think." His voice hitched. He stopped talking and slowed his breathing. Foster kissed his back again.

"I'm dying, Foster. Please don't leave me. Not when we just …" His voice got tight. He held his breath.

"I would never leave you while you needed me this much," Foster murmured. He waited, but Gabriel was silent. Foster asked, "How long have you known?"

"I don't know. I'm not certain. I just keep going downhill. Maybe I have some kind of really fast-acting AIDS. Dexter's been fucked up the ass enough by strange men!"

Foster snorted. "AIDS does not progress this fast." He was quiet for a while, listening to Gabriel's breathing, feeling the warmth of his body. Where there was life there was hope. No wonder Gabriel had fallen into a pit of despair.

"The needles were always clean though," Dexter muttered.

Foster leaned his forehead against the other man's back. Curled as he was, his undershirt stretched over his back - his spine was too obvious; his ribs apparent. "You said they used a variant of a virus?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't they use the original?"

"I don't know. I was immune to it anyway - to the original." Gabriel relaxed a little.

"You were?"

"Yes. They used something different on me this time." Gabriel relaxed more. They were just talking now. Talking was okay. This wasn't a subject that upset him.

Foster tugged Gabriel onto his back and the other man flopped over cooperatively. Foster sat up on the bed. "Will you let me finish examining you?" Foster could see the muscles tighten on the other man's frame. He added, "Please? I don't think I'll find anything, but it will make me feel better."

Gabriel looked off to the side. Foster wasn't sure if that was acquiescence or avoidance, but a moment later he said, "Go ahead."

Foster's hands roamed over him, pushing here, probing there, massaging and feeling. Gabriel endured it patiently. Foster didn't find anything unusual. Gabriel was still a little sore over the areas of his last injuries, but the bruises were almost entirely faded. The last thing Foster did was work his fingers up the other man's neck, then over his face. Their eyes met and they shared an intimacy so intense it was almost painful. It made Foster's chest tighten. He finally shut his eyes and bowed his head, running his fingers through Gabriel's hair, feeling his scalp. There was nothing to be found.

He sighed and dismounted from where he was straddling his lover's chest at the moment. He sank down on the bed next to him. Gabriel tugged at him and guided Foster's movements until he positioned him on the bed next to him, lying facing one another. Gabriel kissed him gently, silently. Foster returned it. He brought one hand up to caress Gabriel's face as the other man slipped his fingers into the top of Foster's waistband.

"No," Foster said, jerking his hips back an inch. Sick people, and illness, seriously, seriously turned him off. It disturbed him to even contemplate it. When he merely thought Gabriel was thin or tired, there was no problem. Now that he thought he was sick...sex was completely off the table. And Foster was very, very sorry for that, deeply sorry, but there was no way he was going to be able to perform.

Gabriel groaned unhappily. "Foster, at least let me give you a hand job."

"No." He kissed him again instead. He could give affection. He could give support. And he wanted to give Gabriel those things. He couldn't give the other.

Gabriel made a frustrated noise, but went with it. When they parted though, he asked sadly, "Is this it then?"

"What?"

Gabriel gave him a frail smile and reached up to stroke Foster's face. "I'm sorry. It's uh…kind of over. No matter what happens, thank you for what you've given me. For at least a little while, I haven't been alone."

"Don't talk that way," Foster said forcefully, drawing him into an embrace. "I'm going to find a cure."

Gabriel.

I sure as hell hope he does.