So, in no small part thanks to the reviews and messages I've gotten asking if I was going to do a second part, I actually decided to do that! This fic hit home to a lot of really personal parts of me, and I'm so glad it's been so well received. I hope y'all like the second part as much as the first.

Please tread carefully, as does contain some potentially triggering material. Warnings for discussion of suicide and suicidal thoughts (no actions are taken), discussion of a potential threat of forced institutionalization, and some language.

If you need come build your home in me

And you know I won't complain

And I can't fix what was done to you

But I'll shield you from the rain

Radical Face, "Small Hands"

Consciousness drifts in slowly, and G is awake for what feels like a few minutes before he kicks up the wherewithal to open his eyes completely and take stock of his surroundings. Through the window across what appears to be a living room, he can see that it's almost nighttime, the last dregs of sunlight draining from an ever-darkening sky. After a few seconds of squinting around the familiar feeling living room, it clicks. Sam. It's Sam's living room.

It's hardly the first time G has come to on this couch, but usually he can remember how it was he got there to begin with. As his head becomes clearer and he tries to come up with the day's events, feeling abruptly and harshly returns to his body. There's not an inch of him that doesn't suddenly ache with a kind of gnawing pain all too familiar to him.

Nothing quite like the feeling of very recently having been beat to hell, G thinks, unable to stop the pained groan that escapes through tightly gritted teeth. And on top of that, he still can't remember how he got here.

The sound draws Sam in from the kitchen. He stands watching in concern as G heaves himself into a semi-sitting position, leaning heavily against the arm of the couch.

After G gets himself settled, Sam sits down and asks, "How're you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck or four," G answers, making a face. "What happened? Why am I here?"

The look that flickers across Sam's face is some warring combination of worry and relief. He shifts a bit, turning more fully to face G.

"You don't remember?"

G looks down at his hands, preparing to answer when he catches sight of the wounds just above them, overlapping red marks encircling both wrists. The sight of the marks brings it back, in bits and pieces, flashes of disjointed memory.

The impact of a crowbar against the left side of his ribcage.

A bottle and a syringe, the feeling of the unknown drug coursing through his veins.

Blood seeping into the collar of his shirt, a sardonic twist of a smirk, "You can't hold my life hostage, I don't even want it."

"Is that Hetty? Don't tell her I want to die, Sam, you can't tell her. If she finds out then I'm done for, she'll have me locked up somewhere I won't ever get out of, please, please don't tell her."

Losing it completely outside Sam's car, the breakdown of any façade he may have hoped to maintain that he was okay, that he was keeping it together.

"Oh fuck," G groans in present time, dropping his bruised, aching head into his hands. "Fuck."

With his eyes screwed tight shut and heels of his palms pressed into them, G can sense the apprehension and radiation radiating off Sam from there.

"Do you remember?" The question is asked in a deliberately mild, calm voice. There's no accusation, no challenge.

G lifts his head up but doesn't look at Sam – can't look at Sam. His cheeks are flushed in humiliation and he nods.

"Yeah," he says, dully. "I- I remember." What do you say to move on from there?

Judging by Sam's lack of a response, sitting beside G in silent acceptance, he doesn't know either.

As more and more of the events of the previous hours come back to him, memories of telling them he doesn't know his own birthday, of not being able to stand but for Sam holding him up, of being unable to stop the sobs from tearing from his chest, G feels as if freezing metal claws are gouging their way into his lungs. He fights to keep his breathing under control, nails digging into his palms as his hands fist tightly in his lap.

So now Sam knows. All the things he'd tried so hard to keep a secret, the days he forced himself to drag his exhausted body out of bed and pretend he didn't want to go back to sleep and never wake up, it was all for nothing.

In a last ditch attempt at getting ahold of himself, G looks around the room, taking in his surroundings. The room feels exactly like the bizarre, tenuous safe haven it always has felt like, last rays of light from the dusk sun alighting on framed family photos. His eyes land on one in particular, one he himself is in with Sam's children, Kamran perched on his shoulders, his arm slung around Aidan. Funny, he hadn't noticed that the last time he was here.

Suddenly, the reality under which he finds himself in this house cracks through the relative moment of serenity, and G practically flinches, eyes going sharply back down to his own hands.

"You shouldn't have brought me here," he mutters fiercely. "Michelle and Kamran-"

"Aren't here," interrupts Sam, not fazed by the tone. "Kam's at a sleepover, Michelle's on assignment. What should I have done, G? Left you to wake up alone after that at your place? If you think there was a chance in hell I was gonna do that, then you clearly don't know me very well."

G has to admit he has a point there, however unfairly made, and he's about to comment on this when shifting his position on the couch causes a surge of pain to wash over him, his vision whiting out. Reality ebbs back in after a moment, with Sam staring at him in alarm.

"Definitely cracked a couple ribs," G gasps out when he has enough breath to do so.

"You really need to go to the hospital."

"No," G says quickly, shaking his head emphatically. "No hospital, no."

"G you were tortured," Sam says incredulously, as if G has maybe somehow forgotten.

"It's not like they were good at it."

The expression on Sam's face suggests a thought along the lines of 'you'd think I would be used to this by now.'

After a few beats of silence, Sam relents. "Alright, but if you get worse I'm taking you to the ER, okay?"

"Deal," G agrees.

"I'd get you something for the pain, but…"

"We don't know how it would react to what I was dosed with," G finishes. "Yeah."

They both know what they are avoiding here, the conversation they know is coming and don't want to have. Much as G wishes he could head this off at the pass, take back everything he said and start over, there's no getting out of this conversation. The consequences of this could destroy him.

G feels abruptly angry that all of the disasters in his life, all the times he's been shot, kidnapped, beat, held hostage, every time he's almost died in his dange magnet existence, and this is what ruins him? Barely a couple hours, a mystery drug, and some words he shouldn't have said, and it's all over. Because he knows what has to happen next.

It's not Sam's fault. He is duty bound to report this to Hetty and, well, G knows what Hetty's going to do. There is no room in Hetty's world or her employ for a suicidal agent. She'll pull whatever strings she has to and have him committed, somewhere he'll never get out of. He knows too much for her to ever allow him to be released.

"Do what you have to do," G says quietly. "You don't have to feel guilty. I understand."

"What are you talking about?" Sam's voice sounds alarmed and taken aback, like he has no idea what G means.

"When you tell Hetty. I get it, okay? You do what you gotta do."

"No way." The response is immediate and strong. It's enough to shock G into making eye contact.

"Excuse me?"

"Nobody," Sam says steadily, meeting his eyes, "is gonna hear about this unless you decide to tell them. I shouldn't have found out like this, but neither of us had much of a choice on that one."

G just isn't comprehending what's being said. "So, wait, you're not gonna report this to Hetty?"

"No. I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because it's none of her business," Sam answers frankly. "Nothing has changed. You do your job just fine, you'd never put any of us in danger, I don't see how she needs to know unless you decide to tell her."

In an off hand, split-second, slightly hysterical thought, G wonders what the catch is. Before he can do something totally ridiculous like ask that question out loud, Sam keeps talking.

"And I meant what I said earlier, by the road."

Recalling how soundly he'd lost it then, G's cheeks heat up. He finds himself wishing the mystery drug had wiped his memory of the last stretch of hours, because that's one extended breakdown he could do without remembering.

(Except there's another part of him that's glad he remembers, because when is the last time someone held him like that? It's humiliating and childish but the phantom feeling of being crushed in the embrace of someone he trusted isn't a memory he wants to give up.)

In the midst of his slightly addled train of thought, G realizes Sam has been waiting for him to respond, confirm he knows what Sam is talking about.

"Yeah," he says quietly, nodding. Shooting a quick look over at Sam, who is watching him with a worried crease in his forehead, G stifles a groan. "Look, it's nothing to worry about, okay?"

Sam raises his eyebrows as if you say 'you're kidding me, right?' and G rolls his eyes.

"I mean it's not like I'm gonna just let myself die on a case, let someone shoot me or something." That'd put you and whoever else I was working with in danger. I wouldn't risk that. "I'm not gonna do anything. I never do. It's fine."

It isn't fine. None of this is fine. It hasn't been for a very long time. Maybe it never was.

"I don't think there's anything anyone can do to fix me." The statement is barely loud enough to be heard. Sam blinks, not quite understanding, and G sighs. "It's nothing you can fix, Sam, I don't think it's something anyone can fix. I appreciate the concern, I really do, but it might just be better for everyone if you forget this ever happened."

"There are…" Sam speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully. "There are more options here than you magically getting better and me pretending this never happened."

G shakes his head like he just doesn't believe a word Sam is saying. There isn't a part of him that understands this. He's in uncharted waters, and somehow the fact that Sam is still there, is sitting next to him, offering the promise to give a damn even fully knowing just how deep the damage runs, somehow that is infinitely scarier than if Sam had accepted his offer and he'd gone back to fighting a never ending battle with his own mind, alone. It's as if after years of that, it's become the safe option.

It's a terrifying, exhausting, unspeakably painful reality to live in, to be constantly on the losing end of a war no one even knows you're fighting, but it's the devil he knows, and he fears that less than the devil he doesn't. Once you have something, you can lose it. It's easier not to have anything at all.

"I don't know where to go from here. I don't even know where to start." Whatever he was shot up with has lost its effect, but it's easier to pretend he's still talking like this, open and vulnerable, because there's a drug compelling him to. "I've been like this for as long as I can remember. I don't know how to want to live. I don't know what that looks like."

"We'll figure something out." Everything in Sam's voice when he says it sounds like he means it, like his heart is in the words completely. "I'm not under any impression that I can fix you. I mean, I don't think you need fixing, I think you need help, but… I'm here. I don't care how long it takes; I don't care if it takes forever. I'm still gonna be here, and I'm still gonna try and help you however I can."

It's stretching it a bit, G thinks, to blame the tightness in his throat on the drug, on his injuries, but he figures after the day he's had, he's allowed to stretch it. He keeps staring down, eyes fixed on his own hands.

"Hey." The word is accompanied by a gentle nudge of Sam's knee against his. This time G looks up, makes eye contact with his friend.

"Do you trust me?" Sam asks, and it's somehow possible that it's an even more loaded question than ever before.

Still, somehow, G knows the answer.

"Yeah," he says in a rough voice.

"Then we'll figure something out, okay?" Sam repeats, and he sounds just as steady and sure as he always has.

Maybe it's that familiarity, the way that tone from Sam is as good as an 'I promise', and Sam Hanna is not a man who breaks his promises, that makes G nod.

"Okay."