Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

Sorry for leaving a bit of a cliffhanger last time.  but I always try to trust my instincts and end my chapters at a logical point, and that seemed to be it.

Also, concerning speculation over who the person might be whom Brian appointed to administer his wishes, I really didn't intend to create a mystery in this.  Several of you have probably already figured it out, but the point was not to keep my readers from knowing, but to make it clear that the characters in the story don't know.  But the unveiling, so to speak, will probably happen next chapter, and I hope it will feel logical and rational within the framework of the story.

Timeless

Chapter 15

OR # 7 had certainly seen its share of crises over the years - trauma victims clinging to life by a thread, some saved and some not; patients rushed in from the intensive care unit or the emergency room or the OB suite, crashing, convulsing, bleeding out, in cardiac arrest, flat-lining, or exhibiting any of a dozen other varieties of extreme distress, all requiring the implementation of desperate measures in striving to reach a single goal: the prolongation of life. Sometimes the prolongation was brief: a matter of minutes or hours or days. Some times, there was no prolongation, and even the most heroic measures proved futile.

And sometimes, remarkably, the measures taken proved so effective and the intervention so successful that the result could no longer be termed just a prolongation; sometimes it became a matter of a life saved, of death averted and sent packing.

In effect, the surgical suite was regularly and repeatedly transformed into a battleground - a site of bloody confrontation between the powers of death and destruction and the skills of the individuals who fought to push back the night and rekindle the radiance of life renewed. Those who fought that battle invariably faced the conflict with a cool pragmatism, refusing to be awed by the power of the opposition. It was the only way to achieve the necessary cool professionalism required to function with any hope of success.

When victory was won and the dark invaders finally repelled, the room - only recently christened Keller's Lair by the hospital incrowd - was sometimes filled - temporarily -with a strange sense of dissociation, a weary lethargy that was the complete antithesis of the urgency and near-panic prevalent only a short time before. It was as if the successful effort had drained the entire group of surgical personnel - the assault force of medical intervention - of every ounce of energy and resilience, leaving them boneless and empty although very happy.

First among the exhausted soldiers in that army of very special forces would be the surgical prodigy himself. Matthew Keller frequently emerged from the frontlines of the battle barely able to stand, limp and pale and listless and wanting nothing more than his bed and the bliss of consciousness released.

But not today.

When the surgical procedure was finished and the crisis averted; when the shrill alarms of vital signs monitors went silent, no longer signaling catastrophe; when the patient resumed breathing on his own, without requiring a ventilator to inflate his lungs, Matt Keller was still in his element, still strong and vital and eager and flush with victory. Not because he hadn't poured heart and soul into his work - as he always did; not because he'd held back any particle of strength or power that might be the last little deciding factor in whether or not a patient lived or died. He'd done all that - and more.

But this was no ordinary patient, and his efforts, no matter how exhaustive, were too intimately tied to the fate of the man whose life was literally in his hands to allow him to pull back and release his hold on the ties that bound them together. He would pour his life force - every ounce of it if necessary - into this body. But he would also get something back - a constant reinforcement of his own strength. The contact between them was more of a loop than a one-way passage, and the benefit and energy that circulated there would either benefit both - or neither.

The surgical staff, well accustomed to the eccentricities and habits of their young prodigy, watched with growing disbelief as Keller prepared to close and complete the procedure. Matthew Keller never closed. That was, in his own parlance, what assistants were for.

When RN Gloria Beck lifted her eyes and looked as if she might open her mouth to question him, he simply stared at her. Daring her to make the comment or the suggestion.

Luckily, she knew him well enough to take the hint.

"Nice call, Doctor," she said finally, understanding, as only a well-trained trauma nurse would, that the patient had been very fortunate that it was Keller who had been the man in charge. Another doctor - possibly even a very good one - might have missed the diagnosis, and the only explanation for young Mr. Kinney's failure to survive the surgery would have come from the autopsy performed to determine cause of death.

Luckily, that had not happened. Keller, acting on a combination of medical expertise and gut instinct, had called it correctly and acted accordingly. Even more luckily, the young surgeon's skill in performing laparoscopic procedures was almost legendary among his peers, enabling him to find and eliminate the problem when many others might have failed to do so. Virtually undetectable and skulking beneath the trauma inflicted on other major organs, the patient's badly lacerated gallbladder had begun to hemorrhage into surrounding tissues, its condition deteriorating rapidly, compounding other problems and making diagnosis even more difficult.

If there had been any delay or if the physician had hesitated even slightly, it might well have been too late. Damage to the gallbladder from blunt force trauma was a rare occurrence and thus not always recognized in such cases, and the organ had been on the verge of rupture by the time Keller found the source of the problem.

Young Mr. Kinney had been very lucky indeed.

He would live. And that was all that Matt Keller cared about. There might be consequences. Side-effects. A price to pay.

But Brian Kinney would live, and . . . Matthew allowed himself a weary smile . . . he would undoubtedly do so beautifully. The smile faded a bit, but only for a moment. It was time to call in the cavalry, thought the physician. He had known from the beginning, from the moment he'd walked into the room and come face to face with the degree of his patient's injuries, that he would eventually get to this point, although he had to admit, if only to himself, that he had not been thrilled with the prospect.

Still, the moment was at hand. He would not allow his own reluctance to jeopardize his patient's chances for a complete recovery. Even had the patient been anyone other than the man who was, in so many ways, the love of his life.

Time to face the music.

"Beck," he said sharply, as he administered a tiny, almost invisible stitch to close the last of the laparoscopic incisions, "I need you to locate someone for me."

The nurse looked up, slightly uneasy with the note of uncertainty she detected in his voice. Matt Keller was never uncertain of anything.

"Who?"

He turned then and spent a moment looking down into his patient's face, inspecting every mark, every bruise, every laceration, the image before him overlaid in his mind with the image called up from memory. The contrast almost took his breath away - and reinforced his resolve.

"Find Rick Turnage. I need to talk to him."

"When?" she asked, mind already reeling. How the hell was she supposed to . . .

"Yesterday," he replied.

She was too much a professional to display any misgivings she might experience, but she knew both Matt and Dr. Richard Turnage well enough to justify experiencing more than a few. "Now there's a name I haven't heard you speak in . . . what? Five years?"

He hugged a tiny laugh. "At least. And I'd have been more than happy to never speak it again. But . . ."

"But?" she prompted when it appeared he would not continue.

"Sometimes," he said softly, "only the best will do, and a man's gotta swallow his fucking pride and do what's necessary."

Beck smiled behind her mask. "Well, who would have dreamed that this ordinary, run-of-the-mill day would spawn a miracle? For you - of all people - to admit that he . . ."

"He's an arrogant, self-serving prick and a canker sore on the arse of mankind." Then he paused to draw a deep breath. "But he's also the best at what he does, and - in this case - only the best will do."

The nurse was silent for a moment, observing the gentleness of his hands as he continued his task.

"Jesus!" she whispered finally. "You must really love him."

He merely looked at her, a hard glitter in his eyes daring her to say more.

Then he shifted his focus, forgetting everyone and everything except the man lying supine and helpless under his hands, and leaned forward so that he was almost nose to nose with his patient. His lips moved gently, generating only the faintest whisper of sound. "I made you a promise, Baby. And I aim to keep it . . . even if I have to eat a shitload of humble pie in the process."

He stepped back then, peeling off mask and gown and gloves, his mind already turning to the next task at hand. To wit - facing Michael.

He had not allowed himself to dwell too much on the facial expression worn by young Novotny - and why in hell was he thinking of him in that way when Michael was actually older than Brian and the same age as Matthew himself? - when the trauma team had wheeled their patient out of ICU and raced off down to corridor to the staff elevator, which was waiting to take them down to the surgical suites on a lower floor. There had been no time for explanations or assurances - only a hurried statement that Brian had developed complications and needed more surgery. But Matt had not quite managed to forget that look either. He had seen enough blind panic in the course of his life to recognize it, especially when it was couched within a framework of despair.

Michael had been terrified, had been forced, for the first time in his life, to contemplate the possibility that Brian might never come back to him.

Matt knew that feeling, had felt it himself on more than one occasion, and knew that he had to take steps to relieve it. Not for Michael; he frankly didn't give a shit about Michael. But Brian loved the little nerd - always had and always would. So it was time to ease Michael's pain - for Brian's sake.

He was only three steps into the waiting room when he found himself surrounded by avid faces, barely able to contain the panic that sparked in their eyes. He looked around, recognizing Michael, of course, and his partner; his mother, Debbie; Lindsey and her 'husband'; Brian's friends, Emmett and Ted, and his assistant, Cynthia. Other faces were familiar, but he could not put names to them. But it didn't matter anyway. It was Michael who was front and center, and who was not going to relinquish his place, no matter who tried to remove him.

"Is he . . ." Huge brown eyes were glossy with tears that could not be denied.

"He's all right, Michael."

The tears spilled over, then, far beyond control, and Michael, obviously not knowing what else to do, wrapped his hands in the collar of Keller's lab coat and just let them flow. "What was wrong?" he managed to whisper.

Keller debated whether or not to go into the technicalities of what had happened, but realized immediately that there was little point. Even if some of these individuals were able to grasp the medical jargon, it would make no real difference. They didn't need to be able to understand the terminology or define a cholecystectomy or comprehend why it had been necessary; they only needed to know the result.

"Complications from the original injuries," he said smoothly. "When there's so much damage, it's easy to miss something."

The group was quiet, eyes haunted and filled with shadow, until Cynthia spoke up - pragmatic and rational. As always.

"And how can you be sure you haven't 'missed' something else?"

He summoned up a weary smile for her, recalling how Brian always referred to her as his "good right hand". "Medicine isn't nearly as exact a science as most doctors would have you believe, so there's no such thing as 'sure' in a situation like this. But I've exhausted every possibility I can think of, and - if I did miss something - I promise you that I'm going to be close enough to step in and fix any other problem that might arise." The smile faded, to be replaced by grim resolve. "He will survive this."

As he spoke, his eyes moved from face to face, gauging the reactions of the various members of the group. It was not surprising, he supposed, that there would be such marked variations in how the individuals responded to his words. Brian's relationships with these people ran the gamut, after all, from the kind of friendship that defined lifelong commitment to a barely-controlled hostility that masked an even deeper resentment. Thus, Michael's expression was almost incandescent with relief and hope restored while Lindsey's partner (Melissa? Melanie? Something like that?) looked as if she couldn't decide whether or not she dared display annoyance at the degree of Lindsey's concern.

Lindsey, however, merely looked exhausted, and Keller knew exactly how she felt.

"When can we see him?" demanded Michael's mother. "We haven't even had a good look at him yet, you know. We need . . ."

Matthew raised a hand to stop her in mid-tirade. "You'll see him when it's safe to do so, and . . ." he paused and let his tone of voice shift to emphasize his meaning ". . . when he wants to see you."

"He'll be waking up soon then?" That was Emmett, the shadows in his eyes reminding the doctor that it had been this young man who'd participated in Brian's rescue and who, as a result, had actually seen the worst of what had been done to him, rather than just imagining it, like the rest of the people in this room.

"Soon enough," he answered gently. "We'll keep him sedated for a while, to give him a chance to begin to heal. And to control his pain. In fact, he'll probably sleep all day today. But I see no reason to extend the induced coma, especially since the swelling in his brain has begun to subside. He'll wake up when he's ready."

With that said, Keller dredged up a tired smile and turned away, to hurry down the corridor, disappearing around a nearby corner and leaving many of the group frustrated with the terse quality of his responses.

"I don't get it," snapped Debbie. "Isn't the family supposed to be kept in the loop, to know. . ."

"Debbie," said Lindsey softly, "much as we'd like to think so, we're not."

"Not what?"

"Not family."

The redhead's eyes grew huge. "Well, if we're not, who the hell . . ."

"I don't know," said Melanie slowly, eyes dark with speculation, "but we could probably find out. At least, some of us could." She looked up then and regarded her partner solemnly. "You're the mother of his only child, so . . ."

"No," said Lindsey sharply. "I won't use that, and I won't invade his privacy."

"But you have a right . . ."

"The only rights that matter in this," replied the blonde, "are Brian's rights."

"As usual." That was Melanie again - not quite inaudible and not quite able to conceal her impatience with the thrust of the conversation.

Most of the group trailed back to their seats, each lost in his own thoughts, while Emmett took his leave, hurrying off down the corridor and disappearing around the same corner where Dr. Keller had vanished only moments earlier. Seconds later, Cynthia also made her exit, with no more than a silent nod to Lindsey to signal her departure.

Emmett did not - quite - break into a run once he was out of sight of his friends, but it was a near thing. He needed to speak with Matt Keller privately, and he needed to do so right now. But he had taken only a few strides down the hallway when he realized that it was not to be. Whatever conversation he could manage to have with the surgeon, it would have to be with an audience, for Drew was coming out of the elevator just a few feet away, and Lance Mathis was with him, and neither of them looked to be in a mood to be shunted aside.

But Emmett was determined that he would not spend another minute living with the horrible uncertainty that had stuck in his mind with painful persistence since the moment he had first looked down into Brian's mangled face. He would endure it no longer. So he pushed past his one-time lover and his companion and hurried toward the doorway at the end of the hall. It was one of a half-dozen just like it, virtually indistinguishable each from the others, except for a small, discreet metal sign affixed to the wall beside it, with the words "Doctor's Lounge" engraved on the surface.

Emmett did not hesitate, nor take any notice of the fact that he was no longer alone. He did spare a quick thought to observe that most of the people who knew him well - or thought they did - would have been shocked to see him now, to comprehend the intensity of his determination to get an answer to the question that was driving him. Forceful was simply not an adjective that anyone would ordinarily use to describe him.

But fear, he thought, can turn the most mild-mannered pussy boy into a raging lunatic, and this particular pussy-boy had reached his limit.

Matt Keller had just poured a cup of black coffee almost caustic enough to etch glass when he found himself under intense scrutiny from three pairs of eyes. Two of his observers appeared to have simply tagged along for the ride, uncertain of where the road would lead them, but there was no mistaking the intense focus of the third. Emmett Honeycutt had come for answers, and would not be turned away until he got them.

So much, then, thought Keller, for his intention to close his eyes for a few minutes before entering his latest observations into the medical chart that he carried under his arm.

The doctor felt a sudden, intense surge of sympathy for the young man standing before him, along with a quick swell of gratitude that Brian had managed to inspire such loyalty from someone who did not appear to be infatuated/intoxicated or otherwise in love with him. For Brian, true friendship, offered up without traces of lust or romantic fantasy, was a rare blessing.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Keller pointed out with a sardonic smile.

"Sorry," replied Emmett, in a tone that clearly belied the word, "but I need to talk to you. Alone."

The doctor's eyes flicked to Emmett's companions.

"They don't count," Emmett explained. "They're not . . . emotionally invested in . . ."

Keller spotted a shadow moving in Drew Boyd's eyes, and was quick to realize that Emmett was not entirely correct in his assumption. It was not, however, anything that needed to be addressed, and he let it pass. "Honeycutt, I . . ."

"Emmett," said the young man quickly. A strange melancholy touched his face then, and his next remark seemed to be a non-sequitur, but the doctor was somehow certain that it wasn't. "Nobody gets to call me . . . that."

Keller nodded. "Emmett, then. Look, I appreciate that you're concerned, that you think you have a right to . . ."

"No," said Emmett quickly. "Not a right. I have no rights here. Except . . ."

When he fell silent, it was obvious that he was struggling to find the right words to express his concerns, and Keller forced himself to be patient - to give the young man the time he needed.

"We saw," he said finally, with a nod of his head to include the two men at his side, "what they did to him. The others - the rest of the Brian Kinney fan club that's assembled out in the waiting room - they came later. After he'd been cleaned up and bathed and bandaged, so . . . they didn't see how bad it was." He shuddered then and closed his eyes. "And I think I'll always be grateful for that. For some of them, anyway." Then he dredged up a tiny smile. "If Michael had seen him like that . . . it doesn't even bear thinking about.

"But here's the thing, Doc. The first thing - for all of us - was to be sure that he would survive this, and now you've told us that he will. But if you know Brian as well as you seem to think, then you know that simple survival is not going to be enough - for him."

Emmett's eyes were suddenly huge and very liquid as memory raced through him like a raging tide. "I remember the first time I ever saw him. He was away at college when I first came to the Pitts, and Michael and I became friends while he was gone. Then, when Michael found out that he was coming home, that was all he could talk about, for weeks on end. It was Brian will love this, or Brian won't want that, or Brian will do that better than anybody, so, by the time he actually arrived, I was heartily sick of hearing his name. And prepared to dislike him intensely because I figured that nobody could live up to all that hype." His smile was self-deprecating. "What the fuck did I know?

"And then . . ." he closed his eyes as if reliving the moment. "It was a Saturday morning in the spring, one of those fabulous, brilliant mornings when the whole world feels new and reborn, and he came walking into the diner with his arm slung around Michael's shoulders, and I . . . I could barely catch my breath. I never admitted it to anybody. Certainly not to him. But he knew it anyway. Brian always knew, I think. He was twenty-two years old, and he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He walked in, and it was like he lit up the room, brighter than any ray of sunlight, and everybody there just basked in it."

He sighed and took a moment to compose himself. "I need to know . . . if that Brian Kinney is going to survive. I need to know that you can . . ."

The physician did not answer immediately, choosing instead to take a seat beside a narrow window and stare out into an overcast afternoon.

"Please, Dr. Keller," Emmett continued. "I know you can't divulge confidential information, but please, can you just tell me if . . ."

"I remember too," Keller interrupted, as he watched a helicopter approaching from the South and descending toward the helipad on the roof. "That's how most people react on first meeting Brian." Abruptly, he turned away from the window and looked up to meet Emmett's gaze. "I can't fix him," he said flatly. "The damage that was done to him was . . . horrendous. All I could do - can do - is to save his life. But . . ." He smiled, but there was no joy in the expression. "Knowing Brian, I doubt he'll thank me for that, all things considered. You know, as well as I do, that 'being Brian Kinney' - in all his glory - has always been the primary focus of his existence, so . . ." He stood up then and stepped forward until he and Emmett were face to face, with no room for subterfuge between them. "While I, personally, cannot give back what they took from him, I do know someone who can."

"Meaning?" Emmett wanted to believe, wanted to hope, but dared not allow himself to accept meaningless placebos and empty platitudes.

Keller lifted one hand to rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "My med school graduating class was truly outstanding," he said, apparently apropos of nothing in particular. He looked back at Emmett then, and his smile was diffident. "It produced a number of brilliant physicians, including, if I say so myself, the preeminent trauma specialist in the eastern United States, and . . ."

"And?" Emmett did not know why the doctor seemed loathe to continue, but he had run out of patience.

"And the best fucking plastic surgeon in the world."

"Wow!" said Lance Mathis, observing the physician with a shrewd gaze. "Bet that hurt, didn't it?"

Keller's grin was sardonic. "You have no idea."

"So who is this genius?" demanded Emmett. "Is he here?"

"No."

"On his way, perhaps?"

The doctor sighed. "No. Not yet, anyway."

Emmett was not comforted by the note of ambiguity he heard in Keller's voice. "And why is that?"

"Because I haven't asked him . . . yet."

"Because?" Emmett's friends would undoubtedly have been surprised by the relentless nature of his interrogation of the physician, but he was beyond caring.

Keller took a deep breath. "Because . . . he's a narcissistic prick who wouldn't bother to spit on me if I was going up in flames. Because we can't stand each other, and I'd rather slit my throat than ask him for a favor. Because he'll almost certainly hang up on me when I call, after telling me in no uncertain terms to fuck off. But mostly because I haven't yet figured out how to beg piteously enough or to prostrate myself sufficiently or to manipulate the situation into such an irresistible challenge to his superiority that he'll have no choice but to agree to come."

Emmett's smile was suddenly very gentle. "Wow! You really do love him . . . don't you?"

Keller thought that he'd be perfectly content if everyone would just stop saying that, no matter how true it might be.

God help him! He really did love Brian Kinney, and the little fucker was going to owe him - big time - when this was all over.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"We're about thirty-five minutes from touchdown, Mr. Taylor," said Jill McCain, the flight attendant who had been seeing to his needs throughout the long wearisome flight. He had dozed fitfully from time to time, but he wondered if she had managed to sleep at all. Since she'd been constantly available whenever he'd looked around for her, he rather doubted it.

"I've prepared a light lunch for you," she explained, "although I'm sure that the time difference has you completely uncertain of what you should be eating - or when. Still it's mid afternoon here, and you haven't eaten all day."

"I'm not hungry," he replied, suddenly irritated at being the center of so much attention. Then he realized that he'd spoken sharply and was instantly ashamed of himself.

"I'm sorry," he continued. "You've been nothing but kind to me, and I'm acting like a shit."

Her smile was gentle. "You're acting like a young man who wants nothing more than to get to the person he loves in his hour of need. Don't apologize."

"Don't apologize," he echoed. "My boyfriend would agree."

"Then he's a very wise man, isn't he? Now come along and eat. It's just shrimp scampi, and a tiny Banoffee Pavlova."

"A what?"

"If I understand correctly," she replied, "you were in and out of New Zealand so quickly that you never even got the chance to experience our most delectable confectionary masterpiece. And we can't have that, now can we? A Pavlova is a meringue. In this case, one that is combined with banana slices and caramel sauce. And you absolutely cannot have visited New Zealand without ever having sampled a Pavlova. It would be a national disgrace."

"I'm really . . . :

"Not hungry. I know. But perhaps you'll be so enchanted by the taste that you'll want to take a sample to your boyfriend. He might love it."

He laughed to imagine the look of horror on Brian's face on being presented with such a concoction. Then he paused to reconsider. Perhaps it was time to tempt Brian to rethink his priorities. Perhaps this . . . incident would encourage him to do so.

Always provided . . . but no. He wouldn't explore that thought, wouldn't let himself wander into that dark, dreadful realm of possibility.

Instead, he would eat. Hungry or not. To gird his strength.

The intercom buzzed discreetly. "Mr. Taylor," said the pilot's voice, "we've just been advised that an escort will be meeting you when we land. And you're not to leave the plane until they arrive."

"Escort?" Justin snapped. "What kind of escort?"

There was a tiny pause before the pilot replied. "Pittsburgh PD. A Lieutenant Horvath, I believe."

"Shit!" said Justin, rising and walking to the window to gaze out on the cloud bank below, suddenly feeling the first faint rise of panic. Horvath. So it was real; there would be no more eluding the truth.

Jill McCain looked on with sympathy. She knew virtually nothing about what was happening in this young man's life, beyond the barest bones of fact. But she knew distress when she saw it - and fear, even if he was remarkably good at concealing it.

She stood by in silence, as the young man made a quick call on the plane's sat-phone. Well trained in the practice of discretion, she carefully avoided listening to his conversation, noting only that he appeared satisfied with what he'd heard when he put the phone down.

"Can I get you something?" she asked.

"No," he started, then hesitated. "Yes. You wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes on board, would you?"

She laughed. "French, English, or American?"

So he smoked - chain-smoked - for the remainder of the trip. Brian's brand. Marlboros. And the Pavlova remained unsampled.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I'm not a prisoner," Justin said coldly, his eyes staring out through the rear window of the squad car. "You can't hold me."

"Justin, please." Horvath pretended not to hear the note of desperation in the young man's voice, pretended not to know how terribly afraid he was. "Please try to understand me. We have no idea where the threat comes from, but we do know that it's real. Brian . . . for him to have clung to consciousness in spite of everything, just to pass on the message. It has to be real."

"I don't care. I'm not going into hiding because of some homophobic pricks that might be stalking me."

"What happened to Brian makes it a lot more than a threat, Justin. This is serious."

"I know that. Brian's lying in a hospital bed, so . . ."

"With all due respect, you don't." Horvath's certainty left no room for argument. "You haven't seen him yet. And I gotta be honest with you. I'm not sure you should. Not until he's . . . stronger."

"Stronger," said Justin flatly. "What does that mean? What is it that you don't want me to see?"

Horvath sighed. "Justin, he's . . . it was really bad. He may not want you . . . to see him this way."

"I know what to expect," Justin insisted. "Some . . . helpful soul couldn't wait to send me the photo."

The detective winced. He too had seen the photographs that were turning up all over the internet - photographs he hoped would go unnoticed by Debbie and Brian's friends. Still, he knew that nothing would prepare Justin for the real thing. "You only think you know, Son. No photograph is going to . . . prepare you."

Justin sat back and returned to staring out the window where a slow, iron gray rain had begun to fall. Appropriate, he thought, for the city of steel.

Horvath was still talking, but Justin's mind had begun to wander when the car came to a stop and someone slid into the passenger-side front seat.

"Justin," said the detective firmly, "I want you to meet someone - someone who is going to stick very close to you during the next few days."

The young artist looked up to stare into sable eyes that were studying him intensely, without a single spark of sexual interest. "This is Lance Mathis," Horvath continued.

"I do not need a bodyguard."

Horvath opened his mouth to respond, but Mathis beat him to the punch. "On the contrary. You do need a bodyguard, whether you want one or not."

"Yeah, well, I don't see that you get a say," Justin snapped.

Mathis smiled. "Oh, it's not me who's saying it. It's Brian Kinney. Unless you want to argue with him."

Justin turned to look at Horvath. "Who the fuck is this?" he demanded.

"Meet Brian's new chief of security." Horvath's smile was slightly venal. "And just in case you're considering throwing one of your drama queen-outs, consider this. If something happens to you on my watch, I only have to answer to my superiors- and Debbie, God help me! But if something happens to you on his watch, he'll have to answer to Brian Kinney. Would you wish that on anybody? Even your worst enemy?"

"No, but . . ."

"Why not just give it a chance?" said Mathis. "I promise to be discreet."

"Shouldn't you be protecting Brian?" Justin snapped. "Shouldn't he be at the top of your list?"

"Who says he's not?"

"Then you won't have time for me." Justin's retort was triumphant, as if he'd come up with a point that was irrefutable.

Mathis smiled. "You let me worry about that. Mr. Kinney's reach is greater than you think."

Fuck! Walked right into that one.

Justin opened his mouth to try again, but closed it quickly when he read the determination in the security chief's eyes and realized that this was an argument he was not going to win. Even if he refused to give in and insisted on getting his way, Mathis would simply fall back just far enough to carry out his mission and avoid any direct confrontation.

He was quiet for a while, considering options. "Do you have any idea . . . who . . ." And he was amazed to find that he could not even summon up the will to finish the sentence.

"Not yet," replied the detective. "But we're going to get them, Justin. It just takes time."

But the younger man was not reassured. "You guys said the same thing a year ago, and you still don't have any idea who planted that bomb at Babylon."

Horvath nodded, conceding the point. "However," he said slowly, "this time we're going to get some help. Some very powerful help. But that doesn't change the fact that you're at risk, and . . ."

"All right," Justin said abruptly, wanting to hear no more about his own need for protection. "On one condition."

"And that would be what?"

"That you take me straight to the hospital. No more of this 'he wouldn't want you to see him' bullshit. OK?"

Horvath sighed, understanding that further argument would be futile. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an object that was wrapped up in a handkerchief. "There's one more thing," he said softly, his voice reflecting a tiny glimmer of uncertainty. "Something that - well - that I thought you might want to return to him."

"Like what?"

It was Horvath's turn to look away, and Justin was astonished to realize that the detective was slightly embarrassed. "All of his personal effects - everything he was wearing that night, such as it was, is in police custody now. As evidence. Most of it is probably beyond salvaging anyway, and plenty is missing, I'm sure. His wallet was gone, and his watch. Which suggests that, even though this was undoubtedly a carefully planned attack, there was also an element of opportunism in it. The criminals that arranged it were only out to teach him a lesson - or to kill him in the most painful, gruesome way possible - but the thugs that carried it out weren't above stuffing their pockets with whatever extra loot they could lay their hands on. But this . . . they didn't touch this. Probably didn't consider it worth taking. But I remembered it. From . . . another time, and it occured to me that I couldn't recall ever seeing him without it. So . . ."

He opened the handkerchief and reached out to drop the object into Justin's hand.

Justin stared for a moment, and could not suppress the rise of tears in his eyes as he recognized the shell bracelet that Brian always wore.

For a time, there was only silence in the car, except for the sound of breath roughly drawn, as Justin fought to control a sudden, almost irresistible urge to weep. Beyond that, there was only the soft voice of the patrolman/driver as he answered a radio call.

"Thank you, Karl," Justin stammered finally. "I can't . . . this will mean so much . . ."

Horvath sighed. "Just . . . keep it to yourself. Nobody needs to know."

Justin nodded. "If he was wearing his watch - and that's a big IF, by the way - it's a Rolex. He bought it to celebrate the grand opening of Kinnetic. It's engraved with his initials, and the date of the opening."

Justin spent a moment more staring down at the bracelet and tracing his fingertips across the shells before tucking it into his pocket. Then he turned to stare at Lance Mathis with cold eyes and a no-nonsense expression. "As for you - you do what you have to do, but keep your distance. OK?"

Mathis nodded. "I promise. You won't even know we're there."

Justin sighed, resigned to his fate. That was exactly what he was afraid of.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Assuming that you're not yet ready to face the thundering herd," said Lance Mathis, "I thought we'd go in the back way. Also assuming that you have permission to see him at all, that is."

Justin nodded. "Oh, I have permission all right. Although, it wouldn't make any difference if I didn't." His eyes were suddenly hard and cold. "One way or another, I'm going in to see him. Right now."

Mathis flashed him an insolent grin. "Somehow, I think I detect the teachings of the master, don't I?"

Justin had the grace to flush. Mathis was right. In many ways, he had become more and more like Brian in the years since they'd first met - a development for which he had cause to be extremely grateful. He had always had a healthy level of self-confidence, but Brian had taught him to exercise it without apology or regret.

Not a bad legacy, he thought.

Instead of driving up to the hospital's main entrance, they took a little detour and turned, instead, into a narrow enclosed parking area, a spot reserved for medical directors and VIP staff members, where a uniformed parking attendant waved the patrol vehicle through the gate with a smart salute.

Justin got out of the car quickly, sparing no thought to his luggage that was tucked in the trunk of the patrol car, sparing no real thought for anything - except the only thing that mattered.

From this angle, there was only one visible entrance into the building, and the door was swinging open before he was half-way across the lot. Later, he would pause to wonder why he had not been surprised to recognize the man who appeared in the opening; he was, after all, a famous individual, instantly recognizable anywhere in America and especially in Pittsburgh. But, at the moment, it seemed only natural that Drew Boyd should be standing there waiting for him.

"Thanks, Cuz," said Lance Mathis, closing in behind Justin. "Anything new going on here?"

Boyd smiled. "He's still unconscious, but they just brought him back to ICU."

"And the doctor?" asked Justin.

"Waiting to see you," replied the quarterback, "and not too thrilled about it."

Justin muttered something and barreled through the door, leaving the football player to cock his head and lift one eyebrow at his cousin, obviously perplexed. "Did I hear him correctly? Did he just say, 'Tough shit'?"

Mathis grinned. "You did, and he did. So let's get a move on. This is one show I definitely don't want to miss. This is going to be the classic example of an irresistible force clashing with an immovable object, and neither one of them has a goddamned clue what they're up against. We could be on the verge of witnessing the creation of a Black Hole."

They moved up the stairs together, quickly enough to keep young Taylor in sight, but maintaining enough distance to allow them to speak without being overheard.

"He really OK?" Mathis asked, not entirely sure why he was somewhat reluctant to hear the answer. There wasn't a gay bone in his body, so he didn't know why it should matter so much, why he cared what Kinney might look like when all this was behind him.

Only - somehow - it did.

"Doctor says he'll live."

The security chief favored his cousin with an inquisitive glance. "That's not exactly what I asked, is it?"

Boyd sighed. "Jacob needed to take a piss, so I relieved him for a few minutes, and that's when they brought Kinney back into the ICU."

"And?"

"And . . . they hadn't finished replacing all his bandages - on his face - before they moved him back into his bed."

Mathis closed his eyes for a moment. "Bad, huh?"

"Bad enough. When I think about how he looked . . . before . . . I just . . ."

"What? Just what?"

Boyd took a deep breath. "I just want to kill somebody - to get my hands on one of those fuckers that did this to him and rip him apart."

Then he shook his head, and started moving more quickly up the stairs.

"What's your hurry all of a sudden?" asked Mathis.

The quarterback did not slow down. "If it hits me like that - and I barely knew the man - what do you think it's going to do to that kid?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Drew Boyd was both right . . . and wrong.

Justin was about to get hit with something that no amount of warning or foreboding or experience could have prepared him for - but it was many years since he had been a kid, and the man who stepped forward to intercept him as he plunged through the rear entrance - actually a service entrance - to the Intensive Care Unit, seemed to be aware of both facts instinctively. Radiating belligerence, Justin was immediately ready to take on the world and move it, if necessary, in order to get to Brian, but Matt Keller was equally determined to stop him - and he had help.

Both Boyd and Mathis - and a third, muscular young man who moved forward from a small alcove located within a pod of patient rooms - stepped forward to end the confrontation before it could actually happen.

"Get out of my way," Justin snarled, still struggling against the multiple sets of arms that restrained him.

Keller could not quite swallow a quick smile, regardless of the gravity of the situation. "I take it this is Justin," he said to no one in particular, noting in passing that the kid was fucking gorgeous, and realizing that he had expected no less of the individual who had managed to do what no one else had ever done in capturing the heart of Brian Kinney.

It was doubtful that Justin, totally focused on reaching his goal, knew or cared who was blocking his way. "I said, get out of . . ."

"Not," said Keller sternly, "until you listen to me."

"But I need . . ."

"Better listen up, Kid." The doctor's voice was diamond-hard and offered no quarter. "I don't give a flying fuck what you need. This is about what Brian needs. Understand me?"

Justin went very still and rigid - but he was not ready to concede defeat. "You think you know what he needs?" he demanded. "Better than me? You don't . . ."

Keller stared at the young man, struggling not to laugh in his face. So earnest. So beautiful. So confidant. And so unprepared for what he would have to endure. "Look, little shit," he said firmly. "I know you think that nobody could possibly know Brian Kinney better than you do. Because he loves you. Right? And you love him. Because you're soul mates, or some kind of romantic bullshit like that, so how could anybody possibly know him better? Right?"

Justin's eyes were huge by this time, and flashing with anger. "Right," he snapped.

"Wrong." Keller wasn't in the mood to tolerate any romantic drivel. "Because, in this one instance, you don't know him half as well as I do. I've known him longer - through more crap and trouble and shitty history than you can even imagine. And I have one more advantage that all the fucking and dick-sucking and rimming you two might have shared can't come close to."

"And what's that?" Justin's temper was growing harder to control with each passing moment.

The doctor leaned forward until he was virtually nose to nose with the love of Brian's life. "Maybe," he said softly, "you've had your dick inside him." Then he paused and realized that he wasn't even sure that much was true. "Maybe. But I've been up to my elbows in his guts, trying to put him back together and keep him from bleeding out all over the fucking floor. So right now, as much as you might think he needs you and your . . . tender loving care, he needs me more. Which means that I'm the one who calls the shots here. Every step of the way. Until he's well enough to call them himself. So . . . are we clear on that?"

"Crystal!" snapped Justin. "Now get out of my way."

Keller shook his head and finally gave in to the smile that would no longer be denied. "God damn!" he almost laughed. "Brain Kinney, twisted around the . . . finger of a twinkie. Who'd a thunk it?"

"I'm not a twinkie."

"Of course, you're not. So . . . do you want a full report on his condition or . . ."

"That depends."

"On?"

"On whether you can talk and walk at the same time."

Drew Boyd and Lance Mathis very deliberately did not look at each other as the young blonde strode across the room toward a particular cubicle, as unerring as a guided missile, leaving the surgeon to pursue or not, as he chose.

In the end, with a tiny self-deprecating chuckle, he chose to give in and proceeded to provide a crisp, concise summary of Brian's condition and treatment.

But he fell silent as Justin stepped through the door and got his first glimpse of the patient. Luckily, Drew had followed and was close enough to be able to lean forward and catch the younger man as his knees buckled and he lost his balance.

"Fuck!" he gasped, closing his eyes for a moment as he reached for composure and struggled to breathe. He had believed himself to be adequately prepared, and sufficiently girded against whatever he might see. He could not believe how wrong he'd been, for nothing could have prepared him for this. The acute awareness of his own helplessness, his own vulnerability to the cruel indifference of fate left him reeling."Fuck!"

Matt Keller said nothing, understanding that, at such a moment, there was nothing he could say that would make any difference. But he studied Justin's face with an unexpected surge of tenderness, realizing that he had been uncertain of how he would feel about this kid; this callow young man who was - God, he could barely even credit it - the love of Brian's life. But he saw immediately that he could lay to rest the one concern that he hadn't previously dared to contemplate. Whatever else the young man might think or feel or do, whatever problems he might cause, one thing was immediately obvious: Justin Taylor loved Brian Kinney with his whole heart.

And that was enough to make everything else unimportant.

He also understood something else - that the entire population of the state of Pennsylvania could have come trooping through the ICU at that moment, and Justin would have seen, heard, or noticed nothing but the man who lay silent and still before him.

He moved forward inch by inch, his body stiff and graceless like a flawed marionette, until he was pressed against the side of the bed, his eyes huge and empty somehow.

"Brian." Just a whisper, but broken for all that. "Brian . . . please."

Keller was compelled to step forward then, to shrug off a strange inertia and try to offer some kind of consolation. "I don't think . . . he can hear you."

Justin, ever perceptive, noticed the slight hesitation and raised his eyes, filled with tears he made no attempt to hide, to study the physician's face. "But you're not sure, are you?"

Keller offered a tiny, reluctant smile. "No. I'm not sure."

And Justin went back to staring down into Brian's face, of which he could see little beneath layers of fresh bandages. "Can I . . ." The young man paused to draw a trembling breath. "I want to see him. I want to see what they . . ."

"No." There was absolutely no uncertainty in Keller's immediate response. "You don't."

But Justin was not one to give up anything without a fight. "I have a right . . ."

"Don't go there." Brisk, stern . . . cold. "I told you before. This is about his rights. Not yours."

"But he's my . . . " He fell silent then, unable to find words that would say enough to express the need rising inside him.

"I understand," said the doctor gently, surprised - and a little annoyed - at his own desire to offer comfort to the young man. "Better than you think. But you're not ready for this. And neither is he. You're just going to have to trust me on this."

That got Justin's attention, and his eyes were suddenly ablaze with renewed determination. "And exactly why should I trust you?" he demanded. "I don't even know you, so . . ."

"No, you don't," Keller admitted. "But Brian does. He knows me, and he trusts me, and that's going to have to be enough. For now."

Finally, after a whirlwind of conflicting emotions spun through his mind, Justin was forced to concede the point. For the moment.

"Can I have a few moments with him - alone?"

The doctor hesitated, obviously doubtful.

"I promise not to rip his gown off and fuck him raw."

Keller grinned and nodded. The kid might be under control - for the moment - but he was certainly not intimidated or defeated.

"Spunky little shit, isn't he?" he muttered to Boyd as the two of them left the cubicle.

The quarterback chuckled. "Does that surprise you?"

Keller glanced back toward the two occupants of the room, remembering all that he knew of Brian Kinney. "Not in the least."

Justin didn't notice when they left; he was too wrapped up in the physical presence of the man laid out before him.

How could it have been a year since he'd seen him? How could he have stayed away for so long? Because it was what Brian wanted, was that it? That was bullshit, and he knew it. He sighed as the epiphany struck him; he'd always known it. What would he have done if . . .

He flinched as he was assaulted by a sudden, piercing pain in his core, huge and black and devastating. He had always managed to believe that Brian would always be here, waiting for him - a rock that could stand in the face of any battering, a Gibraltar that neither time nor tide could take from him, a deathless certainty. But this - this was the reality. Brian had almost died. Brian was not immune to the cruelties of fate or random chance. And what would Justin have done - how would he have lived - if Brian had not.

The realization struck him with mind-bending force. Brian could have been lost to him forever.

It was followed immediately by a second one, just as strong and just as real as the first. Being Andy Warhol would have meant nothing to him, without having Brian to share it.

Carefully, gently, in full knowledge that he must be breaking a hundred rules and not caring in the least, he lowered the railing on the side of the bed and hoisted himself up, threading his way through IV lines and plastic tubing and electronic wires until he was able to press himself against Brian's side and tuck his face into the hollow beneath that beloved jawline.

Only then did he begin to talk, to speak what was in his heart.

"Fuck this shit, Brain. Do you hear me? Because, if you do, you better fucking listen to me. Are you listening? This shit ends - now. Because guess what. I do not want to be Warhol, or Pollock, or fucking Picasso. What I want . . . is you, is us. Brian and Justin. And I know that's what you want too. Us, together. Natural and real and free. No fucking rings, no fucking ceremonies, no fucking locks on the doors, and - listen to this, because this is the really important thing - nobody's fucking business but ours. I can't believe that we both bought into the bullshit and let other people decide what was right for us? Well, no more, Brian. Nobody is ever - ever - going to pull us apart again."

With exquisite gentleness, he touched his fingertips to a tiny patch of bare skin at the base of Brian's throat. "So you better get well, and come back to me. Because I'm not leaving you again. I'm never leaving you again. No matter how hard you try to push me away. Understand? I'm - not - going."

Then he remembered the bracelet in his pocket, and he dug it out, careful to avoid jostling the motionless figure at his side.

"If you can hear me, you'll know what this is. You must be missing it; you've worn it as long as I've known you. So here. Let me just put it on you."

He eased the blanket down to expose Brian's arm and fastened the bracelet around his right wrist, taking great care to do so gently. "This is me," he whispered, "holding your hand. Holding you close to me. Binding us to each other. I will never again be further from you than this."

He adjusted the bracelet to his satisfaction before pulling the blanket back up and tucking it close against the faintly metallic chill in the air. Then he touched his lips to the small patch of skin behind Brian's ear. "I love you," he whispered, unable and unwilling to control the tears welling in his eyes. "More than my life, more than anything, and I can't, I won't live without you any more. Don't leave me, Brian. Please. Come back to me."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC

Story Notes 1. Ch. 1 2. Ch. 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5: 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15
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