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Timeless
Chapter 23
The only light in the vast room came from the fire burning brightly in the massive fireplace and a couple of vintage Tiffany floor lamps specifically placed to shed illumination on a group of antique wingback chairs located adjacent to the towering bookcase that stretched across one entire wall. As a result, though there were deep areas of shadow within the chamber, it was not really dark, as the brilliant flames were reflected and enhanced by the rich veneer of hand-rubbed paneling and wainscoting, the gleaming expanse of hardwood floors, the lustrous surface of polished brass fireplace tools, the deep patina of heavy, oak furniture, and the liquid amber of fine brandy sipped from crystal snifters.
It was a room that spoke of power - but only in a whisper. A shout would have been too crass, too plebian for such a rarefied atmosphere.
It also spoke of money - of the antique variety - and culture and family; the kind that could trace ancestries back to places like Kent and Knightsbridge and Harrow, and then on to Jamestown or Boston or the oldest sections of Philadelphia. And probably Salem, as well - although nobody was too quick to claim that . . . publicly.
Voices were never raised in this room, and no patron's slightest wish ever went ungranted.
The venue did not have a formal name; it was simply 'The Club'. And if one was welcome there, one had no need to question the lack of a proper name. On the other hand, if one wasn't, there was no point in asking, as one would never need to know the answer.
It was not a place to which one aspired to belong; it was, instead, a place to which one was born . . . or not. There was almost no middle ground.
The sprawling French colonial house had begun its life in the mid-nineteenth century, as the country estate of a powerful political leader who was, himself, the grandson of one of the city's founding fathers, but the 'country' aspect had dwindled away long ago, as the city limits had expanded, and expanded again and yet again. But the 'estate' part still applied, as political and financial pressure had been applied with great precision to keep the area a focus of upscale social standards and to preserve the ambiance of elegance and good taste. Thus the gardens were still expansive and immaculately maintained, the house had been modernized with great attention to detail and historical authenticity under the oversight of architectural specialists, and the staff charged with maintenance and service were exquisitely trained, products of a multi-generational tradition in that jobs had been passed down from grandfather to father to son, for decades.
Aaron Van Meider III was more than a century dead - no denying that - and his line had ended with a spinster great-granddaughter who had not lived to see the rise of the Hippie generation or the beginning of the Vietnam War, but his legacy assured that he would never be forgotten. His portrait - sternly posed in his military uniform - still hung above the heavily carved mantle in the main club room, and discreet markers throughout the house identified areas specifically designed according to his directions. A family heirloom collection of Towle silver, Waterford crystal, and Philippe Deshoulieres china was still displayed in a breakfront in the carefully preserved dining room, and the kitchen staff still prepared recipes favored by his mother and his wife, producing gourmet cuisine that was served now in the elegant club dining room, carved out of one section of the house's original ballroom.
The rooms of the mansion were rarely crowded, which was one of the more attractive features of the house, and membership was both much desired and extremely limited, available only by family legacy, passing from father to son, etc., or - very, very rarely - by invitation.
It was a sanctuary for the elite of Pittsburgh's society; it was also one of the last bastions of sexism in that its membership was exclusively male, and women were not permitted within its walls except for those rare social occasions when ladies were required as escorts - flesh and blood accessories for the men of the hour. And, of course, as cleaning and kitchen staff. The glass ceiling did not exist below stairs.
On this night, there were only five individuals in the library, enjoying the luxurious comfort of the room which was particularly pleasant in contrast to the heavy rain driving against the French windows and the cold wind whistling around the eaves. Four lounged in deep-cushioned leather easy chairs, and the fifth was browsing through an eclectic selection of first editions, ranging from Dickens to Austen to Proust (which would surely have led any knowledgeable observer to conclude that it was the leather bindings and the antiquity of the books, rather than their content, that was so highly valued by the club members) to Sinclair Lewis to William Faulkner. The air was redolent of expensive cigars and aged brandy, and conversation was desultory as the evening wore on. They had all enjoyed a gourmet meal earlier in the evening, and were now contemplating taking their leave and making their way home.
Yet, they lingered, accepting droughts of brandy from the young waiter who had been assigned to see to their needs, and enjoying postprandial smokes. Though tobacco bans were becoming more and more common in public restaurants and bars all across the country, no one had ever dared to suggest such a thing in this last bastion of privilege . . . and no one ever would.
The waiter - a grandson of the man who had served as butler to Amelia Van Meiden before she died - poured out the last of the Hennessey cognac and took himself off to fetch another bottle. Just in case. The gentlemen might not require additional servings, but it would not do to leave anything to chance, as club members were unaccustomed to waiting for service. Young Nicholas - as he was called by the clientele - did not require instruction in how to perform his duties; it was a job he'd been groomed for since childhood.
The oldest of the group, a tall, elegant figure with thick, silver hair, lifted his glass and watched the refraction of flames within his goblet, as he took a deep drag from his imported Cuban cigar. Then he looked around, maintaining his silence until he was sure he had the undivided attention of his companions.
"What's the latest report?" he asked, as he watched swirls of smoke rise toward the coffered ceiling.
"No real change," said another of the men, dark-haired, with flecks of silver glinting in the reflected firelight. "Except for the rumors, which appear to be growing daily."
"So," said the questioner, "his condition is stable?"
"Yes."
"And his . . . appearance?"
There was a faint but unmistakable vein of satisfaction in the tone of the slender man standing at the book shelf who turned to offer a response. "Top secret, according to our source, but it's far too late for such precautions. The tabloid photos were all over the Internet before the sun rose the next morning. By now, the whole world has had a chance to get a good look at the ruin of Brian Kinney."
The older man smiled. "And you can be sure that most of them wanted to pin medals on the guys who did it. Even if they don't dare say so in public."
Another voice was raised then - softer, less forceful, slightly accented. "Can we be sure of that? There's a lot of talk in the media these days, about people becoming accustomed to ideas like gay marriage and legal rights for same-sex partners. Do you suppose it'll really come to that?"
The man at the bookcase snorted. "Not if we have anything to say about it. All of that is just the liberal press, trying to promote the queer agenda. Decent people - real Americans, like us - understand that accepting abominations like homosexuality is a major step toward the collapse of our society. People like Kinney and his kind - they're sub-human. They should all be exterminated, like the vermin they are."
"Still," said another man, stocky and balding, stretching his legs out toward the fire and slumping against the leather back of his chair, "we have to be careful. Even though we know we're morally right in what we're trying to do, the law - as enacted by the bleeding hearts - doesn't agree. And if we get careless, it might be difficult to defend our actions to the great unwashed - who care about nothing beyond who's playing in the Super Bowl, when the next Harry Potter movie comes out, and how they're going to afford their next pair of Nikes."
The questioner chuckled. "Then we'd best make sure our fate doesn't wind up in the hands of the rabble. Now, about these rumors . . ."
"Nothing substantial yet," replied the dark-haired speaker, voice threaded with a delicious irony, " but our oh, so eager-to-cooperate source has been pretty accurate thus far. For example, the description of the reactions of Kinney's freaky friends to the tabloid article has been substantiated by a couple of different observers. Also, some of the data we've been able to verify seems to be confidential in nature, so it seems logical to trust the information. Especially since we've received corroboration from a second source, who also has no idea what's really going on." He paused and flashed a venal smile. "Which really says a lot about the level of intelligence - or lack thereof - among these cretins."
"So what, specifically, does the rumor say?"
"Supposedly, he's going away somewhere. To recuperate."
"And where would that be?"
The dark-haired man sighed. "We don't know yet. But we will. If the sources we've already tapped can't provide the information, we'll get if from others who will come into play as needed. Preliminary arrangements have already been made."
The older man nodded, clasping gnarled hands in front of his face as he turned to look out into the storm. "I'm still not satisfied that we did enough to get our message across."
"With all due respect, Sir," the softer voice again, slightly raspy now and lower pitched, "you weren't there. Even knowing what he is, it was . . . hard to watch."
"Hard to watch?" snapped the elderly man. "Do you have any idea what that . . . that piece of filth cost me? How much I invested, and how much it should have paid off, and, even more than that, what his interference cost us all. What we lost because of . . . " He paused and took a deep, uneven breath. "Don't you dare suggest that he didn't have it coming. All of it. In fact, he got off easy. He was supposed to wind up dying of AIDS. So no matter how much damage was done to him, it wasn't enough. He still deserves more."
"Of course, he does," agreed the dark-haired man, voice shifting into a soothing cadence. "And he'll get it, sooner or later. Meanwhile, there are other options." He paused and seemed to be considering his next words carefully. "We could still go after someone close to him, you know - someone who has . . . special significance for him."
The older man was silent for a time, obviously lost in thought, ignoring the heaviness of the silence around him, as the others waited. In the end, there was no viable doubt about who wielded the real power in this group. Thus, there were a couple of faint but unmistakable sighs of relief when he resumed speaking, shaking his head. "No. Despite everything, blood still counts for something. There must be something else. Someone else."
"He's a fag, Sir." Back to the accented, low-pitched voice, now filled with venom and contempt. "He doesn't know a damned thing about loyalty or honor. He only cares about himself, and the only reason he would care about . . . the other one is because he's got a perverted craving to claim ownership of that particular ass. No. You could condemn all of his so-called friends to the seventh level of hell, and it wouldn't change a thing. He's made it abundantly clear over the years that everything he does, he does for himself. And the only loyalty he has from the people around him is what he buys."
The older man grew thoughtful again, before speaking up to propose a new idea. "Still, he's always had a lust for material things. I met him once, and - before I knew what he was, of course - I admired his taste and his style. So, even if people don't mean anything to him, it's certain that material things do. His possessions - and his business. So, until we get a chance to reach our primary objective and complete what we set out to do, maybe we should shift our attention to something a bit more . . . accessible. And perhaps we also need to shift our tactics a bit. Find a different source for the . . . hired help. After all, it wouldn't do to become too predictable, now would it?"
The dark-haired member of the group was shaking his head. "If you're thinking about any kind of direct action against his business location, best think again. Kinney is, without doubt, a revolting faggot and a pederast, but he's not stupid enough to risk the well-being of his big-money, low-class clients. Thus, the security for Kinnetik was always virtually airtight due to the questionable reputation of the area, and it's even more so now, since the attack. Besides, there are other ways of handling matters on that front. Infiltration will serve as well as open warfare, with a lot less risk entailed." His eyes swept around the group then, as he allowed himself a smug smile.
Their young waiter made his return just as the speaker fell silent, and proceeded to offer a freshly-opened bottle of cognac, to the delight of the elderly man. He was approaching his eighth decade, and had never known any life other than one of privilege, but he never tired of enjoying his rank and the perks it provided.
"Thank you, Nicholas," he said with a smile, extending his snifter for a refill, and noting - just in passing - that the young man had beautiful gray eyes with thick, spiky lashes. Then he returned his attention to the group around him, as the waiter made his rounds. "Very well then. Perhaps something . . . simpler. I seem to recall something about a . . . loft?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
So much, thought Ted, for a quiet evening at home, cuddling with his mate.
He had allowed himself a bit of a queen-out when Cynthia had delivered Brian's summons, but Blake had taken it in stride with characteristic aplomb. With, in fact, a little too much aplomb, from Ted's perspective. It bothered him sometimes that Blake seemed so seamlessly capable of adapting to the variables of random chance. Although such an ability was probably one of the traits that made him an extremely effective drug-abuse counselor, it was slightly . . . annoying when one was craving an emotional echo of one's own feelings and gotten a voice of reason instead.
After all, he grumped silently, his work schedule frequently exceeded forty hours per week by a substantial margin, and it was presumptuous of Brian to assume that he could expect his employees to be at his beck and call at any hour. Ted had a life of his own, and Brian needed to respect that.
Of course, there was the inconvenient little truth that - without Brian - the life that Ted was leading, extremely comfortable, intellectually rewarding, and financially stable, would not exist at all. Once in a while, though rarely, he wondered what would have happened to him had Brian not come seeking his help in finding a way out of a financial crisis, had not interrupted his moment of sharing his plight with his therapy group, had not forced him to re-evaluate what he wanted to do with his life, and where his true forte lay.
But he never pursued the thought very far, because he realized that he almost certainly didn't want to know the answer to that question. He suspected, however, that the path he would have followed, in that event, would have eventually ended in a place where he would not have wished to be.
OK, so he owed Brian a lot.
Ted took a moment to look in the mirror as he washed his hands before exiting the men's room. It was silly, he knew; even presumptuous to assume that Brian would notice, one way or another, but, somehow, Ted always took the time to straighten his clothing and make sure that nothing was stuck in his teeth and that his hair was not standing on end before coming face to face with his boss.
Brian wouldn't care; that was an unavoidable truth. But, somehow, Ted did. He couldn't really explain it, but he had accepted it as a natural expression of who he was. Brian, he knew, would never look at him the way he looked at other men - as a potential partner for sharing a quick fuck, or a visit to Babylon's backroom or even a turn on the dance floor.
That was something reserved for others, for those who were not members of the Brian Kinney Friends' Club.
Which should have been a source of pride, he thought, as he stared at his own face in the mirror - that he was important enough, necessary enough, close enough to Brain to be permanently stricken from the list of potential tricks. And most of the time, it was.
Most of the time.
Except . . . sometimes he wondered if he was the only one of their little group who . . . speculated, who hungered for an answer to a question he never quite dared to ask aloud. Did Emmett, for example, ever wonder? Or Calvin, or Drew? Or Ben - no, on second thought, Ben didn't have to wonder; Ben knew - but maintained a deliberate silence on the subject. But did Blake, even ever faithful, ever stalwart, unfailingly upfront-in-all-things Blake . . .wonder?
Then, of course, there was Michael, and, in his case, the question didn't need asking at all. Michael had always wondered, would always wonder, but would never know, for a very specific reason. No matter how he might shrug off the possibility, or what he might do to prove otherwise, Brian loved Michael in a very unique, very specific way - a way which would never allow the complications of a sexual encounter to come between them. So Michael, despite whatever longings he might still carry hidden deep beneath his surface, would never be a part of the circle that might have some hope of seducing the mighty Kinney.
And neither, for the most part, did any of the rest of them, although not for the same reason. The very suggestion was mind-boggling. And yet . . .
What would it be like, he wondered, to be singled out for just one night, to draw those hazel eyes and know, for a few hours, that they would see no one else? To be fucked - just once - by the legend? To be able to lay aside all the posturing of disinterest and snideness and admit to the temptation? And why was it so hard to determine what he might be willing to give up in order to find out?
Of course, all those secret longings and private fantasies involved the Brian who . . . used to be. The Brian who existed now only in memory.
Ted gasped, as he realized what he was thinking, ashamed of the thought - but not quite able to dismiss it, or the ugly little speculation over how it would feel to have lived that life and to know, beyond all doubt, that it was all over, that what had been would be no more.
He found himself staring, unblinking, at his own reflection, eyes wide with pupils dilated. He then shook off the reverie that had gripped him, and felt a moment of disorientation, wondering if this kind of fixation had been common for him during the dark days of his addiction - days of which he had no clear memory. He had been lost then, attracted to a dark place inside himself. Did Brian represent that same ugly hunger to experience what he could never really hope to achieve? And, if he had the chance, would he take by force what he could never hope to be given?
No! He was a decent, God-fearing man. An honest man, loyal to a fault. A decent . . . angry man, although, if pressed, he could not have explained exactly what he was angry about.
When he walked into Brian's room, Chris McClaren was there - of course - sprawled in an easy chair, his head pillowed by a wadded up sweatshirt, apparently deeply engrossed in a battered trade paperback copy of The Kite Runner, with Daughtry's It's Not Over playing softly on the iPod Classic sitting on the bedside table. Ted deliberately chose not to notice the pleasant bulge of muscles beneath the tight, black wifebeater (the kind made notorious by the infamous Brian Kinney) or the other, equally pleasant bulge beneath the 501's, as the photographer nodded a quick, disinterested greeting.
Brian appeared to be asleep, and Ted took a moment to appreciate the view. Apparently, the patient was making good progress, since some of the bandages which had obscured his upper torso had been removed, and there was a patch of bare skin visible now below his clavicle and above the gauze band that still braced the lower rib cage - a patch which happened to encompass the dark nubs of nipples and the clean declivity of the breast bone between them. Bare and beautiful golden tan skin, sufficiently perfect to provide a distraction from the memory of what still lay beneath the bandages that concealed that broken, distorted face.
"Enjoying the view?"
The sardonic voice jarred him from his momentary lapse, and Ted was grateful for both the dim lighting in the room and for his own swarthy complexion which did not display the flush of embarrassment easily. "Thought you were asleep," he mumbled.
"Obviously." Brian's tone remained slightly acerbic, but there was no real malice in it.
Ted dredged up a shaky smile. "An increase in the snark level is an excellent indication that you're getting better," he observed.
Brian shifted slightly, and could not quite conceal a gasp of discomfort as he did so. As luck would have it, a lyric from the song playing on the iPod served to underscore the moment, and Ted could not quite conceal an urge to flinch away from it.
. . . a part of me is dead and in the ground . . .*
And Brian, of course, heard it and recognized his employee's discomfort. "How prophetic!" he observed.
Ted was not often at a loss for words, but found that he suddenly couldn't think of a thing to say.
"Don't sweat it, Theodore," Brian said, after a beat of silence, and McClaren - still pretending complete absorption in his book - had to struggle to conceal a smile, wondering why so many of Brian's visitors failed to note the irony of the patient being the one to offer comfort to them.
"You wanted to see me?" Ted thought it best to dispense with the small talk and get down to the heart of the matter. He was certain that his tone of voice and manner conveyed nothing but a business-like attitude, but something in Brian's posture seemed to suggest otherwise.
"Sorry to interfere with your social life," replied the man who signed Ted's paycheck, his sardonic tone revealing exactly how 'sorry' he was, "but I think we need to clear the air and get a couple of things straight - business-wise."
"Okay." Ted was immediately relieved that this would be a job-related discussion. Almost as much as he was disappointed that it was not something more.
"I'm going to be away for a while, Theodore," Brian announced without preamble. "Maybe for a long while. And . . . "
"Away where?" Under ordinary circumstances, Ted would have guarded his tongue more carefully, to avoid revealing unseemly curiosity or concern. But Brian had caught him by surprise - and, incidentally, scared the shit out of him in the process. "Where are you going?"
But if he was hoping for an in-depth explanation, he was doomed to disappointment. "Just . . . away. You don't need to know where."
"But why? Why would you . . ."
"It's for my . . . recuperation. Doctor's orders, and all that shit. But that's not why I called you here. I need you to . . ."
But Ted was shaking his head, and holding up his hands to indicate his understanding. "You needn't be concerned, Bri. I'll take care of everything while you're gone. You know I will, so you can just concentrate on . . ."
"Theodore." The voice was flat, unemotional.
"What?"
"Please stop interrupting, and listen to me. Are you listening?"
Ted knew the ritual, just as well as any of Brian's friends or associates did. "Yes. I'm listening."
Brian regarded his financial adviser solemnly. "You've been a valuable addition to Kinnetik, Theodore. And I trust that you feel that you've been adequately compensated for your efforts."
Ted nodded, understanding that they both knew that "adequately compensated" was a huge understatement, but he remained silent, sensing that there was more to come. And that it might not all be to his liking.
"While I'm away, I trust that you'll look after my financial interests. Safeguard my investments, monitor the trust funds, make sure that the money flows smoothly at Kinnetik. Just as you always do. And exercise appropriate fiscal oversight. That's what I pay you for."
Again, Ted nodded, but with growing unease, as he waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop.
"However." It was truly amazing, thought Ted, that eyes almost completely obscured by swaths of gauze could still be so completely filled with firm resolve and determination and so easily readable - by design. "You're not an ad man. You've filled in for me on a number of occasions, when there was no alternative, and I appreciate your efforts. But it's not your forte. It's not what I expect from you, and it's not what you're going to do now. You're my accountant. Cynthia, on the other hand, is both my personal assistant and a skilled ad person as well. She knows the market; she knows my clients; and, most important of all from my perspective, she knows me. She understands how I want things done. So, while I'm away, you'll have full control of Kinnetik's finances, but the business will be under her control. Understand?"
Ted could only stare at his boss, mouth gaping. Surely, he must have misunderstood. Surely . . .
"Theodore? Do you understand me?"
Ted managed - finally - to draw a deep breath. "Frankly . . . no. I don't understand. You think that . . . Cynthia knows you better than I do? That she can . . ."
But Brian was shaking his head. "I don't just think it, Theodore. I know it. She does know me better. And more to the point, she will do exactly what I want her to do. Even when she disagrees with me - which she often does. She'll keep one thing in mind. It's my business. And it runs my way - or not at all."
"And why would you . . ."
"Don't make this about you and me," Brian said quickly, "or a question about trust. Because it's not. It's business. And she won't exactly be operating independently. She knows me well enough to understand when she can act on my behalf, without having to consult with me, and when she can't. And that's what's needed here."
"Oh, I see," Ted snapped, unable to suppress his resentment. "You don't want a business associate who might have a clue about how a business should be run. All you really want is a talking head - someone who'll be your mouthpiece and come running to you with every little question, and never dispute the wisdom of the Mighty Kinney."
Brian was silent for a moment, simply staring at his employee and waiting for him to recognize the folly of his outburst. The epiphany wasn't long in coming.
"Brian, I . . ." Ted fell silent, when he realized that he had no idea what to say, or how to apologize for words spoken in haste.
"If that's how you choose to look at it," said Brian, his voice almost gentle, but with a core of pure steel running beneath the deceptive softness, "there's nothing I can do to change your mind. I trust you'll continue to look after my financial interests in a professional manner, and to remember that there is a bottom line here. Whether you agree with me or not, it's still my business, and it will continue to operate as I choose. If you can't abide by that, you'll have to decide what you want to do about it. But whatever action you might elect to take, it won't change my decision. Are we clear?"
"Brian, I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ."
"Are - we - clear?" The tone was hard now, without a nuance of tolerance for any kind of vacillation.
Ted huffed a deep breath. "Crystal clear. And I . . . I won't let you down. Although I do hope you'll reconsider, and tell me how to reach you. In case I . . ."
"Cynthia will know how to reach me. She'll relay anything I might need to know."
Ted hesitated, obviously debating whether to say more or simply crawl away into the night, licking his wounds and realizing that they could have been much worse. But Ted, for all his conservative nature, was not particularly good at knowing when to concede defeat.
Brian sighed, wondering - again - if this interminable day was ever going to end.
"I know . . ." Ted started, then paused, rethinking his approach. "I do understand why you feel that Cynthia is the logical person to handle the operational facets of the business. I mean, she's the one who's been with you from the very beginning, although I could point out . . ." A hard gleam rising in the depths of hazel eyes made him stumble - and rephrase. "But this is about something more than business, Brian. This is about you, and those of us who . . . care about you. Your friends. Your family. You can't just run away, and leave us all to wonder, every day, if you're . . ."
"If I'm what?" And this time, there was no denying the sharp vein of anger that coursed through the words. "Dead? If I die, I'll make sure someone informs you guys, OK?"
"I didn't mean . . ."
"Let's get one thing straight here, Theodore. I've never run away from anything in my life. Never. If I'm going away for a while, it's because it's necessary, in order for me to complete the healing process. That's it. That's all. I don't run . . . and I don't hide. And I'm not about to start now."
The final words were spoken in a harsh, guttural whisper, and the look in those hazel eyes dared Ted to speak the thought that was so obviously running through his mind. Brian Kinney had never once tried to hide before, but . . . the undeniable, if unspoken, truth was that he'd never before had anything that he wanted to hide from. Ted wasn't sure if that would still be true when all was said and done. The images from the tabloid flashed in his mind, and he flinched. And knew that Brian saw and understood.
"Now, thank you for coming," Brian continued, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion, "but I'm sure your wifey is awaiting your return with bated breath, so . . . run along. Oh, and by the way, you'll need to prepare a severance package for Andrew - and prepare yourself for a tearful farewell scene when he comes to pick it up."
"You're . . . you're firing Andrew? But . . ."
"I'm firing Andrew," Brian said flatly. "You have a problem with that?"
"No, but . . ."
"But?"
Ted took a deep breath. "Nothing. No problem."
"Anything else?" There was a strange, unusual note of . . . something in Brian's tone, something that only rarely succeeded in escaping the iron restraint he usually practiced so effortlessly. It took a moment for the accountant to recognize it for what it was; the man was in pain, and was struggling to contain it.
"No, I guess that's everything." But the flicker of something in his eyes gave the lie to the easy assurance.
Brian paused for a moment, his gaze steady as he studied his employee's face. "Take good care of yourself, Theodore," he said finally, his voice suddenly very gentle. But it sharpened again in the space of a heartbeat. "And of my money. I'm sure you remember what happens if you fuck it up."
Ted nodded, startled into a small, reluctant smile, and turned to make his exit, but found that he couldn't just leave it like this, with so much unresolved. "Brian," he said softly, forcing himself to look back to meet his employer's eyes, "I hope it doesn't offend you for me to say this, but . . . I am praying for you. Praying that you'll come through this okay - that everything will be all right in the end."
And he found then that he was glad he'd held that stern gaze, for he spotted just the faintest gleam of warmth flicker in the depths of those expressive eyes, followed immediately by the spark of that unmistakable sardonic wit. "From your mouth to the gay God's ear," came the response, and there was definitely a smile in the tone. "Thank you, Theodore."
When the accountant was gone, Brian closed his eyes and spent a few moments trying to ignore the keen regard of the young man who was staring at him so steadily.
"What?" he snapped finally, without bothering to return the gaze.
"On second thought," came the laconic reply, "let me amend my original observation. Not only do I not want to be your best friend, I don't want to be your friend - at all."
"Excellent - since you're not likely to make the cut either way."
McClaren grinned, and turned to gaze out into the storm that was still battering at the windows. "Just so you know," he said finally, careful to allow not a scintilla of emotion to creep into his tone. "If there's someone else you'd like to insult - by way of saying good-bye, I mean - it would be easy to arrange."
Brian gave up any pretense at sleep and turned his head to study the FBI agent's deliberately expressionless face. "Meaning what - exactly?"
"Meaning that he's nearby. Just in case you want to take another crack at beating him to a bloody pulp."
"Will you please stop talking in fucking riddles and just tell me what you mean."
McClaren stood up and walked to the bed so he could look directly into Brian's face - and read whatever might register there. "I'm talking about your boytoy-wonder. Seems it doesn't matter how hard you try to send him away, he just refuses to go."
Brian sighed . . . and closed his eyes, and told himself that he had revealed nothing of the competing emotions of anguish and anger that had erupted in his mind. "Where is he?"
The FBI agent took his time answering. "You ready for your meds?"
"Later. Where's Justin?"
McClaren glanced at his watch. "At this hour, he's probably down in the rehab rec room. That's where he spends his evenings, playing cards with some of the regulars, or watching tv. Daytime, he's up on the pediatric wards. He's been teaching the kids up there to draw - while he waits for news about you. His network is impressive, by the way. None of us can figure out exactly how he finds out, but he always knows what's going on with you, almost before we do. I'm thinking maybe I should recruit him."
"Shit!" Brian managed to work his fingers under the bandages on his face to rub his eyes. "What part of 'Fuck off' does he not understand?"
"The part that you don't mean," McClaren replied dryly.
"What the fuck do you . . ."
"Give it a rest, Mr. Kinney." It had only taken a day or two for Brian to learn to resent that smart-ass tone of voice. "He knows you too well. You're not going to convince him, unless you work a lot harder at it. And that might not be a bad idea, all things considered. But first, you have to admit what it is you really want . . . and why you keep pushing it away."
Brian's gaze was cold and steady. "You've known me for what? A week? And you think you have any clue about what I want? You don't. You . . ."
"Save your breath, Prince Charming. The effort is wasted on me."
By this time, Brian's resentment was beginning to subside to be replaced by a growing curiosity. "Just for the sake of argument," he said slowly, "what is it you think you know about me? And how do you think you know it?"
McClaren took a moment to walk to the door and check out the perimeter. One of Lance Mathis' watchdogs was exactly where he was supposed to be, sprawled in a plastic chair in the hallway and pretending to doze.
"I'm a profiler, Brian," he said finally, as he walked back into the room. "In order to do my job, I have to be able to read people. In depth. And not just the sociopaths I'm trying to catch either. It's just as important to understand the individuals they target. You point out that I've only known you for a short time - and you're absolutely right. But I already know things about you that your life-long friends have never figured out. Not because I'm smarter, or more sensitive. But because I watch more closely, and because I'm not blinded by feelings or desires."
"And what is it that you think you've discovered?" There was no disguising the note of challenge in Brian's tone, and McClaren was mightily tempted to speak up, to show off his expertise.
So tempted that he gave in to the urge, but only for a moment. "I know," he said softly, "why you keep trying to send him away."
Brian's eyes were flecked with ice as he studied the agent's expression. "Then, by all means, enlighten me."
But McClaren had regained his composure, already regretting his momentary lapse and wondering why this cocky, arrogant bastard seemed to be able to get under his skin so easily when others - smarter, brighter, slyer, and sharper - had never managed to do so.
"Not yet," he finally replied with a diffident smile. "When the time's right, you should expect to be blown away by my uncanny insights. But, for now, do you want to see him . . . or not?"
"Not."
"It's not going to work, you know."
Brian closed his eyes, trying to ignore the certainty he heard in McClaren's tone of voice. "It's got to," he said finally, barely audible.
The FBI agent moved back to his easy chair to retrieve his novel. "Maybe," he said finally, "you need to rethink your strategy. Maybe you need to figure out how to keep him, instead of how to throw him away."
The silence in the room lasted for several minutes, and McClaren resumed reading, assuming that his last suggestion was going to go unacknowledged. Thus he was slightly startled when Brian did decide to speak.
"Keeping him . . . is not an option."
The FBI agent sighed. He was almost certain that he had figured out why Kinney was so determined to sever his relationship with Justin Taylor, but knowing didn't make it any easier to ignore the man's pain, a pain, he was sure, that almost no one else was ever allowed to see.
"Meds?" he asked finally, realizing that nothing he could say was going to provide any solace for the lonely ache that Brian was enduring.
"Yes." Only a sharp inhalation, accompanied by a slight tremor that gripped his upper torso, indicated the degree of his discomfort.
A quick call to the nurses' station coincided with Gnarls Barkley, on the iPod, opining that maybe he was crazy*, and McClaren couldn't help but think the lyrics entirely appropriate to the moment.
"You want me to shut off the music?" he asked, as a young, Hispanic nurse with beautiful sable eyes came in to administer Brian's dose of painkiller. Like all of the medical staff members involved in Brian's care, she had been vetted and approved by an FBI security team. And, also like all the rest, she was somewhat enamored of their mysterious patient, and her touch was extremely gentle, eliciting a murmur of thanks.
"No. It's kinda soothing. Only . . . let's keep Three 6 Mafia and T-Pain to a minimum, OK?"
McClaren grinned, and made an adjustment on the iPod. After a brief silence, a new voice rose, and Brian allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction.
He drifted quickly into the arms of a blessed, drug-enhanced sleep, as Carly Simon sang about standing on a star and blazing a trail of desire through the dark-ning dawn.* For the moment, he found that he was perfectly willing to just let the river run.
Chris McClaren lowered the lights, and stood for a moment looking down at the shrouded face of the man whose life he was sworn to protect, remembering the photographs he'd seen, the pictures of this man in his prime, possessing a physical beauty that even the most ardent homophobe would have been hard-pressed to deny. He had heard the assurances offered by Rick Turnage, had listened to the practical observations from Matt Keller, and had considered the pragmatic statements from Nurse Beck - and he knew that they all spoke truth, as they knew it. But he also knew that Brian - in exercising his rational, no-nonsense attitude - was right; there were no guarantees, and it was, perhaps, kinder to offer no hope at all than to hand out empty promises.
Still . . . he reached down and touched a patch of bare skin just below Brian's shoulder and found himself smiling. No matter how much everyone insisted that Turnage could work miracles, that time would heal all wounds, and that Brian would be 'good as new', it was pretty obvious that most of them believed otherwise, that they all understood that the odds were stacked firmly against the rebirth of the Stud of Liberty Avenue.
It surprised him to realize just how vehemently he hoped that they were all wrong.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He wasn't entirely sure what holiday it was, but he knew it must be something, because Debbie only indulged her most outrageous decorating urges when she had some kind of valid cause to celebrate. Thus the diner was particularly garish on this occasion, decked out in bright, glittery foil doodads of brass and purple and crimson, in Mylar balloons and rainbow-hued baubles. It definitely wasn't Christmas, since there was not a snowflake or a reindeer to be found amid the glitter, but almost anything else was possible. Pride, maybe. Or May Day. Or Mardi Gras. Or RuPaul's fucking birthday. Something.
But it didn't really matter, because all the glitter, all the glitz, all the vinyl rainbows in the world could not obscure the Sunshine at the center of it all.
Deb was present, of course. So were Michael and Ben and Emmett and Lindsey and . . . Shit! For all he knew, Captain Astro and Galaxy Lad could have been dancing on the counter, and it wouldn't have mattered, for he saw only one face.
Justin was standing in the doorway, blue eyes huge and filled with bright glints of laughter, and the rest of the world was suddenly fading into an obscure blur as he could only sit at the table and watch as the man who had once (once???) been the center of his universe walked toward him.
The chatter of conversation continued around them, but neither was listening to anyone else's words, except maybe for a rich, dark voice in the background, as music floated on the surface of reality - Lou Rawls, he thought, as his attention was snagged - just for a moment - by lyrics that might have been written for this fragment of time. "So meet me at the same place we fell in love before, so we can fall in love all over again."*
It wasn't the kind of music one ordinarily expected to hear at the diner, but it was so appropriate, so personal, so perfect, that he didn't think to question it. And it was obvious that Justin heard it and understood its significance too, because the glow in his eyes grew brighter as the song played on.
He was vaguely aware that plenty of voices called Justin's name, at first in joyful greeting and happy surprise and then - when he didn't respond - with a growing sense of exasperation over being ignored. But it didn't matter. Debbie and Michael and Ted and Melanie - even Jennifer and Daphne. None of them mattered, for he could tell by the look in those beautiful eyes that Justin saw only him.
They were in the middle of a crowded, bustling scene at the Liberty Diner - and they were alone in the world.
He opened his arms, and Justin was there, filling him, completing him, giving back the only real life he had ever known, and he wondered, in a fleeting moment of confusion, why he had ever let go of what he had once held in his hands - his own personal key to paradise.
Their lips met and clung, as Justin went to his knees and fitted himself into the V of Brian's legs and pressed their bodies together, chest to waist to crotch, pressing closer and harder until there was nothing to mark where one body ended and the other began. Between one millisecond and the next, there was nothing in the world except the taste and the scent and the touch of Justin's body, Justin's essence, Justin's heat, as Brian was suddenly lost in sensation, as everything around them fell silent, as if they were suddenly at the center of a stage, surrounded by an audience who realized that they were witnessing something incredibly rare, something virtually unprecedented - the kind of deep, visceral, bottomless connection that occurred all too seldom in the bustle of life. An emotion most of them would never be privileged to experience.
Justin pulled back just enough to whisper Brian's name, just enough to brace his face against Brian's cheek and flutter his lashes against beautiful golden skin. In turn, Brian opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the gentle pressure of two fingers against his lips. "Don't talk," Justin whispered. "I don't want to talk. I want to suck you; I want you to fuck me."
"Here?" Brian managed to laugh around the confining fingers.
"No." Something flexed then, and there was a sensation of movement, of transition, as Lou Rawls faded to silence, to be replaced by a different voice, a different melody playing in the background, while the bright ambiance of the diner became . . . something else. "Here."
Brian smiled, as the scene shift was completed, and it was his loft - moonlit, pristine, warm and cozy in contrast to a frozen world beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the words of the song seemed once again to be a perfect accompaniment for the setting.
" . . .tell me again how you'll still be there when the heartache ends."*
Justin stood silhouetted - nude and perfect - against the window, the moonlight painting him with a silver patina and rendering his hair a cap of spun gold.
Brian, equally bare, stood watching him, mostly cloaked in shadow but aware, nonetheless, that he made a beautiful subject for the artist's eye.
"Are you doing . . . this?" he asked, a vague hand gesture indicating the shifting of setting, the musical backdrop . . . the magic.
"No. You are."
"Are you really . . . here?" Brian moved closer, barely daring to breathe lest he destroy whatever illusion this might be.
"I've always been here."
"No. You . . ."
Even in the semi-darkness, the smile was almost blinding. "Come to bed."
Brian leaned forward, reaching, wondering if it could possibly be this easy, only to find . . .
. . . that it was. Justin lay beneath him now, stretched out against the expanse of midnight silk sheets, his fingers playing with a brand new nipple ring, braided and beaded in three colors of gold. "You should never have let me go," he was whispering, his pupils so distended that there was only a thin rim of sapphire surrounding the black circles.
"What?" Brian's response was sharp and rough. "Should I have chained you to the wall?"
The brilliant smile appeared again. "I was thinking . . . to the bed."
Brian leaned forward, closing his lips over the ringed nipple and used his teeth to tug lightly, just enough to elicit a soft gasp for breath, and he smiled as he felt the lithe, supple body writhe beneath him as arms closed around his neck. Then hands fisted in his hair and sought to push him downward, to where a large, impressive erection was throbbing against his belly.
"Please!" It was barely audible, more breath than whisper.
"Please what?"
The fist closed tighter, and jerked him up so he could look directly into glazed, heat-seeking blue eyes.
"I want you in me. Now!"
"But you beg so sweetly," he replied with a soft snicker. "Makes me so hot."
Justin's smile was different from his customary brilliant grin. It was, just slightly, smug. "You do realize that - in this circumstance - you can fuck me . . . bareback."
Brian frowned. "Sunshine, you know . . ."
"Think of it, Brian." The whisper was like liquid heat against his skin. "No barriers. Nothing but you - inside me. Your big, beautiful dick . . . buried inside my ass, with nothing to separate us. Touching me, like you've never touched me before."
"Justin . . ."
"Please. Please, Brian. Take me, like you've never taken anybody. Touch me, like you've never touched anybody. Claim me."
"I won't . . . put you at risk."
The smile flashed again. "The only risk - here - is that you could let me go again, and we'd never have this. This - this is what we're meant to be. Don't you understand that yet?"
"Justin . . ."
But there was suddenly no more fight left in him, no more resistance as he felt that tight, hot body surge against him and draw him in. There was no transition, no time for second thoughts. One moment he was poised at that quivering opening, and the next he was inside - balls-deep and gasping at the sensation of molten heat completely engulfing him. He could not think, could not pull away, could not speak. He could only thrust, and thrust harder, and feel himself slip deeper, until there was nothing left to mark where he ended and Justin began. Until they were finally, totally one body. One being.
Blackness claimed him then, drew him in and wrapped him in an ecstasy so profound, so intense that his mind could no longer grasp it. He sank, and felt his body entwined with another, joined indelibly, falling together. Falling into darkness, falling into . . .
. . . pale light. Something flickering, hard-edged, sharp. Something moving against his back - hot but surrounded by bitter cold. "Your turn." The whisper was harsher than it should have been, and held something beyond need, beyond desire.
Something . . . wasn't right. There should be downy softness beneath his body, and silken skin against his back, and the fingers that traced down his spine should have been gentle, stirring his desire, feeding his need. Instead . . .
Voices rose, music flared.
. . . how's it going to be, when you don't love me any more . . .*
"Justin?"
"What?" Flat, hard, and not where it was supposed to be.
"Why are you . . ." Hands, gripping him from behind, hard and brutal and holding him still for . . . pain - vast, sharp, piercing through him like a blade, up through his body like a line of fire, ending deep within his chest and exploding outward, racing through every muscle and along every nerve ending like a river of molten lava.
Gasping for breath and struggling to free himself from the iron grip that bound him, he opened his eyes and knew where he was. And knew what was waiting for him; he had, after all, been here before, only this time . . .
Justin was standing there in front of him, hands braced against iron bars on either side of Brian's shoulders, and the look on his face . . .
Brian stared, and felt something vital, something irreplaceable, fracture and explode deep inside him, generating a physical and emotional agony that reduced the terrible pain that was blasting through his body to a trivial thing of no consequence. He felt the thick rod of flesh pounding into him, felt himself rip and tear and bleed, and still couldn't find it in his heart to care much, for the pain radiating from the core of his being was the only thing that mattered - a raging inferno that reduced everything else to ashes. For what he read in Justin's eyes was pure malice, and a towering, limitless, bottomless thirst for vengeance.
He turned his head and saw that the man behind him - the man who was plowing into his body with what felt like a battering ram - had a face that changed from one moment to the next. It was Ben; then it was Vic; then it was Rodney. Then it was the monolithic cretin who had tied him to these bars and tortured him with whips and knives and chains in the first place. Then, the faces shifted again - each uglier and more diseased than the one before. But, in the end, it didn't really matter, for they were all the same. They were all laughing, but none laughed louder than the young man who still stood looking straight into his eyes, the tears clinging to blonde lashes expressing mirth rather than sorrow.
They were waiting for him to scream, to beg. But he wouldn't. Mostly, he wouldn't be able to speak at all, but he did manage to dredge up one word.
"Why?"
"So you get what you deserve." That face, so beloved, so cherished, was suddenly twisted into an ugly caricature of itself, filled with rage as it leaned closer. "And I get what I wanted - to fix it so you can never forget. So you understand what you lost, what you can never have again."
The sunshine smile was painful to behold. "What? Did you really think I was always going to come running back to you? Did you really think you were worth it?"
Brian closed his eyes, and, strangely, heard music again, something soft and melodic, working its way underneath the blood and the terror to touch a dark place deep inside him, something he could finally understand, and grasp. So he opened his eyes to watch as Justin turned and walked away, as the song swelled and filled his heart."
. . . cause I need you more than I needed before, and now where I'll find comfort God knows, 'cause you left me just when I needed you most."*
He collapsed then, felt himself go limp and realized that he no longer cared what happened here, no longer cared about anything, as his only reason for caring was gone. Until a guttural, coarse voice muttered in his ear, and he realized that his assumption that nothing could hurt worse than what he'd already endured had been tragically, horribly wrong.
"He thinks he's safe," laughed the voice. "He's wrong. In the end, he's going to wind up facing the very same thing.. That'll be his legacy - from you."
And just like that, he discovered the existence of a pain so deep, so integral to the person he was, that it defied imagining. It was then that he understood that all he really wanted, all that mattered now, was for it to be over. Everything he had done, everything he had tried to do, had mattered not at all; he had still managed to destroy the only thing he'd ever loved.
But he knew one thing for sure, knew that Justin was wrong in his assumption. Brian had always known that the day would come when the man who had claimed his heart would turn and walk away for the last time, would go and never return.
He had always known . . . that he was not worth it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The cry was like something out of a nightmare - primal and raw and filled with such a dark intensity that it literally chilled the blood, and Chris McClaren was on his feet and leaping forward before he even realized that he was awake, as the last notes of Randy Vanwarmer's biggest hit faded to silence.
He didn't think, didn't observe, didn't even try to understand. He simply wrapped his arms around the man who had bolted upright in his bed, and held on, knowing that there was nothing more he could do.
He had been waiting for this - had understood that it must come sooner or later. Only, he had begun to fear that it never would.
Kinney was a special case, unique among all the victims he'd ever encountered - a victim who was determined not to be victimized - perpetually cool and composed.
Only he was neither cool nor composed now as he thrashed in McClaren's arms, struggling to free himself, to rid himself of the fragments of nightmare that still clung to him like chains, binding him tight within the bloodbath in his own mind.
"Let me go, let me go, let me go . . ." Each repetition was slightly louder than the one before, as Brian began to fight in earnest, to try to push himself upright and away from arms that restrained him; arms he did not recognize.
"Shit!" muttered McClaren, knowing that he dared not release the man who was in the grip of a panic which would not allow him to recall that he could not stand alone, that he would pay a huge price if he tried to climb out of his bed.
"Let me go, let me go . . ."
"Brian! Stop it. You're going to bust your stitches. At the very least. Be . . ."
"Let me go." Then a beat of silence, before the voice continued, rising now and strident with fear. "I have to find him. I have to tell him. Please . . . let me go."
He went silent then, but his body was still rigid, his muscles tensed and waiting for the right moment.
"Please let me go."
This time it was only a whisper, and there was no doubt that it was a plea, rather than a command.
"Sorry, Friend," said McClaren, knowing better than to relax his grip. "I can't do that. You're just . . ."
"But . . . they're going to kill him. I can't . . ."
McClaren huffed his frustration. "Fuck it, Man. You're the one who nearly died. You're the one . . ."
Brian remained stiff and unyielding for a few seconds longer; then he seemed to fold in upon himself, and he let himself slump forward, coming to rest against the FBI agent's shoulder.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why did they . . . "
McClaren closed his eyes, looking for the right words and the right tone in which to speak them. "Because it's a shitty world, Friend. Because there are people who can only justify their existence by trying to destroy those that are different. Because they only feel whole when they can tear someone else to pieces."
He lifted one hand to thread gentle fingers through Brian's hair. "Because they couldn't live with your beauty and your courage."
And, at that moment, Chris McClaren was granted the privilege of seeing something that only one person had been allowed to see in more than twenty years - Brian Kinney, weeping; something that his parents and his sister had not witnessed since he had grown old enough to go to school, something that most of the people who knew him at all would have denied as impossible. He did not sob, did not moan, did not wail. He just cried, exactly as he had when he was a very small boy - silently, hoping no one would notice. And, mostly, no one ever had. The FBI agent, sensing the rare quality of the moment, did not try to offer words of comfort. He simply held the lithe body against him, and rubbed soft, easy circles on Brian's back
"Was Justin . . . was he . . . there?"
"What?" McClaren jerked back and tried to look into Brian's eyes, but that proved impossible, as they remained tightly closed. "Why would you think that? Of course, he . . ."
"But he will be. You need to . . ."
"What? What do I need . . ."
Very softly. "You need . . ." The explosion of motion and the burst of energy almost succeeded in throwing the FBI agent off the bed and gaining Brian the freedom he was trying to achieve, as the whisper became a near bellow. "You need to let me go. I need to find him."
"Son of a bitch!" snapped McClaren. "For a fag, you're a strong little fucker. Now stop that, before you do some real damage. Goddamn it!" He renewed his grip on the patient, struggling to subdue him, and raised his voice as he realized - belatedly - that he was going to have to call for help. "Shit! Somebody get in here and . . ."
The body that came racing through the door was only a blur in the dimness of the room, but McClaren was beyond caring which of the hospital staff or the security men might have answered his summons, as he was painfully aware that he was very close to losing control of both the situation and the man in the bed.
"Shit!" he muttered, as his chin came into direct contact with the upswing of Brian's elbow. "Just . . . fuck . . . grab his arm before he takes my fucking head off! What the . . ."
"Stop!"
Later, McClaren would spend a lot of time trying to analyze why he had reacted to that single, barked command by freezing in place and turning to stare at the new arrival. But then, he would recall the remarkable reaction by the other participant in their little fracas, and he'd conclude that he might have some small inkling of what had really happened.
Then he'd reconsider, and revert to thinking that he didn't really have a clue.
Nevertheless, the effect was instantaneous.
McClaren watched in stunned silence as a slender, blonde figure climbed up onto the bed, and settled against Brian's chest, arms lifting so that hands could thread through the dark locks which were not covered by swaths of bandage.
As for Brian, he took one deep, shaky breath, lifted a hand to cup the face of his new defender, and then immediately fell back against his pillow, slipping once more into an easy, tranquil sleep. As part of the same motion, the blonde settled himself within Brian's arms, positioning himself so that the top of his head was tucked neatly under the chin of his former lover.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" McClaren demanded, although he was careful to keep his voice down, in the hope of avoiding more fireworks.
Justin adjusted himself so that his body was cradled against Brian's chest. "He has nightmares," he replied, by way of an explanation that didn't really explain anything.
The FBI agent almost snorted. "Of course, he does."
"What?" Justin retorted. "You haven't noticed?" His face was suddenly very pale, almost haunted. "He never talks about them, but he has them."
"You're not supposed to be in here," McClaren observed flatly.
Justin nodded. "I'll go. When he's settled down." His voice was very soft now, barely above a whisper. "I used to think that they started when I got bashed, but now . . . now I think they go deeper than that. I think he remembers things . . . things he's never told anyone. Not even me."
McClaren stepped up then, close enough to look down at Brian's face, close enough to lean forward and check his breathing and his pulse. "So," he murmured, "human after all, then?"
Justin laughed. "If you hadn't already figured that out, you're not as smart as you look - and not nearly smart enough to have any claim on . . ."
"On him?" McClaren allowed a tiny trace of annoyance to creep into his voice, and then was more than a little surprised to realize that it was genuine.
"Yeah. On him."
The FBI agent settled back into his chair and watched as Justin clasped Brian's arm to his chest. "What were you doing hanging out in the hallway? Stalking?"
"You could say that."
"He doesn't want you here."
Justin hesitated, debating how to respond. Then he smiled. "Yeah. That's why he's sleeping like a baby, with me wrapped up in his arms." The smile faded. "You should know," he said slowly, "I'm not going to just give up and let you have him."
McClaren was equally careful in choosing his words. "Even if he loves me? Even if I turn out to be the one who can make him happy, make him forget the nightmares?"
The smile returned. "I've thought about that - a lot - in the last few days. But the bottom line is that you'll have to prove it to me."
"And if I do?"
Justin shifted around so he could stare at Brian's face, and reached up to smooth a lock of hair off his brow. "If you can really make him happy - happier than I can - then I'll walk away."
He sat up slowly, carefully easing his way out of Brian's embrace. Then he paused to look down at McClaren - and the smile was back. "But he's the only one who can make me believe it. Otherwise . . . you should just fuck off."
"Justin." McClaren's voice shifted into a lower pitch, and he was annoyed to note that there was a vein of uncertainty within it. "He's going to have a rough time for a while. He has to . . . confront some things that he's never had to deal with before - things that you and the rest of his . . . posse haven't even considered."
"Like what?" Flat, sharp, impatient, but . . . filled with fear nonetheless.
McClaren sighed. "I know about what happened to you. At your prom, and . . ."
"He told you about that?" And there was no way of ignoring the depth of the pain contained in that simple question.
"Not exactly." The FBI agent knew that he should have just confirmed it, that it would have served to widen the gap that was forming between the former lovers, which would be exactly what Brian purported to want. But somehow, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. "But what happened to him - it's different. What that fucker did to you was an act of passion. It wasn't planned; it wasn't the result of a scheme to take your life away from you. It might have killed you, but it wasn't designed to punish, to inflict pain and suffering."
"Oh, sure," Justin snapped, voice dripping venom. "It was just a lovetap. Right?"
McClaren shook his head. "This . . ." he said, with a gesture that took in the condition of Brian's body, "this was a deliberate attempt to destroy the man he is, to punish him for being different, to strike such fear into him that he'll never be the same again. You don't know what it's like to realize that people can hate you that much, just because you're not like them. To be treated like you're some kind of sub-human monster. They tortured him, Justin. Everything they did - it was done to inflict horrible pain, to make him suffer. To make him regret everything in his life. To make him afraid and make sure that he could never regain his courage. It was payback, because he dared to face the world and refuse to hide himself away. That's . . . he's going to have to learn to live with that. It won't be easy, and it won't be quick. He's going to need time to figure it out."
Justin had risen by this time, and moved to stare out into the storm-lashed night. "And you know all this . . . how exactly?"
The FBI agent was almost startled into an ill-advised smile. The kid might look like Meg Ryan in drag, but he was no ditzy blonde. "Let's just say I've seen it before. For someone like Brian, someone who's always believed that he was in control of his life, it's going to be doubly hard, but until he learns to deal with it, there's no way he's going to heal from this, and no way he's going to be able to walk back out into the world and not see monsters on every corner. Every time someone looks at him, he's going to wonder who they are, and why they're staring at him. Every hand that reaches for him, every body that brushes against him . . . he's going to have to learn to accept the fact that there's never any way to be sure of how the people around you feel, and what they think - that safety is an illusion. That he's not invincible. He never was."
Justin closed his eyes, suddenly swept up in drifts of memory: Brian, as he'd been on the night they met - bare and beautiful and standing with his arms open, waiting for Justin to decide if he was coming - or going; Brian, as he'd stood waiting on a sidewalk, Gibralter in a ride of uncaring humanity, there to give Justin a chance to spread his wings when he'd forgotten how to fly; Brian, risking everything, watching as his possessions were hauled away, facing bankruptcy and unemployment, but still managing to smile; Brian, standing alone and confronting the specter of cancer, determined to survive - or not - without relying on anyone's helping hand; Brian, struggling to make it across the finish line of the Liberty Ride, battered and weary - but unbowed; Brian, standing tall in the rubble of Babylon, filthy and bloodied and scared out of his mind, but radiant nevertheless.
But - finally - Brian, bludgeoned and bruised by life, but ultimately unbroken.
He smiled then, and McClaren felt a moment of intense jealousy, realizing that there was something here that he could not see, something that Justin knew that might very possibly never be known to anyone else.
"Yes. He is."
"Justin . . ."
"Your job," continued the blonde without missing a beat, "is to get him to remember it."
It was McClaren's turn to smile. "My job? So you're . . . what? Conceding defeat?"
"In your dreams," Justin retorted. "It's just . . ." His voice softened as he turned once more to gaze down at Brian's face, resting now in easy slumber. "Somebody's got to help him. If he won't . . . let it be me, then you'll have to do." He looked up them and favored McClaren with a lopsided grin. "You're not quite the . . . troll I thought you were."
The FBI agent could not quite swallow a quick burst of laughter. "You're too kind," he managed to retort.
"Just . . . don't hurt him." There wasn't a trace of humor in that whispered comment that was as much entreaty as command.
"That's your area of expertise. Not mine." It was spoken so quickly that McClaren didn't even have time to regret the impulse before it fell into the air between them.
Justin's eyes were suddenly huge, and they both felt the surge of bright, vivid anger that flashed through him, that was almost powerful enough to compel him to spit out the denial that trembled on his lips.
Almost - but not quite. Justin had become extremely skilled in the twin arts of self deception and denial over the years, but he did not deal in lies.
The moment seemed to stretch out and surround them in heavy silence.
Until . . .
Bob Marley began to sing about Red, Red Wine, and they both relaxed into easy smiles, as Brian shifted in his bed, his breathing suddenly uneven.
"Got any Miles Davis on that thing?" asked Justin. "Or Coltrane?"
McClaren smiled. "My mother's family hails from Memphis. So what do you think?"
Justin nodded. "OK, then. A little lesson from freshman Kinney 101. When he's really tired or really troubled - or just can't sleep, blues goes a long way to soothe the savage beast."
"I'll keep that in mind." A quick adjustment on the iPod found Monk's classic Straight No Chaser, and Brian settled once more into even breathing.
"Can I . . ." McClaren stood, and found it hard to speak what was in his thoughts. "Any messages?" he asked finally.
"No." Huge blue eyes were now filled with shadow, and the soft glint of tears unshed. "He won't even remember that I was here. Will he?"
"Unlikely. The drugs he's on - they're pretty powerful."
Justin nodded and turned to walk away. Then he paused, and spoke without looking back. "Whatever choice he ultimately makes, will you . . . could you make sure that he knows, when all is said and done, that I loved him. More than my life. More than I'll ever love anything else. And that I always will. Even if he never . . . " Then he drew a deep breath before completing the thought.
"Even if." There was, finally, nothing more to say.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
TBC
1 It's Not Over --- (Chris Daughtry) - Gregg Watenberg, Christ Daughtry, Mark Wilkerson, Ace Young
2 Crazy --- (Gnarls Barkley) - Brian Burton, Thomas Callaway, Gian Franco Reverberi, Gian Piero Reverberi
3 Let the River Run --- Carly Simon
4 Let's Fall in Love Again --- Lou Rawls
5 When the Heartache Ends --- Rob Thomas
6 How's It Going to Be - (Third Eye Blind) - Stephen Jenkins, Kevin Cadogen
7 Just When I Needed You Most --- Randy Vanwarmer
