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

It seems that I do nothing but apologize lately, for being so slow to post.  I can only repeat that, though the spirit is more than willing, the flesh is still weak, and I'm still having trouble sitting at a keyboard to transfer what's in my mind to the written world.  But I'm not giving up, and the story is still flowing.  In my head.  Hopefully, my physical situation will continue to improve so the delays will be shorter as we go along.

Meanwhile, here it is.  Hope it doesn't disappoint.

 

Chapter 30


The delicate, filigreed glaze of Emmett's crème brulee clung to Cynthia's spoon as she tried to resist the urge to clean her plate like a three-year-old angling for a reward, but, in the end, no resistance was possible. So she scraped up the last of the silky cream, made sure to get every particle of the caramelized sugar, swirled it around the last of the perfect, ultra-plump blackberries which were an integral factor of the signature dessert, and savored her final bite.

Then she sat back, ridiculously sated, and gazed at the individuals seated around the table, reading identical expressions on all their faces - sensual overload.

Except Emmett's, of course, who - even though he truly enjoyed his own creations - always maintained a tiny nuance of professional demeanor, so he could gauge the reactions of his patrons.

Sharon Briggs said it most succinctly. "Oh - my - God!"

Emmett did not - exactly - preen. "I do hope you were pleased," he said, cocking his head in a typically flamboyant Emmett posture.

"Pleased!" echoed Briggs. "Pleased doesn't even begin to cover it. God, Emmett! I've always considered myself a pretty fair cook, but this . . . this isn't cooking. This is art, Picasso-level. Honest to God, I'd get on my knees and beg for recipes if I didn't think it would be like asking Da Vinci to give us a paint-by-number version of the Mona Lisa."

"Oh, stop," Emmett replied with a blush. "I'm no artist. I just . . . enjoy a good meal now and then, and find it easier to make one than to find one. Usually."

Alexandra Corey sighed, and didn't even try to conceal the fact that she was unbuttoning her jacket to ease the pressure. ""Well, let me just assure you," she said firmly, "if you ever grow weary of feeding your colleagues here in Pittsburgh, I've got some acquaintances in D.C. - at a rather well-known address - who would welcome you with open arms, and I'd be only too happy to put in a good word for you."

Emmett's response was an exaggerated eye-roll. "You don't really expect me to feed Republicans, do you? I'd rather cater the 700 Club."

Corey laughed. "Maybe I should hold off until the next administration comes in."

"Thank you, Agent Corey," he replied with a winsome smile, "but if you really want to make me happy, just make sure that the people who tried to kill my friend don't get a second shot at finishing the job."

Corey sat back in her chair, and studied his expression for a moment as she straightened the notes she'd taken during the course of their meal. "I have to admit, Emmett," she said finally, "that you surprise me. You just don't strike me as the kind of person to be a member of the Kinney fan club."

Emmett was silent for a moment, considering his answer. "And you'd have been right - until recently. Brian and I . . . we have almost nothing in common. In the vernacular of our culture, I'm the ultimate Nelly-bottom, and Brian is everything that I'm not. Brash, confrontational, arrogant, super-confidant, full of himself. But . . ."

"But what?"

"It took me years - literally - to learn to see through the façade of Brian Kinney, to see what exists under the surface. Sometimes I'm still pretty sure that I only catch occasional glimpses, at those odd moments when he lets his guard down a little. And now, I'm ashamed to admit how often I looked at him, and just saw . . . what was easiest for me to see. I saw what I wanted to see, so I never had to think about what he endured, what he lived through while the rest of us just ignored what we didn't want to know."

"And why do you think that?"

Emmett looked away then, his eyes focusing on a bleak empty spot beyond the window and suddenly filled with shadow. "When Justin got attacked - at his prom - and Brian cut himself off from everyone and built huge, thick walls around himself, we all let ourselves believe that it was because he didn't care. That he was operating in typical Kinney mode, as in 'If your boytoy gets broken, get yourself a new toy'." He sighed and scrubbed at his eyes with his fingers. "God! I actually said that once, congratulating myself on being so clever and hip. We all wanted to believe that - because it was easier than having to find a way to get through those walls and help him to overcome a guilt he never should have been expected to bear. But we did expect it. All of us. Because as much as we were full of all our noble, brave assurances - the ones that declared that Justin had every right to go to his prom and celebrate his 'right of passage' - to be out and proud and not shrink from anybody - the simple truth was that we blamed Brian for showing up there, for flaunting who he was and for encouraging Justin to flaunt himself as well. And while we were all busy condemning him and patting ourselves on the back for our smug, supercilious, liberal superiority, he was dealing with his guilt and his pain completely alone. Going to that hospital every damned night and watching over Justin, and never once letting any of us know what he was doing. In point of fact, if it hadn't been for a compassionate nurse who saw what was happening and was so convinced that Justin had a right to know about it that she disregarded Brian's wishes and spoke out, none of us would ever have known. Truth to tell, I'm not entirely sure that Justin ever did find out, because the nurse didn't got to him directly. Instead, she went to his mother, and Jennifer was so wrapped up in her own rage - her own belief that it was all Brian's fault that Justin got hurt - that she decided to keep that information to herself. It was only later - years later - when she let it slip out one day. To Debbie Novotny, of all people, and that, of course, was like taking out a full-page ad in the Times. So that's when we learned how wrong we'd been. I can't speak for everyone else, of course, but I can tell you that it hit me right in the gut - made me stop and think, and wonder how many other times we'd all just assumed that we knew what Brian thought or felt or why he did the things he did, when the truth was that . . . we didn't have the first fucking clue."

The FBI agent stirred a dollop of real cream into a cup of dark-roast coffee and took a moment to inhale the rich, invigorating aroma. "God, this is good! The bureau should recruit you - as a secret weapon." She sipped and closed her eyes to savor the taste. But when she opened them, her gaze was sharp and direct. "You're not dense enough to have allowed yourself to be duped so easily, Emmett. Surely you've figured out why you all jumped to those conclusions."

He allowed himself a quick chuckle. "Because that was exactly what he wanted us to do. Because Brian never wanted anyone to feel obligated to look deeper, or see more. Or feel a single nuance of sympathy for him."

She nodded, and simply repeated her question. "And why do you think that?"

He paused for a moment, lost in thought, and when he did speak, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Because he knows more about dealing with hurt and loneliness and emptiness than any of us. And because he'd move heaven and earth to keep any of us from sharing in that, or ever having to deal with it."

Corey smiled, and her eyes were full of sympathy. But not full enough to make her drop the subject. "Because?"

But Emmett was not going to say another word. So she said it for him, but only by leaning forward and whispering in his ear. "Because he thinks he deserves it. You couldn't possibly have blamed him . . . more than he blamed himself."

Emmett didn't give any indication of agreement - but he didn't argue either.

"The human spirit is an incredible thing," she said softly. "Especially in its infinite capacity to find ways of dealing with pain."

His smile was bittersweet. "There are plenty of people who would wager their last dime that Brian Kinney has never known a moment of pain in his entire life."

She grinned. "That's the other amazing thing about the human spirit - its infinite capacity for stupidity."

Emmett laughed, and Cynthia exchanged a quick, knowing glance with Lindsey, both relieved that Corey seemed to understand things intuitively, without requiring a lot of explanations or analyses. Brian, after all, was a perpetual enigma - impossible to diagram.

Lance Mathis, who had spent the entire meal trying - without notable success - to push away from the table without over-indulging, was talking quietly with Sharon Briggs, sharing specific points of interest in the information he had received from Jared Hilliard and making subtle suggestions on where to concentrate her efforts in setting up the next phase of the undercover operation - the part that she would need to handle personally, which might require some local support, from Mathis' people and the Pittsburgh PD, while Cynthia listened in, not interjecting herself into the conversation but ready to lend her support - and that of Kinnetik Corp - if necessary. Luckily, they would not have to deal with laying out the preliminary background for the sting. That part was already in progress, under the mighty auspices of Alexandra Corey and the FBI, and for that, both Mathis and Briggs were grateful.

Everyone around the table seemed well satisfied with the progress of the meeting - Alexandra Corey, in particular - and there was a general rustling as they all prepared to rise and go about their business. But Lindsey had a different idea, sitting exceptionally still as everyone else got ready to depart.

"Hold it!" she said sharply, laying her hands flat on the table as if bracing for something that might not be pleasant. When she looked up directly into the FBI agent's face, there were shards of ice in her eyes.

"We've given you everything you asked for," she said slowly. "Provided all the information we could, some of it so personal that it felt like it should fall in the category of 'none of your business'. But we answered anyway. For Brian, to help you do whatever you have to do in order to make sure this never happens again. But now, I think it's time you repay the courtesy."

Corey squared her shoulders. "Ms. Peterson, surely you know that I can't divulge . . ."

Lindsey stood up slowly, and the expression on her face was sufficient to cause the FBI profiler to fall silent. "I don't give a flying fuck," said the blonde, speaking very distinctly, "about your rules and your policies and procedures, and your cute little protocols. We just spilled our guts for you. Dotted every 'i' and crossed every 't', so you can put the finishing touches on your pretty little report. I've told you things about my relationship to the man who's the father of my son that I've never told anyone before. By this time, you know almost everything there is to know about him. And in return, all we get is platitudes and vague reassurances about how the bureau is doing everything it can, and we have to trust you to see that he's protected. Well, let me tell you something, Ms. Corey. Your assurances suck, and I'm not interested in platitudes, and, where he's concerned, I don't trust anybody. So far, I haven't seen much reason for giving you my trust, and before I can even consider doing so, I want to know how your investigation is going. I want to know that you've got some real evidence that's going to let you identify these bastards." She paused, and drew a deep breath. "I want you to promise me that he's going to be all right. I want your word, and I want more than the law-enforcement equivalent of 'the patient is doing as well as can be expected.' That's just not good enough."

"You know I can't give you specific answers to your questions," Corey said firmly. "It would . . ."

"Do you know," Lindsey interrupted coldly, "who did this to him?"

"We're pursuing . . ."

Lance Mathis stirred uneasily as Lindsey lifted one pale hand to interrupt the standard press conference response. "Do - you - know?"

Corey paused to take a deep breath. "We think so."

Ordinarily, such a response from a ranking FBI official would have proved sufficient to silence most interrogators, but Lindsey Peterson was not a run-of-the-mill paparazzi, out for a juicy tidbit of gossip. She was, instead, a woman on a mission, and she knew exactly how to pursue it; as she'd observed previously, under different circumstances on other occasions, she'd learned from the master. In point of fact, she'd learned from a couple of them. "Based on what? A hunch? Intuition? A gut feeling? Tea leaves or shadows in the crystal ball or some other bit of Harry Potter nonsense? Do you really know something, or is this all just speculation? Or just an act to keep the crowd from getting too restless?"

Agent Corey resumed her seat, and clasped her hands in front of her. "What is it that you want to know, Ms. Peterson?"

Lindsey took some time to compose her answer as all the lunch guests settled back into their chairs, each of them caught between wanting to hear whatever Alexandra Corey could tell them - and not wanting to hear anything at all. Except for Sharon Briggs and Lance Mathis, of course, who were both privy to a great deal of confidential information from the investigation.

"I want to understand," said Lindsey finally, very softly. "I want to know who would do such a thing, and why anyone would feel justified in trying to destroy him. I want to be able to look these people in the eye and try to figure out how they can walk around among ordinary people and not stand out as the monsters they are. I want to know why we didn't see it, why no one realized what they were capable of, before it was too late." She closed her eyes then, and didn't notice when a tear traced a path down her cheek. "And I want them to pay for what they did. I've spent my whole life supporting liberal causes and defending victims of injustice and fighting for the underdog. But now . . . I'm not sure it's just justice I want. Maybe it's vengeance. Maybe I want them to endure what he endured, suffer what he suffered. But above all, I want to know that they're not going to be able to just walk away from it. I want them to pay."

Corey nodded. "Good. So do I."

Lindsey could not quite suppress a grin. "You do?"

"What?" retorted the FBI agent. "You think all us high-ranking FBI types adhere to some superior moral standard, so that we can divorce ourselves from the human part of this equation? That we don't sympathize with the part of you that wants payback?" Her smile was slightly weary. "In the end, I'm bound by the law, in what I'm allowed to do, and in what I can allow others to do. But I can assure you, Ms. Peterson, that there is a part of me - a rather large part, in fact - that would love to be able to put a red hot piece of angle iron in your Brian's hands and let him administer his own brand of justice to the cretins who did this to him. I can't actually do that, of course, but that doesn't mean I don't fantasize about it. Or look forward to nailing these bastards so that the criminal justice system can exact its own version of a pound of flesh."

Lindsey smiled. "So you really do have credible information? Genuine leads that . . ."

"Oh, yes," Corey replied. "We've been very busy, and we've received an enormous amount of support from . . ." She looked up and favored both Mathis and Briggs with a smile . . . "local resources. We don't have names yet, but we're getting closer. We've narrowed the field now, so we can concentrate our efforts where they'll do the most good. We will find them, Lindsey. I promise you, we will."

"And when you do?"

Corey frowned. 'I'm sorry. I'm not sure . . ."

"In some parts of the world - even in some parts of this country - gay-bashing is almost a spectator sport, and plenty of bashers have just walked away, with nothing more than a slap on the wrist." She sighed. "Everyone here has been witness to that. The young man that Brian . . ." She faltered then, and needed a moment to regain her composure. "Chris Hobbs almost killed Justin Taylor, and, if he had, I'm not entirely sure that two young men wouldn't have died that night. And that fucker walked away without getting so much as a scratch on his pretty little preppy face. Is that what we can expect, for the people who did this to Brian?"

"No." There was not an ounce of equivocation in Corey's tone.

But Lindsey was not going to be easily persuaded. "How can you know that? Hobbs was caught red-handed . . . and lived to walk away from it. You don't even know who . . ."

Alexandra Corey rose and moved around the table to stand at Lindsey's side, where she could reach out and take the younger woman's hand. "But I will," she whispered. "I swear to you. I will find them, and they will pay for what they did to him." Then she paused, and favored Lindsey with a smile that was just slightly venal.

"These bastards planned this all very carefully, and they're obviously accustomed to having things their own way. But they made one really critical mistake." Her smile grew wider. "They chose the wrong victim. The things that made them want to destroy him in the first place - his boldness, his refusal to stand in the shadows, his in-your-face attitude - are the very things that should have sent them running like cockroaches in the light when he got anywhere near them. Your Mr. Kinney is not some sweet, innocent little high school student, without a voice to speak on his behalf, or with parents too gutless to stand up for him. He's brash and brilliant and vain and apparently not afraid of anybody. Add to that the fact that he's got plenty of friends, some of whom are quite powerful, who don't seem to give a fig who he chooses to fuck. As he himself would undoubtedly tell you, we live in a country where money talks. And big money talks bigger. Brian Kinney has both money and power - and the balls to use them."

She leaned forward then and stared directly into Lindsey's eyes. "That's what you've all been telling me, isn't it? Are you going to doubt him now?"

It was Sharon Briggs who answered. "It's not him we're doubting," she laughed. "It's you."

Agent Corey's eyes widened as she turned to stare at the undercover cop. Then she started to laugh, a deep, from-the-belly rumble that was infectious in its irrepressible spontaneity. "Fair enough," she finally managed to say, as she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, to wipe away tears of laughter and smears of mascara. "It's up to me then, to prove to all of you - and to him in particular - that he's truly met his match."

Emmett's grin was brilliant. "Now that I want to be around to see. Brian Kinney, meeting his match. A truly historic occasion."

A discreet knock at the door announced the intrusion of Garrett Delaney who flashed an apologetic smile toward Cynthia as he leaned in. "Sorry to interrupt, but Jared Hilliard is on line three for Mr. Mathis, and he's insisting that it can't wait."

Cynthia's grin was sympathetic. "Threatening your life, is he?"

"Among other things," he replied ruefully.

Mathis went to Brian's desk to take the call, but both Corey and Cynthia noted - with approval - that he did not settle into Brian's chair.

He listened for a moment, before summoning the FBI agent to join him for a quick, soft-voiced consultation. Then it was Corey who was taking out her cell phone and making a quick, urgent call, at which point Sharon Briggs wasted no time in injecting herself into the conversation.

"What's going on?" demanded Cynthia, noting the none-too-subtle looks of excitement on their faces.

"We need to give Hilliard a raise," Mathis replied, an odd gleam in his eyes emphasizing the grimness of his expression, but that was apparently all he was prepared to say, for the moment, and Cynthia gathered that things were developing in the investigation that the principals were not yet ready to discuss. She was not exactly pleased with his reticence, but she knew that there were some things she was probably better off not knowing. At least, not yet.

It was at that point that a clamorous disturbance erupted from the front of the building, with a cacophony of raised voices and a sharp clatter, followed by a series of wall-shaking thumps.

"What the hell?" she demanded, as she went racing out of Brian's office, only to come to a screeching halt at the sight that greeted her in the lobby.

Danny Boyle was the first person she saw, standing off to the side of the reception area, heavy-laden with a deep-pocketed leather carry-all strapped across one shoulder, bulging with whatever was concealed inside it; a large stretched canvas, heavily daubed with bright paint, dangling from his left hand; an easel held at an awkward angle in the other hand, and a sizeable Fender guitar case wedged under one arm. He was braced against the door frame of the small coffee alcove, barely managing to retain control of the assortment of articles, all limbs engaged, and his disheveled appearance was compounded by a big splotch of cerulean paint smeared across the front of his shirt, down one leg of his jeans, and ending in a spray of droplets that dappled one boot.

Still, to the astonishment of the group of spectators who had come hurrying out of Brian's office, he was smiling, his eyes, bright with amusement, focused on his companion.

And if Boyle, in this configuration, was a surprise, his companion was a revelation.

Cynthia turned to stare at Justin Taylor and discovered that, for perhaps the first time in her life, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Clad only in jeans and sneakers and a suspiciously familiar-looking Boss leather jacket that hung open to reveal that the torso beneath it was shirtless and smeared with a motley hodgepodge of vivid smears of paint, Justin was balanced in a classically perfect gymnast's handstand atop Garrett's desk, feet pointed and together, back gracefully arched, head back with golden blonde hair falling in a gleaming cap around his face - a face beaming with a bright, exuberant grin.

The spectators, as a group, seemed dumbfounded, until Emmett found his voice. "Justin? Honey? What . . ."

"If I could sing," answered the blonde, wavering just slightly, "I'd be warbling something ridiculously rapturous, like . . . I don't know, like The Age of Aquarius or Pour Some Sugar on Me or Footloose or something equally euphoric - but I can't. Sing, that is. So I have to find another way. This is our way. This is the Taylor-Kinney way - or the Kinney-Taylor way, if you prefer."

"Way to what?" asked Emmett, still not entirely sure they weren't dealing with a case of early-onset dementia.

"To celebrate, of course." Justin's tone said that he found it ridiculous that anyone would even need to ask. "To express joy and wonder and a full heart. Streisand sings; Baryshnikov dances; Julia Child cooks; Tiger golfs. But the Taylor-Kinneys - they do handstands, and cartwheels. And paint, of course, but that's for later. Right now, they do this." So saying he gave a mighty push with his arms and twisted in mid-air to land on his feet, only to launch into a series of cartwheels across the lobby, while bellowing at the top of his lungs in a voice that was so off-key it was almost physically painful. "Do a little dance; make a little love; get down tonight; get down tonight." In the process, he managed to avoid doing any real damage, except for toppling one floor lamp, and came to a stop finally at the edge of a small seating area, where he appropriated a double handful of apples from a wooden bowl and began to toss them in the air.

"And juggle," he added. "That's what Taylor-Kinneys do." Then his smile blossomed into a huge grin. "I did warn you that I couldn't sing."

"Taylor . . . Kinneys?" Emmett was still dumbfounded, but at least, he was asking questions. Everybody else was still speechless. He turned to exchange puzzled looks with Lindsey, and silently mouthed the question again. "Taylor-Kinneys?"

But Lindsey had no answer to offer, being just as confused and disconcerted as everyone else.

Justin's grin grew wider still as he succeeded - for a short while - in keeping four apples in motion in the air. Then he looked over toward the small crowd that was still standing near the entrance to Brian's office, and spotted Cynthia in the middle of the group - and immediately understood the meaning of the strange, diffident smile that she was wearing. The apples fell to the floor, forgotten.

"I saw it," he said softly. "I saw what he did for me. And I know - I know - that he was the one who did it. Wasn't he?"

With a quick flick of her hand, Brian's assistant - and friend - managed to wipe away every trace of the tears that were welling from her eyes. "You do realize," she said, by way of an answer that was not - quite - an answer, "that we're talking about a man who wouldn't know the difference between a ball-peen hammer and a ballpoint pen?"

The sunshine smile grew brighter. "I don't care. I know he did it. Didn't he?"

She hesitated briefly, knowing full well that she was treading on dangerous ground. Then she nodded. "As much as possible - and in a manner of speaking - he did. He designed it, contracted the various stages of construction, even got some instruction to learn how to do some of the hands-on stuff himself. Then he furnished it - the seating unit is custom-made, according to his design - and arranged it all. It's completely private, Justin. So private that, as of now, there are only three people who've ever seen it - and one of them only because . . . somebody had to go in to finish hanging the exhibits, after . . . well. Just after."

Justin walked forward, and clasped her hands with his own, pulling her close enough to drop a kiss on her forehead. "He really does . . . doesn't he?"

She studied his expression, and wondered if anyone among the individuals standing around them would understand what a breakthrough this moment represented. "You really didn't know?" It was a question, but only barely.

He closed his eyes briefly. "I was never sure if it was real . . . or if it was just that I wanted to believe it so badly that I convinced myself."

She nodded then. "Brian Kinney doesn't do anything by halves, Justin. Including giving his heart."

"So," he said softly, "how do I win him back?"

Her smile was gentle. "You never lost him. And, in one sense, you never will. But whether or not he'll ever again allow you to be a part of his life . . . that I don't know. As long as he believes that you're better off - not to mention safer - without him . . ."

He bit his lip then, and she could see the fear rising like storm clouds in his eyes. "How do I make him understand? How do I make him see that life without him . . . is no life at all? Is not worth living."

She touched his face with her hand, and it was suddenly as if there were only the two of them in the room, as everyone else - everything else - faded into obscurity. "You take a page from the Kinney Operating Manual," she answered softly. "You refuse to take no for an answer."

He mustered up a rueful grin. "And he will say, 'No', won't he?"

She laughed. "I think you can count on that. Repeatedly, angrily, loudly, but . . ."

"But?"

"In the end, it'll all come down to one question. Do you love him enough to see it through? Because, when you get to the bottom line, he's not going to be able to walk away from you. Not if you're prepared to let him know that he's your life. That he's the only thing that keeps you breathing and waking up each day. But there's no way to fake that, Justin. Not with Brian. Because he may be an arrogant, narcissistic, self-absorbed bastard, but he knows you. Like no one else ever will, so you're never going to get away with lying to him."

"But he lies to me," he protested.

"Only when he believes that he has no choice - that he has to lie to protect you. You know that."

He nodded. But he was still worried, and Cynthia suppressed a sympathetic smile, reflecting that they all sometimes tended to forget just how young Justin still was, and just how much he still had to learn about the ways of the world - and the heart. "But in the end," he said, with a sigh, "there's no way I can force him to listen."

"That's true," she admitted. "It really all comes down to how much you want him. You have to fight harder to keep him, than he fights to push you away. And you do know, I'm sure, that he sometimes fights dirty."

"Yeah. I know. That's the reason Chris McClaren is around, isn't it? He's part of Brian's dirty tricks campaign."

She sighed and looked away. "I think I've already said more than I should."

He went very still then, his eyes suddenly bright with understanding. "You weren't supposed to let me see it," he said softly. "I was never supposed to know."

Her smile was slightly rueful. "What do you think?"

He shook his head, unable to find the words to express his gratitude. "I can't believe what you did for me. What if he . . . can't . . ."

"If he can't - or won't - forgive me," she said firmly, "then I'll deal with it." Then her expression softened, and she smiled again. "But don't fool yourself, Honey. You're a lovely, sweet young man, but I didn't do it for you."

And that, he knew, was the truth. She had always been good to him; had always helped him when she could and sometimes gone out of her way to intervene on his behalf when Brian was channeling his diva/bastard persona. But the fundamental truth was irrevocable.

Cynthia's first and only true loyalty was to Brian Kinney. And that would never change - a fact she had just managed to prove, by risking everything to give him what she believed he really needed.

Justin would never forget it and would move heaven and earth to make sure that she did not pay too high a price for her actions, but the final decision, he knew, would not be his to make.

It would be Brian's choice.

It was at this point that the two of them suddenly remembered that they were not alone, and realized that they were being watched with fierce intensity. Emmett, of course, with Lindsey right beside him, was almost stomping his feet with impatience, champing at the bit to know what - exactly - these co-conspirators were discussing. But he - they - were going to have to accept that their curiosity would remain unsatisfied. For now, at least.

Brian's secret - his big, beautiful, fantastic, ridiculously romantic secret - would remain unshared among those who had no need to know - no matter how vehemently they might disagree.

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

For three members of the group, however, the conversation between Justin and Cynthia - intriguing as it was - was a secondary consideration. Though Mathis, Briggs, and Corey were curious, they were also distracted; they had more immediate concerns, and they maintained enough distance from the rest of the group to allow them to speak privately.

Corey received two brief phone calls during the lobby episode, and favored Mathis with a nod when the second one was completed.

"All set?" he asked.

Corey nodded. "Our Deep Throat is in place and eager to proceed."

"Not too eager, I hope," observed Sharon Briggs. "Hilliard gave you good intel, but operating in that kind of setting requires major skills - not to mention balls as big as melons."

Corey laughed. "Not to worry. We're covered - on both scores."

She closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing the 'Deep Throat' under discussion, and barely managed to suppress a smile. She would have to remember to tell Priscilla Young - AKA Prissy, AKA Deep Throat - about this conversation, particularly in regard to the size of her 'balls'.

"And the warrants?"

"Signed, sealed, delivered, and activated," Corey answered, eliciting a quick grin from the security chief, who knew just how difficult it was to get wiretap warrants from federal judges, especially when issues of journalistic confidentiality were involved.

"However, we have a more immediate concern," said the FBI agent, turning to regard Mathis with lifted eyebrow. "You have an in-house breach, Lance. What do you think we should do about it?"

Unlike many people, Mathis was not one to avoid responsibility or evade hard choices. Still, he knew this was a delicate area, involving old loyalties and elements of friendship. "I don't believe it was done with malice or deliberate intent."

"Well, that's comforting," snapped Briggs. "When we have to step up and confess that Kinney died on our watch, we'll be able to excuse our mistake by saying that the slip-up was just an accident. Without malice."

Corey ducked her head, refusing to grin at Briggs' snarky comment. But she didn't bother to suppress an eye-roll. "No deliberate intent, huh?

So . . . what? Blatant stupidity at work?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. Just . . . thoughtlessness. Just a poor schmuck who doesn't have a clue what it is to be targeted, because he's spent his entire life hiding under the radar. Never deliberately provoking anybody. Never standing out."

"Granted," said Briggs, but there was a sharpness in her tone that suggested she was still struggling to contain an acid bath of anger. "But if this had gone unnoticed, we might very well have found ourselves with a dead victim and no idea where we screwed up. We were lucky, and I don't know about you guys, but I'm not at all comfortable with trusting in continued good fortune. So the question remains. How do we handle Schmidt?"

"Everybody was cautioned about talking out of turn," Corey pointed out. "So he can't claim that he didn't know better. This is certainly grounds for dismissal."

Mathis sighed. "Anywhere else, it probably would be. But the circumstances are a little bizarre. From what Hilliard told me, it's obvious that Peabody succeeded in making Ted believe that he already knew where Brian was."

Briggs frowned. "Can we at least manage to get that slimeball fired for this?"

Corey smiled. "In good time, my friend. But we have to be careful. It wouldn't do to reveal that we're on to them. But Peabody will pay for his actions. I promise you that."

Briggs nodded, and contented herself with visualizing Monty Peabody's face when he found out that he was not only going to lose his job over his violation of confidentiality regulations, but that he might also face criminal charges for his part in the conspiracy. In this case, she thought she could agree with that old, oft-quoted Klingon proverb: revenge really was a dish best served cold.

"And Schmidt?" she asked finally. She was slightly astonished to realize that she felt some nuance of sympathy for the accountant, who had obviously been played. But the nuance was small in comparison to her resentment that the man had put Brian at risk by ignoring the protocols that had been established for his protection.

"I'll speak to him," said Mathis. "But I'm assuming that we still don't want anybody to know about our arrangements, so I'll have to approach him with discretion. I don't think it's a good idea to let him know that he was being watched." He fell silent for a moment, obviously weighing his options. "I'll handle it,"

Corey nodded. "See that you do, because . . ." She paused, and there was no misinterpreting the hard glitter in her eyes when she resumed speaking. "If it happens again, I'll take whatever actions I deem necessary to safeguard Mr. Kinney . . . and the integrity of our investigation."

"Got a dungeon booked on standby?" asked Briggs. "Just in case."

Corey smiled. "We have our resources."

Mathis glanced from one smiling face to the other. "Remind me," he said softly, "never to piss the two of you off. I don't even want to imagine what kind of payback you could come up with if you put your heads together."

Corey's smile grew wider. "Just keep an eye on him. Maybe you're right to trust him, but I'm not so sure. So do yourself - and your boss - a favor, and hedge your bets."

Mathis frowned, an odd expression touching his face, before he nodded and excused himself, apparently intent on following through with whatever had just occurred to him.

Cynthia, having completed her discussion with Justin, chose that moment to approach, the expression on her face indicating that she had figured out that something was definitely up, although she obviously did not expect to be briefed on the matter. Instead, she confined her interest to a general request for reassurance. "Everything all right?"

Corey smiled, knowing that the woman certainly knew better, but also knew when to allow professionals the opportunity and the space to do what needed doing.

"Everything's fine," she replied.

The acting CEO of Kinnetik didn't even bother to try to hide her skepticism as she regarded the group with a venal little smile, but she elected to keep any additional comments to herself. For the moment.

"And now," said the FBI agent to the group at large, "if you'll all excuse me, I have a plane to catch. And again, I want to thank you for your cooperation. You have no idea how valuable your information could prove to be."

Cynthia smiled. "So - is the moment at hand?"

"It is." Corey took a deep breath. "And I confess that I don't know if I should be breathless with excitement, or quaking with fear."

It was Emmett who came up with the perfect response. "Actually, I'd recommend a little bit of both. That way, you're prepared for whichever version of Brian Kinney he decides to let you see."

The FBI agent couldn't quite decide whether to be amused or concerned, and it was perfectly obvious that everyone in the group understood exactly how she felt.

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

The hotel suite was the epitome of elegant luxury, featuring period furniture and twelve-foot walls lined with raw silk the color of aged cognac, an Aubusson rug underfoot, twin Louis XVI giltwood settees with fawn-colored suede upholstery, and a fine-wrought silver tea service on the seasoned mahogany coffee table with its olive wood inlay design. On a crystal platter, an assortment of miniature beef Wellington Hors D'Oeuvres, tiny ramekins of escargots in garlic sauce, caviar canapés, and lobster scampi puffs was arranged to tempt the eye and the palate, while a sterling ice bucket offered a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee.

Ted Schmidt was suitably impressed. He had always known that Marshall Hargrave, his old classmate from Wharton, would go far; even in his youth, the man had always had a singular, relentless drive to succeed, not to mention a blade-sharp intelligence, but it was doubtful that anyone could have predicted what a financial phenomenon he would prove to be. The Hargrave/Kraiden Fund had been the brightest star of international financial markets for the past six years, and entry into the stratospheric levels of its investment opportunities was by invitation only, and impossible to finagle. One was either asked to join, or one wasn't; there was no gray area in between.

Ted had, on occasion, fantasized about being invited into the fold, but he'd always known that it was unlikely. He really had never had the kind of money that would interest those who moved in Marshall's financial and social circles, or enjoyed his political connections.

On the other hand, Brian Kinney, riding the crest of his Kinnetik success, did have that kind of money, along with a growing reputation for influence, but, again, participation in this particular fund was not something one aspired to. One had to be asked.

He helped himself to a scrumptious bit of lobster scampi and barely managed to suppress a sigh of contentment. When Marshall had called to invite him to this little tête à tête, to discuss the possibility of offering Kinnetik an opportunity to participate in a new expansion within the Fund, Ted had almost refused the invitation, not entirely certain that he wasn't the butt of someone's malicious prank. He had seen his old acquaintance from time to time through the years, once at a class reunion, occasionally at alumni functions, and once at a dinner to honor a retiring professor emeritus who had been a faculty adviser to both of them during their senior year, but their conversations had always been confined to polite, impersonal exchanges with no real connection. Or so he'd always believed.

But apparently, Marshall had been paying closer attention than he'd let on. Apparently he'd noticed that Ted had been very clever and successful in handling his stewardship of Brian's money; clever enough, at any rate, to warrant this invitation and to merit an opportunity to win himself a place among the pantheon of the rich and famous. For Brian, of course. He needed to remember that, while it might be his expertise that had earned the notice of his sophisticated associates, it was Brian's money that would pay the tab.
Still, this was a moment to savor - an acknowledgement of his skill and his expertise, an accolade from his peers.

He glanced at the antique ormolu clock on the mantle and noted that he'd been waiting more than thirty minutes for his meeting, even though he'd been careful to arrive precisely on time for his appointment. But busy successful people didn't exactly punch time clocks; he knew that. God knows, the mighty Kinney had kept him waiting often enough, and usually for no reason except that he'd gotten distracted - by an idea, or a phone call - or a hot piece of ass (all too frequently). So he'd smiled when Marshall's lovely, Prada-clad secretary had shown him into the suite's parlor, and indicated that he should help himself to refreshment until Mr. Hargrave, who was currently in conference with another client, managed to join him.

If the thought occurred to him that it was really quite rude to schedule a meeting and then leave one's invited guest to cool his heels for an indeterminate period of time, he chose not to dwell on it.

It was another ten minutes before there was a murmur of voices beyond the set of double doors at the rear of the sitting room, and two individuals emerged, still deep in discussion about an upcoming performance at the local concert hall.

Marshall Hargrave was escorting an elegantly-attired older woman who was sporting a saucer-sized emerald broach on the shoulder of her classic Chanel jacket. "I don't care where you're supposed to be in September, Marshall. You cannot miss this," she was saying. "The young woman singing Mimi was an understudy of Angela Gheorghiu in London. Claudia Morreno is her name, and she's quite spectacularly wonderful."

"Ah," said Ted, rising to his feet. "The new performance of La Boheme. I can hardly wait."

Virginia Hammond paused and regarded the accountant with cold, narrowed eyes. "And you are?"

"Ted!" exclaimed Hargrave, as he came forward with right hand extended. "How wonderful to see you! Virginia, Darling, this is Ted Schmidt - an old friend of mine. We went to Wharton together."

Ms. Hammond - former wife of deceased pickle baron, George Schickel - inclined her head slightly, in a manner not unlike one that Queen Victoria might have affected. "You're an opera afficianado, Mr. Schmidt?" she asked, obviously just making small talk.

"Oh, indeed I am," he answered. "In fact, you and I met several years ago, at a presentation of Aida if I recall correctly. That was before your husband passed away, I believe."

"How lovely!" she replied, with undisguised condescension.

"Yes, Virginia," Hargrave interjected. "Ted is here to discuss becoming a member of our little financial empire. On behalf of his employer, of course."

"And who would that be?"

Ted took a deep breath, sensing that this would be a potential moment of truth. "Brian Kinney. Owner of Kinnetik Corporation."

Virginia was a real pro; he'd give her that. The only thing that betrayed her was a tiny twitch of her left eyebrow. Otherwise, she gave no indication that she recognized the name. "And what - exactly - is Kinnetik Corporation?"

"Why, where have you been keeping yourself, Dear Girl?" asked Hargrave. "It's only the fastest growing, most fabulously successful advertising agency in Pittsburgh. Simply everyone is talking about it."

Virginia turned to stare at Hargrave for a moment, obviously picking up on something in his tone that gave her pause. "Really?" she said finally, before turning back to Ted. "I wonder . . . this might be a very fortuitous coincidence, Mr. Schmidt. You're obviously aware of my association with Schickel Hall, and it just happens that we're currently looking for a new agency to promote our next series of productions. The firm that's worked for us in the past has been, shall we say, less than . . . impressive. We're going to be presenting a series of four Puccini works, starting in late summer."

"Beginning with La Boheme, I take it," replied Ted, getting excited in spite of his determination to remain unimpressed. "I saw Claudia Morreno in La Traviata in Philadelphia last year. She's unbelievably talented."

"Yes," agreed Ms. Hammond. "She certainly is. So, can I assume that your agency would be interested in taking on this promotion? Would you like to make an appointment with our chief administrator, to submit a proposal?"

More than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, Ted wanted to respond, to agree immediately and enthusiastically to her suggestion, but he couldn't quite bring himself to ignore the warning voice that was screaming in his mind, the one that reminded him that he would have to check with Cynthia before making any commitments - that he was hamstrung by the limitations Brian had imposed on him and the necessity to function under her oversight. "Uhhh, can I get back to you on that?" he asked finally. "I'll need to check our schedule with our art director - to make sure we can give your project the attention it deserves."

"Oh," she said coldly. "I see. Well, I had assumed that you'd have the authority to make a commitment. But if you can't . . ."

"Of course, I can," he said sharply. "I just find it simplifies the management process when one employs discretion in handling human resources. It pays to keep the support staff in the loop, especially in dealing with artistic types, if you know what I mean."

This time, the woman's smile actually contained a trace of warmth, as Hargrave retrieved her mink wrap from a small entry closet. "Yes indeed. One must avoid bruising those fragile egos. Correct?"

Ted nodded, beaming his agreement. "I'll just double-check our schedule, and give you a call, shall I?"

"Oh, not me, Dear," she answered, turning to allow Marshall Hargrave to drape her fur around her shoulders. "I only deal with the artistic and social aspects of our little venue. I leave the commercial end of things to those better suited to it. You may call the theater office number any time, and ask for Jonathon Croft. And I'll just let him know to expect your call, shall I?"

Hargrave favored her with a brilliant smile. "Wonderful, Virginia. And I'm delighted that you're . . . pleased with our final arrangements."

"Oh, yes, Marshall," she replied. "Making money always pleases me, although I do dislike having to deal with the unpleasant details. I trust we're done here?"

"Completely. And let me just say that it's always a pleasure doing business with you."

The slim, stylish secretary appeared then, apparently having been loitering in the hallway, awaiting the right moment to make her entrance and escort Ms. Hammond down to the reserved area where her car and driver were waiting.

In the wake of her departure, Marshall Hargrave favored Ted with a wink and a broad smile. "Another satisfied customer," he observed, before gesturing for Ted to resume his seat. "Champagne?" he asked, seating himself and taking the napkin-wrapped bottle of Krug from its icy niche.

Ted hesitated. He had not touched a drop of alcohol since his emergence from rehab and knew that he should decline without a second thought. But how, he wondered, did one graciously reject a serving of a vintage that probably cost $300.00 a bottle. "I really shouldn't," he said finally.

"Oh, don't be silly. Of course you should. What better reason to indulge a bit, than two old friends embarking on a new venture together?" The broker's smile was brilliant, and Ted suddenly felt a bit uneasy, wondering why the expression reminded him just slightly of the predatory grin of a PR professional closing in on a vulnerable target.

He shook off the feeling, chiding himself for an overactive imagination, and, assuring himself that he would take one glass, and only one glass, he accepted the crystal flute that the broker handed him, and raised it in a little off-hand tribute. "To new ventures," he said with a diffident smile.

Hargrave mirrored the gesture. "So, Teddie," he said slowly, after taking a long swallow of the lovely amber wine, "are you ready to play in the big leagues? And, coincidentally, to become a very rich man in the process?"

Ted hesitated. He could not deny that the idea of making a great deal of money, of becoming rich in his own right, was enormously appealing. In the checkered course of his past, he had been quite rich at one time; he'd also been dead broke, and, in the final analysis, he could only agree - wholeheartedly - with Mae West. Rich was better. And this would be a golden opportunity for him, for although the bulk of the investment he would be making would be Kinnetik money - Brian Kinney's money - he would also tack on every dime he could scrape together from his own personal funds. So yes, he could wind up a very rich man, indeed. But he realized, to his surprise, that getting rich - pleasant as the prospect might be - was not the real objective here. He wanted to make Brian rich; well, rich-er anyway; but, above all, he wanted Brian to know, to understand, that it was him - Theodore Schmidt, AKA the schmuck - who had come through for him, in a way no one else ever had.

He wanted Brian to acknowledge him as a savior, a hero, a valued associate - a best friend.

But he also knew that he had to be careful for, as grateful and appreciative as Brian would be if Ted succeeded, the intensity of his approval would probably not hold a candle to the degree of Brian's fury and thirst for revenge should he fail.

"Marshall," he said slowly, "I can't tell you how grateful I am for this opportunity. But you must understand that I have to be very cautious here. You don't know Brian Kinney at all - a fact for which you should probably be grateful - but let me assure you that he does not suffer fools gladly. This is a huge step for me, and I dare not take big risks with his investments. One of the primary factors in managing his portfolio has always been maintaining diversity, and making sure that he's not over-exposed in any one area. If I risk . . ."

"Teddie," Marshall interrupted, sitting back and regarding his old acquaintance with a level look, "I truly understand your concerns. And I certainly recognize the wisdom of your financial oversight. But I know you well enough to be certain that you didn't come here unprepared. You've looked into our history, investigated our market performance. Surely you realize that, for almost seven years, we've outperformed almost every other investment fund in the world. Consistent double-digit gains, year after year. Even, in some cases, month after month. What could you possibly have to worry about?"

Ted shrugged slightly. "Your minimum investment requirement is pretty steep."

The broker frowned. "Does that mean that I've been misinformed? Can your Mr. Kinney not come up with the necessary funds?"

Ted grinned. "He's not my Mr. Kinney."

"Really?" Hargrave took a sip of champagne. "Forgive me, but I thought . . . you are still . . ."

"Gay?" Ted's voice was surprisingly sharp. "Yes, Marshall. I'm still a cocksucker. Is that . . ."

Hargrave raised his hands. "Ted, please," he said dismissively. "There's no need to get defensive. I don't give a rat's ass what - or who - you suck, although I'd have to have been dead or comatose not to have heard about the notorious Brian Kinney. I'm sorry that I jumped to conclusions. But it's really immaterial. If I was misinformed, and he can't come up with the minimal investment, then . . ."

"I didn't say that," Ted interrupted, helping himself to a bite of beef Wellington to buy a little time. But only a little. "I'd need to rearrange some accounts, but the cash is available. Still, $2,000,000 upfront is a pretty sizeable investment, so I just . . . I think I need a little time to think this through. To make sure . . ."

"I understand completely." The PR smile was back in place, as Hargrave popped a canapé into his mouth. "But you must keep in mind that this is an opportunity that won't be available for long. We've only just decided to expand our operation into this new market, and the number of new investors we're prepared to take on is limited. It was only due to our longstanding friendship that I wanted to let you in on the ground floor, so to speak. So I'd advise you not to think for too long, because, once the word is out, we're probably going to be inundated with more clients than we can handle. I'd hate to see you - and Kinney - miss out on a golden opportunity because of being . . . overly cautious."

Ted blinked, and was suddenly swept up in a very old fragment of memory - a recollection of a conversation overheard between Marshall Hargrave and one of his frat-boy bosom buddies back in college, a conversation that Ted had not been meant to hear, when Marshall had described Ted and his friend, Glenn Parrish, as being "as timid as field mice". He didn't remember the circumstances that had prompted the conversation, but he did remember feeling hurt and diminished for a long time before he'd finally managed to put the incident out of his mind. He wondered briefly why he was remembering it now.

As timid as field mice. Or, in other words, overly cautious.

He rose abruptly, a spark of new resolve gleaming in his eyes. "I need to make some phone calls," he said firmly, "but I should have final confirmation for you - tomorrow. Soon enough?"

Hargrave's grin barely avoided smugness, and Ted felt a rush of satisfaction. When all was said and done, he would prove himself to be a man of bold action, the antithesis of that stereotypical timid little mouse; at the same time, he would prove the validity of another old adage - the one concerning he who laughs last.

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

Sunlight is dangerous. It causes skin cancer. You should really haul your ass inside, and . . .

Brian grinned beneath the shelter of the sunhat that shaded his face as he stretched out against the deep cushions of the lounge chair at the edge of the deck. He knew that his thoughts were unarguably true. But he also knew that his skin was particularly beautiful when it was sun-kissed. Someone - he didn't really want to remember who - had once called him a bronze Adonis when he was wearing the kind of perfect golden glow that was unspoiled by tan lines.

Like the one he was cultivating now. Except for his face, of course, and the areas of his body that were concealed under swaths of snowy bandages.

Bronze Adonis - with splotches.

He found he didn't care much for that imagery.

"You're going to burn," said a disinterested voice.

"I never burn."

"Maybe not in Pittsburgh, with its watered-down version of sunshine," came the response, threaded with a soft whicker of laughter. "But this is not Pittsburgh. This is the South, and the sun here will fry your pretty little ass before you can whistle Dixie."

Brian grinned again. "Glad you noticed."

McClaren snorted. "I'm in survival-mode -not blind."

Brian opened his eyes, and lifted his hat in order to look up and meet the FBI agent's gaze - a look filled with equal parts resistance and desire - and he didn't turn away when McClaren leaned forward to claim his lips in a bruising kiss. No one else, except the medical team who was treating him, had been allowed to see his face without the concealment of bandages; no one else had been privileged to examine the extent of the damage done to him. Only McClaren. Brian still didn't know why he'd decided to allow the FBI agent full access. He also didn't know why McClaren did not seem to be disturbed by the mutilation.

It had bothered Brian at first; still did, sometimes - that he'd decided to suspend his moratorium - mostly self-imposed - on mouth-kissing, with McClaren, of all people. (And Michael, of course, to whom it had never really applied.) It was especially worrisome in that it had lead to nothing more than a couple of frustrating make-out sessions. Sexually frustrating - for both of them, as neither had succeeded in pretending that there was no interest in taking their physical interaction to the next level.

There was plenty of interest, but neither could overcome a growing certainty that physical intimacy between them would carry deadly risks - that it was entirely possible that neither would survive the experience unscathed.

Still, the kissing was . . . addictive. Almost irresistible.

"You're the biggest fucking tease I've ever had the misfortune to meet," McClaren observed, his eyes sweeping down Brian's sculpted body to linger on the strong swell of a perfect cock, currently at half-mast and rising.

"Au contraire, mon amis," Brian retorted. "What you see is what you get. You just have to have the balls to reach out and grab it."

With a sigh, McClaren retrieved a towel from a nearby chair and dropped it across the beautiful temptation of Brian's crotch. "Your physical therapist should be here any minute. I assume you don't want to give the woman a heart attack her first day on the job."

"Why do I get a 'her'? Why not a 'him', with beautiful pecs and perfect abs and . . ."

"Because that's not the kind of physical therapy you need right now." McClaren's grin was more than a little venal.

"Bullshit!" Brian's expression was mocking, as he reached up and wrapped his fingers in the collar of the FBI agent's denim shirt and pulled just hard enough to bring that exquisite face down to a spot just inches away. "I think a good blow-job would really take the edge off. Make me . . . eager to please."

McClaren chuckled. "You've never been 'eager to please' in your entire fucking life. In fact, you don't give a shit if you please - or not." He paused then, his eyes moving inch by inch over the surface of Brian's face, and, obviously hesitant, he lifted his hand and traced his fingers down across patches of flawless skin between areas still bruised and swollen and distorted with stitches. "It's extraordinary, you know," he said after a while, as Brian went very still under the exploration of gentle fingers. "I think you better pledge your firstborn . . . okay, okay, your second . . . to Turnage, or make him your primary heir or something, because the man is a fucking miracle worker. I hate to admit it, but I would have bet my pension that no one would ever be able to patch you up like this. It's amazing what he's done in such a short time." He sighed, then smiled. "The scars and bruises are fading, the muscles are healing, and . . . you're going to break hearts again, Brian. By the time Turnage is done with you, you're going to be more beautiful than ever."

Then he looked down and stared at the narrow stripe of blistered, discolored skin that stretched across the area below Brian's rib cage. "Except for that. Are you really not going to . . ."

"Yeah. I'm really not going to."

"But why? You know you're pissing him off, that he says he can fix it so . . ."

"I know what he said, and I know what he can do."

"Then why?"

This time the smile was diffident, almost bittersweet. "Because sometimes a man needs a souvenir, a reminder of how things came to be."

"Don't you think you'd be better off putting it behind you? Forgetting it?"

"Been there, done that," Brian replied. "That's how I lived my life, for a long time. In the end, it didn't work very well, did it? The past is always with you, whether you choose to think about it or not."

McClaren straightened up and spent another moment staring down into a face that was well on its way to being as perfect, as breathtaking as it had been before the attack. Almost. One more procedure, according to Dr. Turnage, and there would be only faint, almost invisible traces to indicate the extent of the original damage. Physically, anyway. McClaren wasn't so sure that the mental and emotional scars would be so easy to erase, but Kinney, typically, was not going to allow anyone to get inside his defenses in order to explore such potential weaknesses. Not without extraordinary efforts, anyway.

The FBI agent helped himself to a Marlboro from the open pack on a nearby table and continued his visual exploration of Brian's body. Bandages still obscured an area low on his torso, extending around to the top of his hip, and there was still work to be done on the extremities - a plate in the left hand to be surgically removed once the physical healing was complete, and therapy to regain full motion and strength in the right leg which was still encased in a walking cast. Plus a course of moderate traction to eliminate potential spinal problems would still be necessary, but, all in all, it appeared that Brian would eventually be fully restored.

Physically.

He wished he could stop qualifying his observations about the man's recovery. He wished he could believe that there would be no residual effects.

Above all, he wished he didn't care, one way or another.

"I'm going to check with Randy at the gate," he said, enjoying the bitter tang of the smoke in his throat as he turned to gaze out across the bay to watch a flock of sea birds wheeling and twisting in the ocean breeze. "I'll make sure he knows he's supposed to let your therapist in. Then I'm going to walk the perimeter. Maybe I'll go out to the lighthouse, and spy on you with a telescope."

Brian laughed. "How ridiculously romantic!"

"Roll over on your stomach, and I'll oil your back."

Brian did as he was told, although his movements were still awkward and without his customary grace, impeded by the stiffness of injuries not fully healed. Yet he knew, once he was positioned flat on his belly that he presented a fetching view for his observer, and couldn't suppress the urge to offer a taunting remark. "You just can't resist any opportunity to get your hands on my ass."

With an answering smirk, McClaren straddled Brian's thighs, careful to avoid settling his weight against the body beneath him, but not bothering to avoid the sweet sensation of skin to skin contact.

Brian laughed, and the FBI agent pretended that he didn't feel the urge to do the same.

Kinney was a bastard - and the most intriguing, addictive, captivating individual McClaren had ever known. And trouble, of course. That was a given.

McClaren poured out a generous portion of tanning oil in the hollow at the small of Brian's back and proceeded to massage it into golden skin, noting as his hands moved that the muscles under his fingers were more relaxed than they'd been in days past. Initially, Brian had shown some measure of resistance to the FBI agent's touch, a tension that almost certainly indicated an unavoidable lack of trust and an innate inability to relax, but that resistance seemed to be dissolving, and McClaren wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing - for either of them.

He knew - and he was pretty sure Brian knew as well. Any prolonged contact between them - especially involving any kind of emotional intimacy - might very well be toxic.

He leaned forward then, dropped an open-mouthed kiss at the tender spot where long, slender neck joined broad shoulder, and managed a quick slap to that exquisite ass as he rose. "Back later," he muttered, and made his departure, deliberately ignoring an urge to spend a few breathless moments gazing at the feast laid out before him. It simply wouldn't do to allow himself to dwell on what he'd like to do to that luscious skin, that supple body, that perfect mouth.

For his part, Brian simply nestled more comfortably into the cushions beneath him, cradling his face against his folded arms, and enjoyed the sensation of the sun's warmth against his body - and refused to think about what else he'd have liked to feel . . . against his body.

He lay still, listening to the distant cry of shore birds and let himself drift, caressed by the gentle strokes of warm spring air and serenaded by the seductive rhythm of the surf breaking against the shoreline. He knew that he should be wary, that McClaren's observation about the quality of southern sunlight was almost certainly true and that he would suffer an uncomfortable sunburn if he lingered too long here. But it was still spring, and the warmth of the light on his back - so radically different from what he would have encountered on his own rooftop terrace in the Pitts - felt wonderful enough for him to take the risk of lingering just a bit longer.

So he nestled down more deeply against his cushions and took a deep cleansing breath and concentrated on . . . not thinking of anything beyond the sensation, the pleasant drift of this moment and the gentle ambiance of the music rising from the IPOD on a nearby table.

"All my thoughts just seem to settle on the breeze,
When I'm lying wrapped up in your arms;
The whole world just fades away.
The only thing I hear is the beating of your heart.
'Cause I can feel you breathe; it's washing over me.
Suddenly I'm melting into you."
*

Until . . .

"So . . . how good is he?"

Fuck!

"You can lie there with your head up your ass - or not - but it won't change anything. So why don't you turn over and face me. And answer my question. Is he . . . as good as me?"

Brian, stubbornly, refused to open his eyes. "I only do upgrades. You should know that by now." If he didn't look, didn't see, maybe he'd be able to get through whatever was at hand without giving in to any ridiculous lesbianic urges.

"Uh, huh! So he's that good? The performance lives up to the package."

"I think I just answered that. What are you doing here?"

"Waiting to see if you have the guts to face me."

Brian swallowed the sigh that rose in his throat, and pushed himself up and around into a semi-recumbent position to stare up at the slender figure standing between him and the flaming globe of the setting sun. "Okay. I'm facing you. Now, what do you want?"

Except that he wasn't - exactly - facing his visitor. He had deliberately shaded his eyes and kept them focused at about knee-level, noting that the jeans that filled his vision were familiar, easily identified by a rip at mid-shin on the left side, and a string of paint dots - Alizarin crimson, he was pretty sure - on the right.

"I want," said that voice - that completely unforgettable voice - as the visitor moved closer, "you to put your hand down, and look at me. Let me see your eyes - your face."

But Brian was shaking his head. "Nothing here that you want to see. Trust me."

"Why?" The calm tone of the voice was trembling now, receding before an onrush of impatience, of anger. "Because it's not the same face it used to be? Because you think I can't handle the idea of an imperfect Brian Kinney? Let me tell you something, Mr. Kinney. You were never . . ."

"I know." And the voice was cold and sharp and without a nuance of tenderness or remorse. "I've heard it before, you know. But the last time you said that to me, I was too weak and too tired and too damaged to stand up and fight back. Now . . . I'm not."

Two quick steps, and refusing to look into the beloved face framed by that mop of blonde hair was no longer an option, as Justin flopped down on the cushion at Brian's side, his hip pushing against Brian's thigh with no wiggle-room between them. "I'm gonna kill Cynthia," Brian murmured.

"No, you're not. Because she didn't tell me where to find you. She didn't have to."

Brian's eyes felt scalded, almost blistered by the intense liquid glow of the late afternoon sun. "Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning I will always find you. You'll never manage to hide from me."

"I'm not hiding."

A pale hand, fine, transparent hairs standing on end under the coolness of a breath of wind, lifted and traced the line of Brian's jaw, as blue eyes examined every square inch of exposed skin. "Yes, you are, but it won't do any good. Not with me."

Brian jerked his head back and regarded Justin with cold eyes. "Not with you? Who the fuck do you think you are anyway? Why would you . . ."

Quickly, the fingers moved and clasped themselves against Brian's mouth, stifling his words in mid-protest.

"I'm the one," said Justin, leaning close to whisper in Brian's ear, "who knows your secret identity."


Fuck! The little twat was even resorting to that lowest of all low tricks - stealing Brian's own best lines.

Then Justin moved to replace his hand with his lips and claim the mouth that was still clinched tight, resisting every urge to let go, to open to that insistent tongue thrusting and demanding entry, to allow itself to be claimed.

Brian would not - could not - simply give in and allow Justin to slip back into his life, back into his arms - back into the place that would put him in a position where people would want to kill him, where the simple fact of being a part of Brian's existence could cost him his life. So he pushed back violently, and closed his eyes, pouring all his grief, all his frustrations, all his pain into one snarled response. "I - don't - want - you - here. Get away from me, you little shit!"

He went silent then, as he felt the body beside him shift and pull away, but he was careful to keep his eyes closed. He had watched Justin walk away from him a lot of times in the course of his life; he didn't know if he had it in him to watch it again, even though he knew it was absolutely the right thing - the vitally necessary thing - for the young man to do.

He waited for a moment, hearing nothing but silence, and actually dared to think that he might be safe.

Until he felt a softness against the side of his throat, a warm breath, a single word.

"No."

He found that he was struggling to breathe then, to form the words he knew he had to say. "I don't want you." It was barely a whisper.

He clasped his hands in front of his face and fought against an almost irresistible compulsion to look up, to see that beautiful, beloved face one last time.

When he heard it, he thought, at first, that he must be imagining it - that it could not possibly be real. It was very faint, barely there, almost beyond hearing, but it was unmistakable nonetheless. Justin was laughing at him. "Yes," said that voice, filled with certainty and - unbelievably - with joy. "You do."

It was - finally - too much, so he leapt to his feet and moved swiftly toward the steps that would lead him down to the sand, to escape, to freedom. But then he realized . . .

He looked down and noted that his body was whole, unblemished, unbandaged, undamaged, unscarred, and that he was moving with an ease and strength that he had not felt in a very long time. Then he turned and looked back, to the spot where a slender, exquisitely beautiful body should have been standing, only to find a faint shimmer, as of a vision fading into nothingness, a pale shadow of a memory.


Fuck!

And he felt a sudden ridiculous urge to shout out his anger and his frustration - because he had been forced to confront what he did not want to see . . . and because now, he could see it no longer.

"Well," said a strange voice, almost droll, almost laughing, "they told me you were unconventional, but I had no idea I should take the warning so literally."

Brian stiffened and opened his eyes to find that he was still lying on his belly, with his face braced against his arms and his bare ass enjoying the sensual warmth of the sunlight, transitioning now to a very slight sting, thus fulfilling McClaren's snarky prophecy.

"You're late," he said to the not-so-young lady therapist in her smart suit and her sensible shoes, with a chic coif of salt and pepper hair and night-dark eyes. He gleaned all that in a quick glimpse, as he was not really interested enough to expend much energy in an evaluation of her appearance; she was, after all, not his type. He was also no more concerned with concealing his shitty attitude than hiding the perfect globes of his butt, although, if pressed, he would have been hard put to determine if he was angry because the woman had been late enough to allow him to fall asleep and drift into the dream he had not wanted to have, or if he was merely irritated that she had shown up when she did, interrupting his reluctant fantasy.

"Sorry," said the woman in a tone that held not a nuance of apology. "I didn't realize that I was expected."

"Well, you were." He saw no reason to try to fake an amiable attitude. "So, if it's not too much trouble, could you hand me my cane so I can get my sunburned ass out of harm's way?"

He twisted then and attempted to swing himself up, to get to his feet, but a sudden, piercing pain in his lower back caught him by surprise and forced him to give up the attempt and sink back against the chair cushions, as he bit his lip to control an urge to groan and indulge in a recitation of his extensive stock of colorful expletives. He put his head down and closed his eyes against the rise of tears, knowing, from past experience, that his only option was to ride it out, to wait for it to pass and . . .

The strong, capable hands that slid into place and gripped his lower back surprised him as did the immediate relief he felt when pressure was applied in exactly the right spot to ease his discomfort. Although he hadn't spared much attention to the woman who had interrupted his dream, she had not struck him as a particularly strong or resourceful individual, but he was glad to be proven wrong.

"Let's get you inside," she said, retrieving his cane and using her own body to leverage him up until he was able to stand, "and into some pants."

Despite his discomfort, he dredged up a grin. "Now that's a request I don't hear very often."

She let her eyes drift down his body, savoring the sight for just a moment, before flashing him a roguish smile. "I'm sure you don't, Honey, but I'm betting that you might be ready for a little pain management"

She nodded toward the small box on the table by the door as they moved into
the house. "Probably best to cover the family jewels before you light up."

He allowed her to help him to a seat on a sturdy massage table that McClaren had set up in the den during their first days in the beach house, and favored her with a smile that did not quite manage to disguise the degree of his discomfort.

"You don't have to pretend with me," she said firmly. "I know pain when I see it. Stretch out on that table and let's see if we can't fix you up."

"I thought you wanted me to put my pants on," he mumbled, holding his breath against the relentless throbbing in his back.

"I think I can restrain myself."

If he hadn't been so focused on riding out the waves of agony, he thought as he stretched out on his belly, he would probably have laughed at the wry quality of her comment.

But right now, he was too busy trying not to notice how much his frigging back was hurting. He shifted to arrange his limbs to ease the pressure on his spine but without much luck, and he was on the verge of voicing his impatience with her failure to step up and do something to alleviate the problem when he noticed a familiar and very welcome aroma in the air.

"Here you go," she said as she handed him the smoldering joint, tightly and expertly rolled.

He was quick to accept it and indulge himself in a long, deep inhalation, telling himself that it was ridiculous to think that his pain was easing up even as he exhaled, but that's how it felt, nonetheless.

"I thought you clinical types didn't appreciate the merits of a good toque," he said, reveling in the first warm surge of the forthcoming rush.

"I'm not - exactly - a clinical type," she volunteered in a tone that piqued his curiosity, but not enough to inspire him to question further, as she placed her hands against his shoulders and began a deep, penetrating massage to which he responded with an almost feline grace, like the luxuriation of a tabby under the strokes of a master's hand. He was, in fact, close to purring. In a matter of seconds, between the euphoria inspired by the excellent weed and the expertise of the hands working the kinks out of his muscles, he was virtually boneless with a pleasure so profound it was almost as satisfying as good sex.

Almost.

"Good stuff, huh?" she asked, as she noted how his body was relaxing under her efforts.

He sighed. "My source is very well connected."

"Medical supplier?"

"No. Law enforcement."

He did not notice that the woman made a funny little huffing sound as she continued to work on his back.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they?" she said after a while. "Why would anybody . . ."

"I'm a fag," he snapped. "For some people, that's enough."

She was slow to answer, as if thinking it over. "Did you just come out or something?" she asked finally. "I mean . . . why now? You go out of your way to piss somebody off?"

This time it was his turn to take his time in answering. "Maybe."

More silence as she continued to work on his back, and he continued to grow more and more relaxed. "It almost sounds as if you think you had it coming."

She expected him to deny it, to argue. But he didn't. He simply finished his joint, and concentrated on breathing through the last remnants of his pain.

Neither of them spoke for a while, until he turned his head and took a good look, for the first time, at the cut of the raw silk jacket she was wearing - pretty expensive threads for a physical therapist. If there was one thing Brian Kinney knew - aside from how to give and receive mind-blowing sex - it was labels. And he could smell Armani a mile away.

"Nice jacket," he said softly.

There was only the faintest beat of hesitation in her movements, but it was enough. For a man so recently and severely injured, he demonstrated remarkable prowess when he swung away from her touch and managed to get to his feet and put the massage table and several yards of space between them.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.

She smiled. "Well, finally. I was beginning to wonder if you possessed even a smidgen of survival instinct. You know, if I'd been an assassin - or just a thug bent on burglarizing your house and stealing whatever I could get my hands on - you'd probably be dead by now."

"No. He wouldn't."

Alexandra Corey spun around, her hand automatically reaching for the automatic weapon concealed in a shoulder holster under her jacket, only to find that she was already out-gunned, as she came face-to-face with Chris McClaren and his Beretta 92FS.

"Jesus, Chris!" she snapped. "You're lucky I didn't blow your head off."

He grinned. "You wouldn't do that. You've got way too much class to shoot first and ask questions later."

"So how long . . ."

"I saw you arrive," he interrupted, "so I circled around and came in the back. Didn't want to interrupt your cozy little assignation."

Her frown was almost stern enough to compensate for the faint twinkle in her eyes. "You do realize that, for some of our colleagues, the act of drawing a gun on me would be considered grounds for termination."

He grinned and spun the gun around to display the fact that the safety was still engaged and that the clip was missing, resting in his other hand. "Just pointing out that Brian wasn't the only one who wasn't paying attention."

She was not quite quick enough to cover up a tiny gasp of astonishment as she realized that he was right.

During this exchange, Brian was staring back and forth between the two agents, and neither of them had noticed, until the moment when they turned around to look at him when he took a step toward the door, that he was, by that time, engulfed in an almost visible aura of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Brian, what . . ."

"Shut the fuck up," snapped the man who was their sole reason for being here in the first place. "But first, you tell me who the fuck this is."

"Calm down," said McClaren. "This is my boss - the one I told you about. Alexandra Corey, meet . . ."

"Very funny. You guys are a real riot. Thanks so much for making me the butt of your joke."

So saying, Brian spun, grabbed a pair of sweat pants from a corner and struggled into them, before heading toward the door, moving much more quickly than either of his observers might have expected.

"Brian, wait. Let me . . ."

"Let you what?" Brian did not turn back to face them, but McClaren didn't have to see his expression to recognize the fury that filled his voice with shards of ice. "Help me? I think you've already helped plenty."

"Brian, I . . ."

"I thought . . . I could trust you." He paused for a fraction of a second at the door, the muscles in his back knotted with tension. "Thanks for reminding me of what I'd let myself forget."

And he was gone, through the door and out into the twilight that was now rapidly settling toward true darkness.

"Oh, shit!" McClaren lifted a trembling hand to rub the back of his neck. "Oh, shit!"

"Bit of a diva, isn't he?" asked Corey. "Maybe you should . . ."

"What I should have done," he snapped, "was remembered what I'm supposed to be doing here, and how hard it was to get him to trust me in the first place. Jesus, Alex, you have no idea what he's been through, what he's still going through. You think he's a diva? Shit! I think he's the bravest man I've ever known, and I don't think I could blame him if he never trusted me again. So don't assume you have the right . . ."

She lifted her hands to forestall the diatribe, and simply regarded him with thoughtful eyes. "In that case, why are you still standing here?"

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

He knew he could not expect to remain hidden for long. The moon was almost full, and it was a clear night, and the sand in which he sat was too white and sugary to provide much concealment. Still, he had settled in between a couple of small dunes, laced with tufts of sea grass, as much to achieve some measure of shelter from the night wind that was gusting in off the water as to obscure his presence.

For a little while, he had debated just walking away, just going on and on until he came to a place where he could lose himself in some coastal village or among groups of beachcombers. But that wouldn't really do him any good. Unless he wanted to risk exposure, being found.

He wasn't sure that wasn't exactly what he wanted.

But he also wasn't sure that it was.

He quickly rolled a new joint, glad that he had managed to snag both his stash and his IPOD as he'd raced out of the beach house. The warmth of the afternoon was slowly bleeding away into the darkness as he nestled more deeply into the sand, grateful for the residual heat it retained, and cupped his hands around the glow of the joint to take advantage of its tiny flare of light and heat.

Soon it would be too cold to stay here, but he didn't know if he could stand to go back to the house.

He felt like a fool. It was incongruous that Brian Kinney, the man who'd hardly ever granted his trust to anybody, had been so easily duped. By a handsome face, a sculptured body, and a fine, shapely ass.

Fuck!

It just didn't bear thinking about, so he didn't. He simply settled more deeply into his sandy niche and let himself float on the sweet alternative version of Coltrane's super mellow I'll Wait and Pray.

He didn't bother to look at his watch, but, by his estimation, it took about twenty minutes before he became aware of a dark, slender figure standing atop a shallow dune at his back.

Neither of them spoke for quite a while, and Brian didn't even bother to turn around and acknowledge the presence of the new arrival. But there was communication between them, nonetheless, as McClaren was obviously watching closely enough to notice when Brian began to shiver. He still didn't say anything, but he did move off into the darkness, returning a few minutes later carrying an armload of driftwood which he arranged in a shallow depression in the sand and managed to ignite using a handful of dry sea grass as kindling. Then he simply settled by the fire and turned to look at Brian. Just waiting.

Brian wanted to ignore him, to spurn his attention. But it was getting colder by the minute.

Finally, reluctantly, he scooted forward, getting just close enough to be able to appreciate the first faint flush of warmth.

They sat in silence again then, until it was painfully obvious that Brian was not going to speak. Not unless provoked sufficiently to make him do so.

"That was quite a little show," said McClaren finally. "She thinks you're a regular diva now."

Brian lit another toque - and said nothing. And offered nothing.

"She didn't set out to deceive you, you know."

Dark eyes narrowed then, and there was a spark of rage within them. "But you did."

"No, I . . ."

Brian shifted quickly, as if he meant to rise.

"Okay. Okay. I guess I . . . did. In a way."

Another deep inhalation, but the expression on that classically chiseled face did not seem to indicate any enjoyment of the sensations the smoke was providing.

"Can we . . . have a little truce between us? I'm sorry, Bri . . ."

"Sorry's bullshit. Sorry's what liars and losers offer up when their little schemes and tricks go sour."

McClaren paused to consider his answer, apparently really thinking about what Brian had said. "Mostly, I guess you're right. Sorry comes way too easily to the tongue, and maybe not at all to the heart."

Brian blinked, and the FBI agent felt a twinge of hope rise within him as he wondered if he'd actually glimpsed a quick, trace of a smile on those perfect lips - or if he'd just imagined it as a result of wishful thinking.

"That's very . . . poetic. But it's still bullshit."

McClaren was careful to swallow his own quick smile. "So are we going to . . ."

"Why is she here?"

The FBI agent was once again slow to answer, understanding that a lot was riding on how Brian reacted to what he had to say. "She needs to talk to you, to get your side of the story. To go over all the information she's gathered with you. And don't be fooled by that sweet, almost grandmotherly demeanor. She's tough and she's smart and she's intuitive. Not to mention she's the best profiler I've ever worked with. You'll like her, I think. Once you get beyond the suspicions."

This time, the response came quickly. "Bullshit!"

"What do you . . ."

Dark eyes glinted in the firelight, displaying amusement and a remarkable degree of awareness. "She's not here to profile the . . . unsubs." His lopsided smile conceded that the jargon felt strange on his lips. "She's here to profile me. I can read, you know, and I made a point of finding out about the so-called science of 'victimology'. Only . . ."

"Only what?"

"I don't much like the idea of being a case study. Not any more than I already am. You've already profiled me. I've seen your notes, so why . . ."

"You've seen . . . my notes?"

Another slow blink. "Of course I have. What? You thought I wouldn't look, when you left them lying around? It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how to access a PDA, you know"

"You really are an asshole." McClaren was suddenly on his feet, his fists clinched and his eyes a hard, frigid, glacial blue.

"Yeah. I am."

And just like that, the anger was gone as quickly as it had come, and the FBI agent dropped to his knees again and simply stared into his companion's eyes. For his part, Brian said nothing, but he did, after a long pause, lean forward and hand McClaren the stub of the still-smoking joint.

The FBI agent, acknowledging to himself that it was probably not a good idea, at this point, to risk a blurring of his mental processes, paused briefly before taking a deep drag and savoring the sweetness of the sensation as he stubbed the butt out in the sand. The silence stretched for a while before he decided to speak again. "I really am . . ."

"Yeah. You already said that. So what am I supposed to say? That it's all right? That I understand?" Hazel eyes met blue for the space of a heartbeat before turning to gaze out to sea. "Okay. It's all right. You were just doing your job."

If he'd been on his feet, McClaren was certain that he would have staggered - maybe even gone down - under the horrible weight of guilt and remorse that suddenly swept over him, as he was crushed under the epiphany of understanding what Brian was feeling.

"Jesus!" he whispered. "Is that what you really think? You think you're just a . . . job for me? Just an assignment? Just someone I get paid to watch over?"

Brian did not flinch - not even with the slow blink that sometimes gave him away. "What else am I supposed to think?"

In an explosion of motion, McClaren scurried forward across the sand until he was able to wrap his limbs around Brian, until they were skin-to-skin and sharing breath. "You really want to know what you should think?" he almost snarled. "Okay, then. How about this? How about the fact that I know that this whole strong-silent-type act is bullshit; that I know it's ripping you to pieces to turn your back on what you love the most? How about the fact that I understand what it takes for you to face each day, to take steps to make sure that the rest of your life is spent without the things - without the one thing - that means the most to you? How about the fact that I know how strong you are, and how brave you are? And above all, how about the fact that I understand that you know more about loving someone than any man I've ever met, and that you're willing to give up everything that you care about . . . just to keep him safe?"

This time, Brian blinked.

"And finally, how about the fact that I spend every hour of every day knowing that if I slip up, if I let myself get too close, too caught up in the enigma that's Brian Kinney, that I'll never be the same again? That I'll never be completely free of you. That I'll never find anything that could make me forget . . . this."

The kiss was, at first, so gentle, so tender, so intimate that it was barely felt. No more than a wisp of air, a whisper of sound, a breath.

It was his way of telling Brian that he could back away if he liked. That it might even be better if he did.

But it was already much too late, and Brian had been alone and hurt and lost for too long.

The kiss deepened, and soon it was a question of who was devouring whom, as mouths twisted against each other and tongues explored and bodies came together.

Nevertheless, for a moment, Brian was able to pull back, to stare deeply into eyes that were amazingly blue, although not the perfect crystal blue of memory. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, freshly-bruised lips twisting into a roguish smile. "Because if you're not, this would be the time to say so. Because it's going to be too damned late if you wait."

McClaren shifted and allowed his actions to answer for him as he shucked off his clothes and then carefully removed Brian's sweatpants before sitting back to enjoy the vision before him, a vision somehow enhanced by the traces of the damages inflicted on that perfect body, which would soon be perfect again. It somehow felt like a privilege to be allowed to see it, to taste it, to sample it now, before the healing was complete.

Then he smiled. "Fuck it. It was already too damned late the first time I saw you."

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

* Breathe - Stephanie Bentley

TBC

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