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

OK - as usual, I'm late.  I frequently feel like that infamous white rabbit.  But, if it counts for anything, this one is quite long, and covers a lot of territory.  Anyway, as always, my deepest thanks to my lovely readers, and special thanks to those who named my story one of their favorites.  Being a neophyte around here, I had no idea how one got listed in the Top Ten section, until readers much more knowledgable than I pointed it out to me.  You are all so very kind, and it really makes an author feel a sense of accomplishment to be greeted so generously.

I hope you will continue to enjoy the trip - which still promises to be very, very long.

CYN

Chapter 33


What lies behind you and what lies in front of you, pales in comparison to what lies inside of you. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

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


"This is as much for your benefit as ours." Alexandra Corey spoke with the kind of conviction that most people would have accepted without question.

Unfortunately - from her perspective - Brian Kinney was not most people.

He compressed his lips, not quite managing to suppress an impertinent smile. "How the hell do you figure that?"

She surprised him by offering a genuine grin - the kind that she very seldom allowed herself. "Because you're not content to be a victim," she answered, "and you know as well as I do that there's more there - locked up in your memories - than you've been able to access. It's not going to let you rest, until you know it all."

He was standing in front of the big bay window that looked out to the South, to where a series of dunes marched in haphazard order roughly parallel to the margins of the water until cutting sharply seaward to form a barrier and forcing the beach to take a jagged step back away from the open ocean, curving sharply into a sheltered inlet that just kissed a strip of dark, broken pebbles at the foot of a sheer headland. The wind was already rising, picking up droplets from the tumult of incoming breakers and dappling patterns of coins across the sculptured ripples of drifted sand that formed the crescent of beach at the leading edge of the water. The surf was mostly invisible from this angle, except where it crashed hard through the cove's opening and slammed against the slabs of stone at the base of the headland. It was not a particularly impressive visual display, except for those strange, almost timeless moments when the froth of the waves was caught by the oblique rays of sunlight and transformed into diamond brilliance that seemed to hover motionless on the threshold of perception, for the space of a heartbeat. Such moments, though stunning to the senses, were fleeting, but the sound of the waves hurling themselves against the stone was a deep-throated, perpetual rumble which provided an undercurrent for the occasional deeper roar of thunder rolling in from the open sea.

At this moment, the afternoon sunlight was still dominating the landscape, slanting in at oblique angles, but, in the vanguard of the approaching storm, it had taken on a hue like beaten gold, pouring down from a hard blue sky on the verge of receding before the towering thunderheads.

Brian had a momentary vision of how the landscape would look if captured on canvas - captured exquisitely by quick, decisive strokes -but he quickly dismissed the thought, before turning back to face his interrogator. "You want to see what's in here," he said firmly, lifting his hand to touch his temple with an index finger. "And I want to see . . . what's in there." His nod indicated the thick case file that was open on her desk. "All of it."

The FBI profiler sighed. "Brian, surely you don't expect me to . . ."

"Yes. I do."

She sat back in her chair and glared at him. "You have to know that there are rules about this sort of thing - rules that forbid allowing just anyone to . . . "

"But I'm not 'just anyone', am I?"

His smile was so completely self-satisfied that she had a momentary urge to stand up and slap him. But she didn't, because, no matter how much she might want to argue his contention, she knew that he was right. And she knew something else, as well - something that she was not yet ready to reveal. The truth was that the investigation still ongoing in Pittsburgh was turning up plenty of forensic and circumstantial evidence which would probably provide sufficient proof to indict and convict the thugs who had inflicted the horrible damage on Brian's body, but it was almost certain that the hired muscle would have little or no information about the identities of the movers and shakers who had started it all. Thus, it was uncertain if enough evidence could be amassed to assure that the men behind the attack - the power brokers who had planned and paid for it - could be brought to justice. It was still a big question mark, and, in the final analysis, it might turn out that only Brian himself could provide the proof necessary to see that justice was served. Forensic evidence might be damning, but, without his corroboration, it might not be enough, since only he had been there, on the scene, from the beginning, and only he might be the key to unlocking the whole story.

"The only way you're going to get full access," he continued, "is to grant it."

Alexandra took several moments to compose her answer, using the time to study the look in his eyes, trying to read something that she couldn't quite identify. "You really don't want to do this, do you?" she asked finally.

It was debatable which of them was more surprised when he responded with quick laughter. "What was your first clue?"

She shook her head. "I don't understand you, Brian."

"Join the crowd."

She leaned forward and clasped her hands tightly, and he immediately understood that it was an effort to suppress an impulse to reach out and shake him. "Why?" she demanded. "What's so objectionable about something that's only meant to help you?"

"According to you," he snapped. "But you hardly know me at all, Agent Corey. And you don't have the first clue what I need - what would really help me. What qualifies you to decide what I need?"

She pursed her lips and adjusted her reading glasses so that she could look over them to study his face. "You really think I don't know you, Brain? That I would come into this without learning who you are, and what your life has been like?''

"I'm sure you've checked out my files, but that doesn't mean you know . . ."

She lifted one hand, took a deep breath, and began to speak never once looking down at the file sitting in the center of her desk. "Born in Brooklyn, the younger of two children. Baptized Catholic, and took First Communion at St. Francis Cabrini at age eight, but were never confirmed. You were a premature baby and spent the first two weeks of your life in an incubator, but after that, you were remarkably healthy. Until you were five years old, when you contracted a severe case of pertussis and almost died of anaphylactic shock when they gave you erythromicin. You're also allergic to sulfa drugs and peanuts. At seven, you came down with scarlet fever which developed into pneumonia and landed you in the hospital for a week. You were small for your age until you hit a growth spurt at age nine, but you were always athletically gifted, especially in soccer and tennis. It was your love for soccer - and your skill - that got you a full scholarship at Penn, where you were MVP of the league in your junior and senior years, and second string All-American. You got excellent grades in high school, aced your SATs, and tested with an IQ of 148 during your sophomore year." She paused to smile up at him. "That's probably declined a bit over the years, but you're obviously a pretty smart cookie, although you certainly got in your share of trouble. Suspended twice in high school - once for breaking the hand of a jock/football player (in self-defense, or so you claimed) and once for getting into a brawl with two older students, during which you managed to break the nose of one of them, and black the other's eyes. Both of them. No excuses offered that time, but a little digging revealed that it happened just a couple of days after someone - never formally identified - put your best friend, Michael Novotny, in the hospital with a broken jaw. You were voted Most Handsome and Most Likely to Succeed in your senior year. Sexually active from age fourteen, and openly homosexual from about the same time, you had your first STD at age sixteen. Through the years, you had more than your share of . . . accidents. Broken clavicle - twice. Broken ribs, three times. Broken wrist, a couple of concussions, too many lacerations requiring stitches to count. The ER nurses got to know you pretty well, although they never did see much of your parents. You've been working pretty much non-stop since you were eight - first job at a neighborhood bowling alley. When you were nineteen, you got an offer for a modeling contract with the Bellinger Agency in New York - but you turned it down." She smiled again. "Probably because you preferred a career where you might actually have a shot at becoming the boss one day, rather than spend your life working for someone else. You speak fluent French, a smattering of Spanish and Italian, still play a mean game of tennis, and developed an intense interest in Oscar Wilde during your junior year - an interest that continues today, if the books on your shelves are any indication. You graduated cum laude, celebrated with a trip to Monte Carlo where you won over $12,000.00 at the craps table - in spite of the fact that you were only barely old enough to be in the casino legally at all - and spent a week-end locked up in a love-nest with a famous European film star. When you got back, you went to work for Ryder, after negotiating a salary package that was extraordinarily generous for a brand new college grad."

She paused and regarded him with raised eyebrows. "Is that detailed enough for you, or should I expand and discuss what I know about your work history, sexual partners, professional achievements, financial holdings, favorite music and literature, your mother, your father, your sister, your internet preferences, political affiliations, client list, preferred porn sites . . . "

Brian folded his lips into his mouth to suppress a smile. "Well, you certainly collected plenty of facts, but that doesn't mean that . . ."

"I'm a trained psychologist, Brian. The facts provide the foundation, but the rest . . . well, it's what I do."

"And I," he retorted, "have spent my whole life avoiding letting shrinks dig around in my head. It's one of the secrets of my success in life."

"Afraid of what I'll find?"

He grinned. "If I'm afraid of anything, it's that you'll manage to fuck up something that's worked perfectly well for me so far. I just don't see the need."

"Yes, you do."

"What? No, I . . ."

"Look, you arrogant, stubborn little prick! You think I don't understand what you've had to deal with all your life? You think I haven't done my homework? I've checked you out completely, Brian. Talked to everyone who ever had a major impact on you. Well, almost everyone. I deliberately avoided a couple of individuals because their views of you are so skewed by their feelings that I felt it best to wait til later to speak to them. But I know about your family, your circumstances, your history. From everything I've managed to put together, I know that your methods for handling all the shitty things that have been a part of your life have been remarkably successful. The fact that you survived it and managed to flourish in spite of it is astonishing. I'd give you a standing O - except for one thing. Whatever else your methods might have accomplished, they did not prepare you . . . for this. Dear God, there is nothing that could have prepared you for something like this! Not even for the mighty, invincible Brian Kinney."

She stood up then, so that they were on the same level, so that they were eye to eye. "You need help now, Brian, to find your way through this, and I can give you what you need. If you don't allow yourself to be helped . . ." She paused then, spotting a fleeting uncertainty flaring in his eyes. "Do you realize that you . . . flinch away from human contact now? That the only people who are allowed to get close to you - physically - are the people in this house? You even flinch away from Dr. Turnage, when he tries to check out how well you're healing. Oh, you're able to force yourself to allow him to do what he must, but your body goes completely rigid under his touch, and you almost stop breathing."

She sat back down then, and smiled up at him - a wistful, sad smile. "Is that how the Stud of Liberty Avenue intends to live out the rest of his life? Unable to allow anyone to get close enough to touch him?"

Brian's face had gone very still, his jaw-line rigid, as if set in stone. "You're wrong."

"No," said a voice from the doorway. "She's not."

Brian twisted quickly - so quickly that he almost lost his balance - and Chris McClaren leapt forward to lend a supporting hand. "You don't even know you're doing it," he said firmly, "but you do. We've all seen it."

Brian stiffened within the arms that were helping to hold him upright. "It's just that I don't particularly enjoy pain," he almost growled, before dredging up a smart-ass smirk. "S&M isn't my thing, and I get tired of being poked and prodded."

McClaren pulled back slightly to gaze into shadowed hazel eyes. "When we go to bed, you fall asleep in my arms," he whispered, "but then, during the night, you shrink away from me, and, if I attempt to pull you back, it's almost like you panic, like you're locked up in some kind of fight-or-flight reflex. And if I get too close, you . . . sometimes, you talk in your sleep."

What he did not say - and never would - was that it wasn't actually talking. It was more like a breathless cry for help, as if Brian was almost able to do in dreams what he had never learned how to do in reality - ask for mercy.

"I do not."

"Yes. You do."

Brian looked, for a moment, as if he might demand further clarification, but he didn't. Then he looked as if he wanted to argue - almost certainly would have argued with anyone else. But there was an elemental truth here that he could not afford to ignore. Whether he was happy about it or not, he truly had come to trust McClaren, and he couldn't afford to doubt him now. Unless he wanted to find himself finally, utterly, completely alone, he was running out of options.

"Shit!"

The two men stared at each other, and Alexandra Corey experienced the uncomfortable sensation of being completely invisible - and unnecessary.

"You need to do this, Brian," said McClaren, lifting one hand to caress a pale scar on Brian's forehead. "The simple truth is that nobody could endure what you have without carrying some kind of scars from it. And the only way to heal from it . . . is to let someone help you." Then he smiled - a gentle, self-deprecating smile. "You and I - we've worked out some of it together. Our fucking has been as much about therapy as physical need. But it can only take you so far. You need to be able to process it all - get it out of the shadows of your mind and into the open. For that - you need someone like Alex."

Brian huffed a little sigh. "Couldn't I just fuck your brains out?"

McClaren grinned. "Maybe later."

Alexandra Corey cleared her throat. "Would it be easier for you," she asked, "if Chris remained with you while we do this?"

Brian looked up to examine the expression on the face of the man who was currently warming his bed at night and guarding his back by day. "Only if he wants to."

It was as close as he could come to an admission of need.

McClaren frowned, but his eyes were twinkling. "I don't know . . . it would mean giving up my chance to watch Oprah and guzzle Margaritas. But I guess I can spare a few minutes - to help out a friend."

Brian smirked. "When did we get to be friends?"

"We've always been friends," McClaren whispered, softly enough so that only Brain could hear.

Something glinted then, deep in Brian's eyes - like light reflecting in the heart of an emerald - and McClaren was sure he was going to be ridiculed for a silly romantic notion. But in the end, Brian said nothing, letting a tiny, lopsided smile speak for him.

"Very well then," said Alexandra Corey firmly. Then she fixed McClaren with a solemn glare. "Just remember that you're only here to lend moral support. Silently."

Neither he nor Brian could completely suppress an urge to grin, but they managed to keep any smart comments to themselves.


"Sit down," she continued, gesturing toward the disreputable leather sofa, which was shabby and badly worn in spots, but still surprisingly comfortable.

"I'm not lying down . . . on your couch," said Brian, not quite pouting - but close.

"As you wish," she replied absently, obviously considering how to proceed. "I don't think it will make any difference."

"Meaning?"

She smiled. "Meaning that this whole thing might be a big waste of time. Either way, I don't think it's going to be easy."

"Meaning?" His voice was just slightly colored with growing impatience.

"Meaning that people respond to hypnotic induction methods in lots of different ways. Some succumb quite easily. Others . . ."

"Never succumb at all," he interrupted, a tiny smile touching his lips. "Care to speculate on which I might be?"

"I'd rather not," she answered. "If it works, it works, and if it doesn't, there's no point in wasting time on speculating. Now I just want you to . . ."

But he was lifting his hand to silence her, taking a quick glance at McClaren before speaking again. "Before we do this, I want to know . . . what - exactly - to expect."

She drew a deep breath. She had rather hoped to avoid that particular question, but realized that she should have known better. Brian Kinney was many, many things, but clueless wasn't among them. "I'm pretty sure you already know the answer to that," she said gently. "The only way to get to the truth - the whole truth - is to take you back to the scene of the crime. To make you remember it, exactly as it happened."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

She smiled. "No. You knew I was going to say that. Now, I'm not about to lie to you and tell you this isn't going to be a horrible experience. It is. You're going to re-see it - re-live it all. Except that you're not going to re-experience the physical pain. That we can avoid, but . . ."

He looked down at his clasped hands. "There are more kinds of pain than just the physical," he observed.

"Yes," she admitted. "There are. And that . . . I wish I could spare you that too. But I don't think it's possible, and, even if I could, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't resolve your problem. To bring it all out into the light - and put it behind you - you're going to have to open yourself up and let it surround you again."

When he didn't respond, except for drawing a deep, hoarse breath, she continued. "I'm sorry, Brian, but I don't think there's any other way. And, until you are able to pull it up and see it all, I don't think you'll be able to expel it from your mind - or your life."

He confined his response to a sharp nod, and she pretended not to see the gleam of apprehension in his eyes. Instead she took a moment to activate the video recorder set up on her desk. "Okay, now," she said when she had adjusted its settings, "I need you to relax."

And it was at that moment that he erupted into bright, ringing, beautiful laughter - the infectious kind that inspired and invited and compelled others to join in, and McClaren was quick to respond. Even Corey had to smile.

It didn't last long, but it did serve to ease some of the tension in the room.

"Maybe we need something to focus on," said Corey. She turned to the credenza behind her desk and retrieved a plain white, fat, unscented candle which she then ignited and set on the table in front of Brian.

He cocked one eyebrow. "You realize, of course, that you're indulging in the worst kind of cliché."

"Just stare into the flame," she replied, ignoring the sarcasm, "and let your mind drift."

Brian spent a moment thinking about where his mind would drift - if he let it. Then he decided that he should try to focus, and maybe - with a little luck - he would manage to live through what was ahead. He started slightly when he felt his right hand clasped by gentle fingers, and the ghosting of velvety lips against his palm, and realized that it had become a bit easier to relax, to let go of the apprehension . . . to breathe.

"That's very good," said Corey softly, as she rose and quietly closed the shutters that would effectively block out most of the exterior light from the room. "Now I want you to study the flame. Watch how it flickers as the air moves around it. Let go of everything else. Imagine that everything that might distract you is burning away - turning to ash. Just let it all go."

Brian sighed, and felt a slight shifting in his consciousness, a tugging that seemed to signify that he might be needed . . . elsewhere.

But of course, it would not be that easy.

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

An hour later, all three of the individuals sitting in the room were beginning to chafe at the bit - and to wonder if this whole thing had been an exercise in futility. Brian, of course, most of all.

"I am trying," he almost snarled, as Alexandra Corey leveled a cold gaze at him. "Did it ever occur to you that the problem might not be me? Maybe it's your technique that's not quite up to snuff."

Corey closed her eyes briefly, and Brian could see that her lips were moving, but she made no sound. It was the first time he'd ever wished he could read lips - but then again, he was probably better off not knowing what she was deliberately keeping to herself, especially since she was scheduled to go picking through his brain. If only they could find a way around whatever was blocking the process.

Corey sighed, and took a moment to reconsider their options. Then she looked up and studied the physical dynamic between her subject and his defender. "Okay," she said after a while, "let's try a different approach."

She stood up and moved to a cabinet in the corner of the room. When she returned, she set two high-ball glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel whiskey on the table in front of Brian, who responded with a characteristic smirk. "See?" he said to McClaren. "I told you it'd be better to get me drunk before the fucking. Although . . ." The lifted eyebrow came into play again. "I can think of a faster, easier way to achieve . . ."

"Don't push your luck," Corey replied. Although she had shown herself willing to overlook certain minor illegalities that might go on when her back was turned - figuratively speaking - she was not prepared to grant official sanction for them.

McClaren looked at the glasses; then he looked at her. "Two? Why two?"

"He needs to relax," she explained, "and he's used to drinking with you."

Brian's smirk had morphed into a grin. "Is this standard procedure?" he asked, reaching out to accept the drink she had poured for him.

"Nothing about you is standard," she answered, not quite muttering, forcing McClaren to turn away quickly to conceal the smile he could not quite suppress, as Brian tossed back the shot of rich, dark whiskey in one swallow.

She folded her hands again, and looked directly into Brian's eyes. "You've spent your whole life building walls around yourself. It's your defense mechanism, and it's allowed you to survive all the crap you've had to live through, but it makes it almost impossible for anyone else to get inside. Which is what we have to do, if this is going to work. At this point, I'm willing to try almost anything, short of dosing you up with LSD. Now, pour yourself another."

Thus, for the next half hour, the two men drank steadily, barely speaking at all in the beginning, as they were both painfully aware of being observed, although Corey did make some small attempt to leave them to their own devices by pushing away from her desk and retreating into a shadowed corner. Initially, it was an awkward situation, but gradually, as the alcohol started to take effect, they relaxed and began to feel more at ease and natural, and less like subjects under a microscope. At that point, stiff desultory remarks shifted into good-natured bickering which grew into easy conversation, resulting finally in a warm, comfortable blend of laughter, gentle irony, and sexual innuendo - the normal camaraderie that existed between them. They had begun their little mini-binge by sitting stiffly side by side, with no physical contact, but that had changed as the level of whiskey in the bottle declined, so that, fortified by a bit of liquid courage, they ultimately wound up sprawled back against the leather of the old sofa, with legs and bodies entwined, heads braced against the sofa's cushions and sometimes against each other. Corey, meanwhile, was content to watch, feeling only a bit guilty over indulging her curiosity about the dynamic that had managed to turn relative strangers into comfortable companions in a remarkably short period of time.

It astonished her to realize that they were, in some ways, perfectly matched, although she wasn't quite sure why she found it hard to believe - and even harder to accept. Some part of her insisted that they should have been polar opposites, with no common ground on which to meet, and yet there was no denying that the bond that connected them - though oddly constructed and slightly distorted - was solid and strong and filled with riffs of laughter, and that the camaraderie between them was lovely enough to inspire any casual observer to indulgent smiles and, just maybe, some small stir of jealousy.

When Brian reacted to a ribald remark from his companion with a sharp bark of laugher, and reached out with a tender hand to wipe away a drop of whiskey that had spilled from the corner of the FBI agent's mouth, there was a rumble of thunder out over the water followed by the sound of raindrops rattling against the window, a sound which created an illusion of privacy, of being secluded and sheltered from the rest of the world and its prying eyes. McClaren smiled, having by this time completely forgotten the shadowy presence of his boss and her place in the corner, and leaned forward to taste sculpted lips and savor the shared sweetness of the fine vintage whiskey, and Brian, never one to be bothered by an audience, lifted his hands to card through thick, auburn-tinted hair and tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to allow the exploration of his mouth by a talented, invasive tongue, while a gentle thumb traced the soft skin under his jaw-line.

Alexander Corey watched, and knew that she should be ashamed of indulging her inner voyeur; knew that she should stop this now, but it was unexpectedly difficult because she was suddenly, absolutely, completely certain that she had never witnessed anything quite so beautiful or so erotic in her entire life. So she waited, just one moment more. And then one more, but finally knew that she had put it off as long as she could, that the time was at hand. She did however allow herself a tiny smile, understanding that she should feel privileged to have been allowed to witness such a lovely moment.

"Brian," she said softly, her voice barely audible against the tympanic rhythm of the rain, "it's time to look into the candle flame now. Look into it, and feel the warmth around you. Feel the softness of the arms that hold you; feel the safety of this place, and know that you will always be safe here. Feel the tenderness that surrounds you like a blanket - and take it with you as you move closer to the flame."

For a split second, Brian wanted to resist, to protest, to throw her words back at her - to tell her how ridiculous she was. But then he did feel the warm arms that held him and the warm heart that beat so close to his own, and he did know, somehow, that this man would keep him safe - would go to the ends of the earth to do so, if necessary - and that it was all right to let himself slip easily into the shadows that were surrounding him - still dark, still filled with pale specters he did not really want to see, but not, perhaps, quite so ominous or intimidating as they had been before.

He felt the lovely curves of the lips that touched his throat, clinched his fingers around the hands that held him steady, took a deep breath, and looked into the flame that flickered in the wind . . . a soft warm wind, like the breath on his bare skin. Soft, gentle . . . cooling, growing stronger and brighter, touching him . . . drawing him in as his hands flexed and touched . . .

The voice seemed to emerge from the shadows around him, sound without body, so soft that he had to concentrate to hear . . . to obey. "You're stepping closer now, into the light of the flame, but it doesn't burn. And as you move into that light, you also move back in time. Back to that night. Back to the moments before the attack. You're going to hear my voice, and respond to it, no matter what else is happening, and when I call your name, you'll answer any question I ask. You will remember everything, every detail, but you will feel no pain. And when the memory is done, I will call you back, and you will return to this moment, this room."

Brian trembled briefly, and looked as if he might argue with her, but, in the end, he didn't, choosing instead to settle more comfortably within the circle of McClaren's arms.

Corey resumed speaking, her voice softening until it was almost lyrical, as if reciting the words of a lullabye. "You're moving more quickly now, away from the now and into what happened then. You remember the feel of the night air on your skin, the wind against your face as you race through dark city streets. Now . . . where are you?"

The powerful thrum of the big bike was a raw vibration between his legs - a reminder of the other kind of power that resided there - and he felt the frigid fingers of the night fighting to penetrate the supple leather of his jacket and the sturdy softness of his 501s. His hands gripped the handlebars of the Harley firmly, and he had a moment of confusion as he tried to reconcile the tactile memory of soft skin under his fingers and the warm cushion of his sturdy gloves. Something was not quite . . . Ahead of him - or above him, perhaps - a shadow seemed to loom, and he resisted an urge to swing away from . . . whatever it was that was waiting just beyond his range of vision. Just beyond . . .

The sensation was like flying . . . flying with . . . Hurry. The voice in his head rose from a low muttering to a primal scream - hurry, hurry, hurry, hurryhurryhurryhurry . . .

The darkness surged, and he understood that he had not - quite - hurried enough. Jumbled images, a kaleidoscope of sound and sensation, hands covering him - pulling, prodding, pummeling. . . voices rough and sharp . . . "and a pretty one too."


"Brian, where . . ."

Brian shifted abruptly, his body going stiff and jerking away from McClaren's touch, but his verbal response was no more than a breath, barely above a whisper. "Fighting . . . for my life."

The FBI agent opened his mouth, but was silenced by a quick look from his boss; still, he knew that his purpose for being in the room at all was to do what he'd been doing for weeks - to watch Brian's back, so he gave as good as he got and glared at her in return, willing her to understand his concerns.

It only took a moment for him to remind him of how good she was at her job as she picked up on the same details which had caused his alarm in the first place. "Take a deep breath, Brian," she said gently. "Breathe deep and easy. You will see it all, hear it all, and remember everything, but you are in no danger. You're perfectly safe, and you will feel no pain. Understand?"

He did not offer a verbal response, but he did draw a deep ragged breath, and the lines of his body relaxed slowly, allowing him to lean once more into McClaren's embrace.

. . . so many bodies, so much weight. Bearing him down, making it almost impossible to breathe. Heavy darkness, metallic odors, shifting shadows . . . "a night you'll never forget." Voices murmuring, laughing . . .

"Goodbye, Sunshine . . ." Being lifted and turned and slammed back against a hard surface. Fists and booted feet coming at him. Feeling the skin beneath his eye split and the warm gush of blood that erupted and ran down his face and flooded his mouth with its bitter copper taste. Strange - to see it, taste it, smell it . . . even feel it, but without the pain. What the fuck?

Shadows turning, coming at him, spittle in his face, the stench of bad breath, bits and pieces of words snarled. . ."not so pretty now" . . . "little fucker's got some pecs" . . . "more targets last time, but better like this" . . . "see the damage, up close and personal" . . ."want to eat my cock, pussy boy" . . . and the laughter, of course.


"They're laughing," he said in a strange, flat voice. "How does a man do something like this . . . and laugh about it?"

McClaren closed his eyes, barely able to process the depth of despair contained in those few words. Corey, more accustomed to dealing with such raw emotion - or just better at concealing her reaction to it - responded in a soothing monotone. "It's all right, Brain. When you're done here, you'll never have to deal with it again."

The time in the van - minutes, days, decades, no knowing which - had been a blur when it happened, but not this time. This time, he saw it all, experienced it all, and managed, after a time, to process it, understanding that it was all perfectly real, but that he, himself, was both there - and not there. He was a witness, sitting on his own shoulder - experiencing it all, reliving it all, but insulated from the agony of it. Only that, of course, was not quite true. He did not feel the physical pain, but nothing could protect him from feeling the despair, the fear . . . and the anger. Most of all.

Being dragged from the van, the rage within him almost strong enough to allow him to break free. Almost - but not quite - causing the anger to grow more profound, more intense . . . more determined.

Four figures - cloaked in deep shadow.

"Cowards!" He wanted to shout it out, to say it aloud, to express his contempt, but he couldn't, of course. Because he hadn't then. He felt a moment of regret for having missed out on the opportunity.


"Brian, tell me where you are, and what you see."

"I'm in the warehouse," he replied, his breath labored and harsh. "They're . . . tying me to the iron gate."

"How many are there?"

"Five around me. Four in the shadows. Two more near the doors."

"Can you see . . ."

"You jealous because I wouldn't suck your dick?" A surge of satisfaction, despite the staggering amount of damage to his body. The strange sensation of the big thug breaking his fingers, with no residual surge of pain.

" . . . you're still gonna scream before we're done."

More taunts, more punches, and a new voice, rising from the shadows. " . . . flaunting yourself . . . depraved lifestyle . . . decent people . . ." Something odd in that voice, something in the rhythm and pace of the diction that was almost . . . familiar.


"You need to tell us what you're seeing, Brian. Take us through what's happening, so we can . . ."

"They're getting ready to beat the shit out of me," he answered simply. "And they're telling me why I deserve it."

"One of the big bosses is talking now. He's . . . different from the others, somehow. More powerful, maybe. Or . . . more angry."

"Can you describe him?"

A pause and then, "No. He's just a shadow - tall, skinny, but his voice is . . . colder than the others. More filled with . . . hatred."

"Do you know him?"

McClaren had to fight to keep his breathing easy and silent, as he realized that this was a crucial question.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

A pause, and then, "Yes. I'm sure."

The worst, of course, was yet to come, following . . . "no one's ever going to think you're beautiful again." He would deal with it - had always somehow known he might have to deal with such a thing. The true beating began - chains and cables and straps - ribs breaking, knee smashed, blood pouring - all without a single nuance of physical pain. But, as he'd reminded someone - somewhere, there were other kinds of pain.

In spite of the fact that all he really wanted to do was close his eyes and shut it all out, he tried to take it all in - to see every detail, hear every word, even among the shadows who were so careful to reveal nothing of their faces. He had, after all, promised . . . somebody that he would do this. Although, if he ever remembered who it was, he thought he'd probably welcome the opportunity to beat the shit out of whoever it was.

More blows, more blood, more raucous laughter - and a murmur of words, faint, barely audible, coming from the shadows, accompanied by a sly chortle. " . . . hear that women fall all over themselves for him. Can you believe . . . " and ". . . more personal, isn't it? More immediately satisfying. Too bad we couldn't get close enough to watch them bleeding and dying last year. Except for Brad . . . ourse - lucky little shit. This makes up for it - a little."

But the rest of the conversation was lost beneath the curses of his attackers and the sounds of the impacts against his body.


He was flinching now within the circle of McClaren's arms, trying to twist away from the staggering power of assault after assault, and not quite successful at suppressing the moans and whimpers that rose in his throat, and McClaren, helpless to prevent anything or to protect his charge in any way, could not quite help feeling a surge of anger toward his boss, as she allowed this horror to continue.

" . . . Want to kiss my ass . . ."

"Fuck . . . you!" He was pretty sure that, in spite of the agony that he remembered, even if he couldn't actually feel it now, and the growing conclusion that his attackers were going to fall short in their attempt to spare his life in order to destroy it, nothing had ever felt quite so good as spitting out those two words.

Then came the blade, and he had to watch his skin split and peel back around it as the motherfucker carved shapes into his flesh, and the fact that he could not feel the pain did not, in any way, temper the instinctive need to pull free and run, to deny what his eyes were telling him.

Soft voice then, filled equally with vitriol . . . and satisfaction, just tinged with a trace of concern. "He needs to live . . . to suffer - to pay for his sins."


McClaren moved forward, wrapping his arms more securely around Brian as he noted that the man had gone stiff again, and begun to tremble. A glance at Corey told him that she had noticed as well, and that she was, perhaps, not quite so insulated from the man's ordeal as she'd tried to seem. Nevertheless, her eyes dared her subordinate to interfere.

"Go on, Brian," she said, without a trace of emotion. "Finish it."

"Time's up, Pretty Boy." The molten tip of the metal bar was close now, so close that he saw his skin begin to blister from the heat, close enough that he knew he might not be able to survive this ordeal - an ordeal like no other, in which an individual would come face-to-face with the deepest level of human depravity and know himself as its ultimate target , until . . . "your pretty little boytoy. You didn't really think we'd forget about him . . ."

And that was when Brian began to weep, tears pouring from his eyes although he didn't make a single sound as he was forced to confront the ultimate despair. It wasn't the physical pain that was beyond enduring; it was something much more intimate, a pain in the core of his being that nothing would ever be able to extinguish.

"Wake him up," McClaren demanded, barely able to keep his voice to a whisper. "He can't take . . ."

"He's stronger than you can imagine" Corey replied, never raising her voice, "and if he doesn't get through this now, he never will."

". . . the wages of sin." Laughter punctuated by the screams he could no longer resist.

A shout then, and figures racing through a doorway.

"Son of a bitch!"

And the red-hot iron bar was swinging toward his face, while everything else around him seemed to freeze for a split-second, as his eyes, barely able to see at all through the blood pooling around them, turned toward the shadow figures - the ones who had sat in their plush, Ivory tower-style offices or gathered together in their exclusive little private clubs and planned this atrocity down to the last vicious detail, comfortable in their assumption that God and public opinion were on their side, and hired willing participants to put it into motion. And, at the last possible instant, just as they were turning to make good their escape, hurrying back to their lives of privilege and immunity to the plight of the common man, a quick flicker of light touched them, and . . . he saw. Just before he could no longer see anything at all.


For a full minute, there was only silence, as neither Corey nor McClaren could figure out what to say or do.

"My fault." It was barely a whisper at first, but then Brian's voice strengthened, and he was repeating it, like some kind of mantra. "My fault, my fault, my fault, my fault . . ."

"What, Brian?" asked Corey, her eyes once more daring McClaren to intervene. "What's your fault?"

"Everything that's happened to him. Everything. It's always been my fault, because I was too fucking weak to let him go. Too fucking weak to stay away from him. It's always been my fault."

Corey had to take a minute to fight for her own composure, and resist an urge to stop this now. But she knew that this was important - not for the investigation, not for learning new facts that might lead to indictments and convictions. No. This was important, for Brian. "Go on."

The tears were still flowing, but Brian seemed to have shifted his focus, seemed to be looking inward, talking only to himself. "Do you know what it's like to watch helplessly . . . as someone tries to destroy the only person you've ever loved - knowing that you can't prevent it, and that it's all because of you? To sit there and feel his lifeblood draining out of his body, pouring over your hands? Can you imagine . . . what that's like?"

"Brian, what are you talking about? Justin's bashing? That wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. It was because of me that he got hurt. That Chris Hobbs bashed his skull. That he lost his chance at the kind of life he always wanted. That he almost got killed by a fucking bomb. That they want to hurt him now. All of it . . . has always been . . . my fault."

"Why would you think that?"

His voice broke then, as the anger and the bitterness drained away, leaving him empty and filled with the only emotion left to him - a deep, bottomless despair. "Because I always had to have it my way, and couldn't see that I was putting him at risk. Because I've never been good enough for him. He deserves - so much more than I could ever give him. It's always been . . . my fault."

Corey took a deep breath, even as McClaren realized that he himself seemed to have forgotten to do so as he'd listened to Brian's broken confession. "Brian, surely you don't really believe that. It doesn't even make sense. Why . . ."

And to the astonishment of his audience, Brian summoned up a pale replica of his trademark sardonic smile. "Story of my life, isn't it?"

The smile disappeared quickly, as if it had never existed, and his eyes were suddenly dark with dread. "I can't . . . do that again."

Moving quickly, McClaren grabbed a note pad and ballpoint off Corey's desk and scribbled a note on it, which he then tossed to his boss. She read the words he'd written, and then favored him with a quizzical look, obviously debating whether or not to proceed as he'd asked. But in the end, she proved that she trusted his judgment.

"When Agent McClaren observed that you trusted Justin Taylor, your response was, 'Yeah. And look where that got me.' What did you mean by that?"

Brian did not answer quickly - or easily, and McClaren, understanding that this might be the hardest question of all, moved closer and renewed the gentleness of his embrace. "He deserved my trust - all of it - and I gave it to him, but . . ."

"But?"

The reply was barely a whisper. "But what it got me was . . . having to stand still and watch him walk away. Knowing that it was the right thing for him to do - the thing I had to let him do."

Corey closed her eyes, once more struggling for composure. "You really believe that?"

"I more than believe it. I know it."

"Even though he loves you - with his whole heart."

Another pause, and a deep, shaky breath. "You can't love . . . what you don't know."

Chris McClaren was suddenly unable to draw breath, unable to bear another moment of the icy cold that gripped him. "That's enough," he said firmly, no longer concerned with whether or not his boss would approve of his actions, or what might happen to the investigation - concerned only with his primary purpose, the job he was charged to do. This was about protecting Brian Kinney, and he would risk everything to live up to that responsibility. "Wake him up."

"But . . ."

"Wake - him - up!"

Corey's eyes were suddenly huge, and filled with bright glints of anger. But she realized, as she met McClaren's dark gaze, that he was not going to back down, or allow his conclusion to be overridden. "You and I," she said coldly, "are going to have a talk - later."

"Fine, but now - you wake him up."

Her entire body was trembling as she turned away from his glare and looked once more at her subject, and . . . she faltered briefly, not quite able to ignore the deep, unmistakable look of sorrow on his face. "Brian," she said softly, "I'm going to count to three now, and you're going to awaken. You'll feel refreshed and renewed, as if you're just waking from a good night's sleep. You're going to recall everything that we've discussed, and all the details that you remembered, but experience no pain from any of it. Are you ready?"

"Yes." Barely a whisper.

"One - two . . . three."

Brian shifted roughly and opened his eyes to find McClaren's face just inches away, and the FBI agent saw a dark shimmer of emotion form deep in those hazel depths - but it was gone before he could even begin to identify it, and Brian was moving away from him, using his thumbs to wipe telltale droplets from his eyes, sitting up and watching Alexandra Corey move to open the shutters and reveal the storm that was raging beyond the window.

"Brian, are you . . ."

"Stockwell," he said firmly. "He was there. And Craig Taylor."

"Are you sure?" asked Corey, sinking back into her chair and regarding him with some small degree of skepticism.

He laughed, but it was shaky. "This was your idea. Are you going to doubt me now?"

"You didn't remember before," she pointed out.

"That's because I was too busy fighting to get away from a redhot iron bar," he retorted, "to pay attention. But I caught a glimpse of Stockwell, at the very end, as he was turning to run. I recognized his profile, and how he moved, and I recognized Taylor's voice - something he said while they were gloating over what was about to happen to me. I just never realized that the reason it sounded familiar was because the inflection, the timber of it, was almost like Justin's voice."

She nodded, and made some notes in her file. "Anything else?"

"I got a glimpse of another one of them - the one who talked the most - but I didn't recognize him. All I got was a quick look at his profile and a glimpse of silver hair."

"Would you know him if you saw him again?"

"Not sure," he admitted. "His face was still in shadow. Maybe."

"Okay," she said. "Is there . . ."

"One more thing," he said very softly. "A couple of random comments that might have been about the bombing at Babylon. Nothing definite, but . . . possible. And a name. Brad, I think. Or Bradley, maybe. Something like that."

"Just Brad?" asked McClaren. "Was that a first name, last name . . . what?"

But Brian was shaking his head. "I don't know, except that, whoever he is, he might have been around to get a close look at the bomb victims. Maybe. I don't know exactly what that meant."

"And the fourth man?"

"Nothing. Just a general impression that he was smaller than the others. That's all."

Then he stood up, swaying only a bit, before starting toward the door.

"Brian," called McClaren, "are you . . . all right?"

The sardonic smile came easily this time, but it was not reflected in dark, opaque eyes. "Why don't you tell me? The two of you have managed to expose my secret identity - so I should be an open book to you now. Right?"

Then he walked out of the room, and McClaren and Corey exchanged uneasy glances; it was left to the junior agent to voice what both were thinking.

"I think," he said slowly, "we just made the biggest fucking mistake of our lives."

"Chris," she answered, reverting to a professional demeanor, "no matter how difficult it was, he needed to do that - to face his demons."

McClaren's expression clearly reflected the degree of his disbelief. "His demons? Do you really believe he hasn't spent every day of his fucking life confronting those demons? You don't understand what just happened, Alex. Do you realize that he has never - never - spoken of those feelings of guilt before? To anyone. And now, he not only has to deal with an admission he never wanted to make, but he has to do so knowing that you and I were there to hear it. That the most private thing in his life is now . . . out there, under someone else's control. How does he know that we'll honor his wishes, preserve his privacy? We've made him vulnerable - and that's not something he knows how to deal with."

She looked bewildered. "But we wouldn't . . ."

"Right," he snapped. "And his history - with all the people in his life that he should have been able to trust - that's going to convince him that he has nothing to worry about. Right?"

Alexandra Corey sighed. "Damn it!"

McClaren nodded. "Precisely."

She offered him a weary smile. "He really does trust you, you know, so . . ."

But he was shaking his head. "Wrong tense, maybe. He really did trust me. Now I'm not so sure."

She turned to gaze out into the storm, which was still doing its worst. "If I'm right, he doesn't give his trust easily. And I doubt he takes it back quite so quickly either. Go talk to him."

He sighed. "Un-fucking-believable, isn't it? That a man like that - Jesus! - can believe that he's not good enough."

"Just proves that we're all vulnerable inside," she answered. "And you need to get to him quickly, before he sinks deeper into depression and decides that it's all your fault."

Her smile was only slightly venal, as they both knew who Brian would hold responsible, once he had time to think about it.

He lifted his hands to scrub at his face, already trying to figure out what to say in order to make Brian see reason. "That's not the only issue," he explained. "In a couple of hours, it's very possible that this whole shit is going to blow up in our faces. I know that you felt you were doing the right thing, agreeing to Ms. Whitney's request, but . . ."

Corey shrugged. "I thought he'd endured enough - paid enough. You don't agree?"

"You saw him," he retorted. "You saw what it means to him. I think it was presumptuous to make the decision for him, that he's the only one who has the right to decide what he wants to do. And if I lose his trust now - really lose it - there'll be no getting it back. He'll never let me get close to him again."

"You're not . . . afraid of him. Are you? You're an FBI agent, for Christ's sake."

He rolled his eyes. "And he's Brian Kinney, and if you think that's not enough to intimidate anybody - even an FBI agent - then excuse me, Ms. Corey, but you don't know shit."

He left her there then, with her mouth hanging open, wondering if any subordinate had ever spoken to her in such terms. She didn't wonder for long, for the answer was obvious.

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

"This okay? For you, I mean?" Matthew Keller was not accustomed to being out of his depth, but he had no experience in the protocols required for dealing with the preservation of undercover identities. For all he knew, sitting here at Woody's with the man who changed faces and names as easily as most people changed shirts was equivalent to playing with fire while sitting on a powder keg.

Jared Hilliard smiled. "It's fine," he replied. "Let me tell you a little secret. In regular undercover work - always barring shit like top secret, clandestine, CIA-type crap - the most important thing to remember is that people generally only see what they expect to see. And, for the most part, no one here at Woody's is going to be looking for a down-and-out homeless vet, so . . ."

"And Schmidt? Didn't he see you keeping company with that lab slimeball? Pisspotty - Peehole? Whatever the fuck his name is?"

The smile morphed into a grin. "Schmidt is so focused on Schmidt, and on his little Machiavellian manipulations, that he wouldn't notice if Johnny Depp walked in and performed a pole dance for him."

Keller blinked. "That's pretty focused," he remarked, not quite able to resist the visualization of that scene in his mind.

Hilliard nodded, and raised his beer glass. "To distraction - the undercover cop's best friend."

"That's very revealing," replied Keller. "That you still think of yourself as a cop, I mean."

A quick flicker of sadness in Hilliard's eyes was gone so quickly it was almost unnoticeable. Almost.

Keller lifted his hand and touched his companion's shoulder very gently, hoping that one day - sooner rather than later - he'd be privileged to hear the whole story. Then he smiled and drank. "I was beginning to think we were never going to get here," he observed, enjoying the view as Hilliard leaned forward and braced muscular arms on the table between them.

"You've been a busy boy."

Keller laughed. "Just your run-of-the-mill life and death emergencies." He took another sip of his beer before continuing. "I treated him once, you know."

"Who, Schmidt?" Hilliard asked, slightly confused by the change of subject.

"No. Johnny Depp."

It was Hilliard's turn to blink. "You're shitting me."

"Nope."

"So - how did that happen?"

"Film company was shooting in the area, and he took a spill on his bike. Scraped up one arm and shoulder - enough to need a few stitches. It was during my residency, and I was just finishing up an 18-hour shift when he walked in." His smile was semi-rueful. "First, I was sure I was hallucinating; then, I was sure that at the very least, he'd insist on having the medical chief of staff attend him. But he didn't. He just hopped up on the exam table and sat there, waiting for me to take care of his injury. Just like any Tom, Dick, or Harry off the street."

Blue eyes were suddenly bright with speculation. "Jesus! What was he like?"

The doctor thought for a moment. "Like sex in blue jeans. What do you think? I had a fucking boner for a week."

"Did he notice?"

Keller's eye-roll was a classic. "Have you ever tried to hide an erection in scrub pants? It can't be done. Of course, he noticed."

"And?"

"And he just smiled and sat there and let me stitch up the laceration on his arm. But when I was done, and he was leaving, he stopped, looked me straight in the eye, and kissed me. One quick kiss - gone almost before I had time to notice it. He tasted like spiced honey."

"No way."

"Yes, way." The surgeon grinned. "I was so stunned I almost walked into a wall, and the nurse that was assisting me was so intent on sneaking the suture needle that I used on him into her pocket and on not missing a second of watching him walk away that she knocked over a whole tray of sterilized instruments and managed to impale herself with a stainless steel Haris scalpel." The grin became a laugh. "It was pandemonium. When Brian heard about it, he didn't speak to me for a week."

Hilliard chuckled. "Let me guess. He wanted to meet Hollywood's bad boy."

"Meet him? Surely you know him better than that."

"But . . . Depp's not gay - right?"

Keller lowered his head and looked up at his companion through thick, dark lashes. "When it comes to Brian Kinney, I'm not entirely sure that anybody is one hundred per cent 'not gay'. At least, not then. Now . . . who really knows?"

"You really think he won't be . . ." He made quotation marks with his fingers . . . "the real 'Brian Kinney' again?"

"Doesn't matter what I think. It's what he thinks that will decide where he goes from here."

"Have you talked to him?"

Keller nodded. "Briefly. He didn't have much to say, except to tell me that I should quit worrying. But Turnage - Turnage is determined to live up to his reputation as a miracle worker. He assures me that Brian is going to be as good as new. Or better . . . except . . ."

"Except what?"

The doctor took another sip of beer. "Apparently, he's got it in his head that he wants to keep . . . a souvenir of what happened. A reminder of what vicious, cruel homophobes - people who hate him just because he's not like them - are capable of, so he never lets himself be vulnerable again."

"And you think that's what? Not healthy?"

Keller shrugged. "I just think it's a goddamned shame that those bastards are going to succeed in leaving their mark on a walking work of art. That's all."

Hilliard leaned forward, and traced a gentle fingertip across the doctor's jaw-line. "That's not all. You love him."

Green eyes were suddenly awash with shadows. "Hundreds - maybe even thousands - of people believe that they have Brian Kinney all figured out - that he's all about lust and fucking and getting his needs met and making people want him and laughing at the idea that he could ever need anyone, or love anyone. And the bottom line is that they don't know shit. In the whole world, there aren't a half-dozen people who really see the man that he is, beneath the façade. He's . . . he deserves so much more than he'll ever allow himself to have. And this - this is just going to confirm what he already believes. If somebody doesn't step in and stop him, he's going to just open his hand and . . . let go. Walk away from everything he's ever wanted."

"Because?"

The doctor sighed, and looked up to meet eyes that were perfectly, beautifully, impossible blue. "Because he's convinced that he's poison - that he destroys everything he touches - everything he loves. It's what he's always believed, although you'd never get most of the people who think they know him to understand that. And I don't know if there's anyone who can get through to him - make him see how wrong he is."

"Not even you?"

Keller laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Especially not me. He knows all too well that I can't possibly be objective. I love him too much."

Hilliard sipped at his beer, obviously considering options. "Then maybe," he said slowly, "he needs to hear it from someone who has no stake in him. Someone who doesn't love him at all."

But Keller was shaking his head. "No. I don't think so. If he's ever going to be able to accept it, I think it's going to have to come from the one person he can't completely reject. The person who owns his heart."

"Taylor?"

"Taylor," the doctor confirmed. Then he dredged up a tiny, lopsided smile. "Always assuming they don't kill each other first."

Hilliard did not offer an immediate, knee-jerk response, but appeared to be considering what Keller had said before speaking his mind, and the doctor was impressed by the man's obvious desire to understand the dynamic between Brian and his blonde. He was less impressed, however, when Hilliard pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter.

"Damn," he said softly, with a gesture toward the cigarette, "I thought you were smarter than the rest of us."

Hilliard grinned as he lit up and watched as Keller did the same. "Mr. Kinney and I often shared a smoke break, when he'd work late."

"Yeah, well, Mr. Kinney has this bizarre idea that he's immortal." Then he realized what he'd said, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "At least, he used to." He took a deep shaky breath and managed to dredge up a smile. "I once dragged him to an autopsy of a man who died of lung cancer."

"And how did he react?"

"Took one look, and excused himself to go have a cigarette. And I went with him. Little fucker was always . . . irresistible."

Hilliard leaned forward and laid his hand on the doctor's shoulder, sensing that the man was having a rough moment. "And invincible, huh?"

"Or so he believed. God!" Keller closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "More than anything, I want to believe that he'll regain that confidence." He smiled then, obviously embarrassed by his own vulnerability. "There was never anything quite as beautiful as a cocky, confidant, completely unintimidated Brian Kinney."

Hilliard nodded. "I may not have known him as long as you, or as well, but I do know that much."

They sat in silence for a while, sipping at their beers, and enjoying a strange, easy camaraderie, which neither could easily explain but both found comforting - and worthy of further exploration. When Hilliard's cell phone rang, and his boss's name appeared on its display, he was surprisingly reluctant to allow the interruption of something that he could not quite define. But he was too well-trained and too professional to ignore the call.

Keller went to fetch another round of beers as his companion listened to Mathis's summation of the latest report from the authorities - and from Brian's caretakers.

"Sure," he replied, when Mathis was done, "I'll check around. But it's a common name."

"What's up?" asked Keller as Hilliard disconnected.

The undercover operative hesitated for a moment, not completely certain of whether or not he could reveal what he'd heard. But then he realized - and rationalized - that there was virtually nothing about Brian Kinney that this man didn't already know, or couldn't find out with a simple phone call. "Brian's memories are . . . coming back."

Keller took a deep breath. "You mean somebody convinced him that he needed to relive it - to force him to remember it all."

"Yeah. That's about the size of it."

"Shit!"

"Yeah. It sucks."

"All in the name of 'justice', no doubt. Or truth."

Hilliard couldn't bring himself to argue, although he did feel compelled to posit an alternative. "Or maybe - just to help him put it in the past, where it belongs."

Keller's eyes were suddenly bright with speculation. "Uh, huh. And tell me - did this little excursion down Memory Lane produce some concrete results?"

Hilliard couldn't quite swallow a scapegrace smile. "Yeah. It did. He remembered two of the people who were there that night. And a couple of details that might - with a little luck - help us learn more. About the attack on him, and maybe even what happened at Babylon."

The physician took a big swallow of his beer. "Let me guess. You're going to go all professional on me now, and say that you can't reveal any more than that. That I'll just have to wait until everything becomes public."

"That's exactly what I should do."

Keller sat back and stretched his long, jeans-clad legs out in front of him, just brushing against Hilliard's ankle in the process, and offering a lazy, speculative smile. "And do you always do what you should?"

Hilliard laughed, a low, textured rumble. "I can see why you and Kinney never hooked up. You're too much alike."

Green eyes glinted with humor - and something else. "What makes you think we never . . . hooked up?"

Hilliard didn't so much as blink. "Because the Apocalypse hasn't happened yet."

The doctor erupted in bright laughter. "No - but it was close."

"So you two . . . did . . ."

"Do you really think I'm going to answer that?"

Hilliard took a long pull at his beer, and decided that, in spite of an incredibly intense spurt of curiosity, he was truly better off not knowing. So he ignored the question and returned to the previous subject. "Can you think of anyone named Brad, or Bradley maybe, who might have had access to the Babylon bomb victims? Up close and personal access?"

Keller smiled. "I think this comes under the heading of one hand washing the other."

"Meaning?"

The physician was quiet for a while, watching bubbles rise in his beer, but it was obvious that he was seeing something else entirely. "I saved his life, you know. Literally. Cut him open and stuck my hands into his body, in order to fix what was broken. And I have to admit that it felt fucking fabulous. To know that I was able to do that for him. For Brian, because . . ." He looked up and gazed straight into Hilliard's eyes, deliberately allowing the man to recognize the depth of his passion. "There's no way that I can explain what he means to me - or what we mean to each other. But I find now that I want to do more. It's not enough to be part of putting him back together."

"I'm not sure what . . ."

"I want to make sure that the motherfuckers who did this understand that they don't get to just walk away from it - that they know there are always consequences. I want to do something to make sure that it doesn't happen again - to anybody." His smile was slightly lopsided. "If this is the first volley in a war - and Brian was supposed to be the first casualty - then we all need to step up. To challenge the status quo and change things that have gone unchallenged for too fucking long. To demand justice."

Hilliard grinned, and took a moment to light another cigarette. "So you want to play soldier."

But the physician did not smile in return. "I'm not playing. I want in - on whatever it is you're doing. I want . . . no, I need to do this. I think maybe we all need to do this. Because . . . people like Brian have fought this battle alone for too damned long, not because they set out to make a big issue of it, but because they refuse to step aside, to hide themselves and apologize for being who they are. It's time the rest of us step up, and shoulder our share of the load. So I'm asking you to let me in."

Hilliard took his time to find the right words to offer in response. "I'm not exactly a free agent, you know. I take orders, so I can't promise anything specific. But I'll do what I can. Soooo . . . Brad?"

"You are kidding. Right?" Keller was shaking his head. "I can think of three Brads, a Bradley, and two Bradfords who work the nightshift at the hospital. And that's just off the cuff. No telling how many others might turn up. It's a common name."

Hilliard nodded. "Yeah. That's what I thought too. But still . . ."

A commotion at the door drew their attention then, and Keller didn't bother to try to suppress a smile. "I think your theory is about to be tested."

Hilliard shrugged, as he watched Melanie Marcus, Ted Schmidt and his live-in lover, Blake Wyzecki, hurry through the entrance and make their way to an adjacent table. "No worries, Mate, although, if you're really concerned, we could continue this someplace . . . more private."

Green eyes locked with blue, and there was no denying that both understood exactly what the undercover agent was suggesting.

Keller's hesitation was brief, but long enough for Hilliard to take notice. "Never mind," he said softly. "It was just a suggestion. Don't . . ."

"Your place - or mine?" asked Keller, quickly, swallowing the last of his misgivings. It had been a long time, he realized. Long enough.

"You sure?" Hilliard replied, not wanting to take advantage of a momentary weakness, and be wretchedly disappointed later.

Keller finished his beer, took a moment to peer into the depths of those incredible, cerulean eyes before leaning forward and claiming beautiful sculpted lips with a hungry kiss that allowed him to fully explore the mouth that opened to him.

The clamor and clatter that was as constant at Woody's as the smell of beer continued around them, but more than one pair of eyes paused in sweeping the room to take note of a sight that was not the least bit out of the ordinary at the most infamous gay bar in Pittsburgh; two guys kissing was simply di rigueur in this setting, but two guys like this - each defining hotness in his own particular way - that was worthy of notice, even here. Some eyes even seemed to mist over, filled with traces of nostalgia, with a haunting awareness of what had been so sadly lacking of late.

Brian Kinney, after all, had been missing from the scene for a very long time.

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


"Drinks are on me," Ted announced, taking a deep breath and making a deliberate decision to concentrate on the positive aspects of his life and ignore the less pleasant events of what had been a very long day.

Melanie regarded him with a raised eyebrow. "Are we celebrating?"

The accountant grinned. "It might be a little premature to say that, but, hey! I made it through another day of dealing with the Blonde Bimbo without resorting to driving a stake through her heart, so . . . I'm thinking that's a good enough reason."

Blake could not quite suppress a tiny sigh. "Teddie, I know that you feel that Cynthia is deliberately trying to drive a wedge between you and Brian, but . . . maybe she's just a little overwhelmed with everything that's happened, you know. Maybe she's just . . ."

He fell silent abruptly when he saw the shimmer of resentment rise in Ted's dark eyes. "I think I'm in a better position than you to know what she's up to. You don't even know her."

"That's true, but you have to admit that she must be under a lot of pressure, to step up and try to fill in for a man like Brian Kinney."

Ted's frown was almost a snarl. "As if she could - or should. And tomorrow, she's going to realize that she hasn't succeeded in fooling anyone - that we all see through her. I hope you're planning to come to the meeting - to lend your support. I know that you always want to see the best in people, Blake." There was just the faintest hint of condescension in that observation, but Blake managed - almost - to let it go unnoticed. "But take it from me when I tell you that you really don't know her.

"I don't pretend to know her," Blake said quietly, "but Brian does, and he must have had a reason for choosing her to . . ."

"Yes, and he's going to learn PDQ that he should have made better choices." The accountant sat back and watched droplets of condensation trickle down his bottle of tonic water and allowed himself just a moment to contemplate how it would feel when his moment of triumph was at hand, when he was able to lay it all out for Brian, to expose the degree of Cynthia's treachery, as well as the depth of his own brilliance in making Kinnetik - and its president - the most successful PR firm in the Midwest. Maybe even in the entire country. And all as a result of taking advantage of opportunities provided by knowing the right people and choosing the right moment to venture out into previously uncharted waters in order to seize the day.

Judging from what he'd seen and heard, he was relatively certain that his employer would never again be the old, flamboyantly beautiful Brian Kinney, the man that every gay boy wanted to grow up to be. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, and he was very careful to avoid analyzing his own emotional response to that assumption. Nevertheless, with the help of his devoted friend and financial advisor, Brian would be able to trade his prior stud status for something equally impressive - no, not equally. Actually more impressive, in that he would become a star in a different venue - a supernova in the world of finance - and Ted Schmidt would be able to assume a role for which he knew himself to be uniquely qualified: starmaker. He might not have the 'royal blood' or the resources to ever assume the throne himself, but he could be something just as majestic: the power behind it.

Brian would, of course, be eternally, deeply grateful, and Ted would gain the one thing for which he'd always hungered - the bottomless respect of friends, colleagues - and the Brian Kinneys of the world.

"Earth to Ted," said Melanie with a conspiratorial grin. "Weren't you the one that cautioned me about counting chickens?"

The accountant flashed her an embarrassed smile. "Sorry."

He looked up then, and was confronted with a sight that was stunning enough, and erotic enough, to cause him to lose his train of thought and feel a tightening in his groin. "Holy shit!" he said softly. "Get a load of that."

Blake, somewhat relieved at the prospect of a change of subject, turned to follow the direction of his gaze and uttered a soft, approving laugh. "Now there's a sight to lift the spirits," he observed.

"Hey," said Melanie, "isn't that Keller? Brian's best bud?"

Ted sniffed. "For now, maybe." Then his eyes narrowed as he identified the individual who was locked in a clinch with the physician. "That's Hilliard with him - one of our security people. I doubt Mathis - or Brian either - would be very happy with him putting on such a display."

It was Blake's turn to blink. "You think that Brian Kinney is going to be upset about a little PDA?"

Ted rolled his eyes. "Everybody knows that the rules are different when you're at the top of the peck . . ."

He fell silent as he felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket, and although he was initially annoyed by the interruption, he quickly changed his mind when he recognized the name of the caller.

"Marshall," he greeted, making sure to speak loudly enough for his companions to realize the identity - and importance - of his caller, "how's sunny . . . wherever-the-hell you are?"

"It's lovely, Ted," came the response, only slightly less than land-line perfect. "I actually decided to cut out early from the brokers' conference, and I'm en route to a private island in the South Pacific. Owned by one of our investors. A perfect place to get away from it all. I'm sure you know how exhausting it is when you're juggling funds and manipulating investment strategies in major financial markets."

"Well," Ted replied, flashing a modest smile for his friends, "not yet really. But I'm looking forward to wearing myself out - in pursuit of newer and ever greater profits."

"Of course, and well said." There was a beat of background noise then, and an indistinct murmur, leading Ted to realize that the financier was not alone - that someone else was listening in. "And speaking of investments, Teddie, I just got an email from our bank in the Caymans, to confirm receipt of your transfer. But there seems to be a problem. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, or perhaps it's a simple clerical error, but I thought you understood that the absolute minimum dollar amount required to take advantage of this opportunity is two million. The transfer, however, was for only $240,000. Now - because it's you, and because you're one of my oldest friends and I trust you implicitly, I went ahead and approved accepting the funds, on the assumption that the full amount is en route, but I must point out that you're running out of time."

"Wait a minute!" Ted sat up straight so abruptly that he knocked his water bottle to the floor. "What are you talking about? The total transfer was for $2,240,000.00. I checked on it myself just this morning."

Marshall Hargrave did not reply for several seconds, and once more, Ted could almost hear the voice that was speaking to the man at the other end of the wireless connection. Almost - but not quite. When Hargrave did resume speaking, he sounded amused. "Then I'm sure it must be a clerical error. Probably some pretty little clerk that isn't accustomed to dealing with major transactions of this nature. Still, in order to keep everything moving smoothly, we had to set a deadline on accepting these transfers, and there are only two days left before access is closed down. So . . . it's too late there to do anything about it today, but I strongly advise that you take immediate action in the morning to make sure you don't get locked out of the chance of a lifetime."

"I most certainly will," Ted replied firmly. "And thanks for letting me know. I guarantee that the balance of the funds will be in your hands tomorrow, well before your deadline, and whoever is responsible for this fuck-up will pay for their mistake, I promise you that."

Almost ten thousand miles away, aboard a 280-foot luxury yacht owned by a founding father of a major European crime syndicate and staffed by a crew of 40, Marshall Hargrave smiled up at his companion - a man who had been his partner in his financial intrigues and machinations for as long as he had been in business - and spoke into his sat-phone. "Oh, that's wonderful, Teddie. I knew I could count on you - and I'm absolutely certain that you will be instrumental in seeing that justice is served."

He hung up then, and flashed a thumbs-up to the group of men gathered in the yacht's exquisite dining salon, while glancing out toward the sun deck where a bevy of beautiful, world-famous, bikini-clad models were drinking Cosmos and awaiting the attention of their rich, powerful patrons. "And that," he said, lifting his glass of Dom Perignon, "should be that. The final two million - and may I just say that it couldn't have come from a more deserving investor."

The ugly laughter that erupted around the table was thick with contempt, saturated with malice, and filled with anticipation.

In Pittsburgh, Ted was trying - without much success - to control a rising surge of anger and planning ugly vengeance on whoever was responsible for the error in the funds transfer. Melanie, meanwhile, was enjoying her martini while indulging in a few moments of fantasy, visualizing her wife's gratitude and appreciation of the profits this little endeavor would generate.

But Blake . . . Blake was looking a bit uncertain, having picked up on something during the conversation - something . . . odd.

"Teddie," he said softly, knowing that he was about to step on a potential land mine, but compelled to speak anyway, "isn't this all just a little too . . . cloak and dagger, a little melodramatic? I mean I understand that you want to do this for Brian - to give him this incredible gift - but . . ."

"But what?" Ted was still simmering with irritation over the failed transfer of funds.

"But what if you're wrong? Wouldn't it be prudent to simply check with Brian - before you go through with this?"

Ted's eyes were suddenly filled with a hard, icy glint. "Prudent? Is that what I should be? Let me tell you something, Blake. I've spent my whole fucking life being prudent, and being ridiculed for it by men like Brian Kinney who don't even know the meaning of the word. Never once did I leap without looking a dozen times; never once taking even the slightest risk. And you know what it got me? Zilch. Zippo. A big fat zero. That's what my life has amounted to. Noth-ing! Well, not any more. This is my big chance - the opportunity to take my rightful place among the individuals who rule the financial world. To become a mover and shaker. And I deserve it; I always deserved it. But I was just never in the right place at the right time, with the right resources. Until now. This is my bonanza. My brass ring. My moment in the spotlight. Don't you understand? I don't want to be . . . prudent, any more."

Blake had actually opened his mouth to point out that a note of caution might still be in order, but closed it immediately when he noted that Ted's jaw was clenched with stony resolve. At this point, he concluded - rightfully - that any further protest would be futile. Thus, he was looking for another subject to broach, a diversion to redirect the conversation toward greener pastures, when he looked up and saw that Matt Keller and Jared Hilliard had finally pulled away from each other and risen to make their way out of the bar. On the way, they passed directly behind Ted, and it was just a matter of luck - whether good or bad yet to be determined - that Blake happened to be looking straight at Hilliard's face as the security officer glanced down at his fellow Kinnetik employee.

It was no secret that Hilliard's eyes were truly remarkable, due to the contrast of the brilliant blue against the dark bronze of his skin, but they were also remarkable for another reason; despite the man's ability to blend into the landscape around him - a much desired quality in his chosen profession - his eyes were exquisitely expressive, revealing thoughts and feelings with astonishing clarity at moments when he thought no one was looking or when he had no reason for shielding.

With that seemingly random observation, Blake was suddenly compelled to drop his gaze, wishing that he had not looked up to study the man's beautiful features and thus would have been spared noticing the shadows in those dramatic, jewel-toned eyes as the two maneuvered around the table. If he had not looked, he would not have zeroed in on the icy glints that sparked within that deep blue. But it was too late for that - too late to unsee what he had seen or to pretend to be uncertain of what it signified, for there was absolutely no doubt about the emotion glittering there.

Jared Hilliard was angry - coldly, bitterly angry - and something more. Angry - and scornful, perhaps. Yes. There was scorn in his eyes, but there was also an element of indelible sadness and disappointment.

Blake felt his throat go very dry, and gripped his glass of iced tea with hands that were suddenly damp and shaky as the two men made their exit.

What could have caused that deep resentment that Hilliard had not quite been able to conceal? What had gone through his mind as he'd looked down at Ted?

And why was Blake suddenly convinced that something was very, very wrong - and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it?



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

The rain had stopped as the sun dipped toward the horizon, and the sky was streaked with russet and crimson that reflected in the surf, turning whitecaps into a coral froth. At the edge of the deck, Chris McClaren stood and looked out across the rippled sand to where Brian was seated at the base of a low dune, staring out toward the sea where the first stars were etched against deep purple sky. He squinted a bit, trying to make out Brian's features and thinking to himself that the man's profile would be particularly beautiful washed with that rosy radiance. But there was actually nothing to see, as face and body remained swathed in shadow, shadow made even more impenetrable by the billow of smoke from the joint that Brian had just lit. His second of the night, or maybe his third. Nobody was really counting.

The FBI agent had tried to talk to Brian twice since the unsettling hypnosis session, but without success. Both times, he had approached the man with a soft voice and a gentle touch, only to be rejected by a cold stare and actual physical resistance. Both times, Brian had simply turned and walked away, without a word.

McClaren sighed, and turned to look back toward the cottage where Trina was finishing up dinner preparations, and Alexandra Corey was seated at the bar, working on something in a file and pretending that she was not really watching the clock.

They both knew that time was running out. They had been granted a bit of a reprieve when Toby had called and informed them that he had been unable to complete his errand, because of an unscheduled delay at the airport. But that reprieve was almost over at this hour, and McClaren took a deep breath, realizing that it truly was now - or not at all.

Squaring his shoulders, he walked down the steps and across the sand to kneel beside the silent young man who didn't even both to look up at his approach.

"Brian, I know . . ."

"Stop!"

McClaren blinked. Since Brian had not said a single word to him during his previous attempts to communicate, he supposed that this could be considered progress, except that he didn't have time to stop.

"I know you don't . . . '

Brian's exhalation was more an expression of impatience than a sigh of regret. "No. You don't know. And if you insist on talking to me like I was teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown - or as fragile as blown glass - then we have nothing to say to each other." He turned then, and allowed the FBI agent to read what was in his eyes - and to be surprised that it was not at all what he'd expected. "I don't do fragile. Don't you know that by now? And you two 'experts' have apparently put your heads together and decided that I suffered some kind of epiphany during that pathetic little fuck-fest this afternoon." Then he looked back toward the sea and took another drag from his toke. "That's the most ridiculous crap I've ever heard."

He sat up then, bracing his arms across his knees, and stared at McClaren with a sardonic grin. "What? You think I learned something that I didn't already know?"

McClaren shrugged, settling in closer to Brian and welcoming the contact of bare skin to skin - a contact he had not been entirely sure he would ever be allowed to experience again. "You remembered things about the night of the attack. Things that you'd forgotten."

Brian's eyes were suddenly darker, thick of memory. "Remembering isn't learning."

"But . . ."

Brian leaned forward then, and stilled McClaren's lips in the most direct, effective way. Then he pulled back and regarded the agent's face with a smile, obviously enjoying the view.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking that never speaking of something is the same as not knowing it." He took a deep breath. "I've always known the truth."

"You're talking about Justin," said McClaren, not yet willing to let go of his argument. "But you can't really . . ."

"Yes. I can. Really." Brian's voice had gone cold and sharp, and contained more than a hint of a warning. "And it's not anything I want to discuss with you."

"Okay. Then - if you want to put it behind us, so that we never bring it up again, make me understand it. Make me see why you feel responsible for everything that happened to him."

"I've got a better idea. Why don't we just fuck - and forget everything else?"

"If it doesn't bother you, why are you dodging the question?"

Brian gave a classic eye-roll. "What part of 'I don't want to talk to you about this', do you not understand?"

"Brian, I know that you think the world revolves around you. But not even you can be so egocentric that you think you caused the things that happened to Justin."

Brian huffed an impatient sigh, and fell silent for a moment, once more staring out to sea. But he finally began to speak, and McClaren was forced to listen very carefully since his voice was very soft. "You're a big, strong guy. Able to defend yourself. Probably a good fighter. Right?"

McClaren, completely bewildered by the comments, could only nod, and watch the shadows move deep in Brian's eyes as he turned back to study the FBI agent's expression. "Given all that, I should probably be afraid of you. Do you think I am?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because you know me. You know that I wouldn't . . .:

"That may be true, but it's not why I'm not afraid of you."

McClaren frowned, struggling to follow Brian's reasoning but only getting more confused. "Then why?"

"Because I'm not afraid of anybody. It's how I learned to deal with the shit in my life. I trained myself to be strong enough, angry enough - defiant enough - to face up to anything, anybody. I even learned how to fight, to defend myself by whatever means were necessary. Even if it meant fighting dirty, and I do. Fight dirty, I mean. When I have to. I was very young when I decided that I'd had enough of being victimized, and I set out to make myself invincible."

"Nobody's invincible, Brian."

Brian shrugged. "Maybe, but it's the image that counts. Just like in everything else. I learned to wear the attitude - to walk the walk, as they say, so nobody would have the balls to take me on. And while it's true that I go to the gym regularly because I'm a fag who wants to look good, I also go for another reason." His smile took on an almost sinister quality. "I'm a lot stronger than you'd imagine, and I know how to take care of myself." An odd flicker of emotion crossed his face then, and he folded his lips into his mouth to cover a trace of embarrassment. "Except for those rare, inconvenient moments when I get jumped by a dozen Neanderthals with blades and guns and iron bars."

McClaren settled back against the dune, leaning slightly so that his shoulder was braced against Brian's side, and helped himself to a deep drag from Brian's joint. "Okay," he said finally. "So you're a tough, cocky, scrappy fag. How does that make you responsible for what happened to Justin?"

Hazel eyes were suddenly midnight dark, almost opaque. "I let myself forget that it was just an image. I let myself buy into my own bullshit, and believe that I could protect myself . . . and everybody else that I cared about. And worse than that, I made him believe it too. And then, I - shit - I guess I lost my mind or something, and let myself get sucked into his romantic little fantasy, with some kind of notion that we could spit in the faces of the fuckers that tried to convince him that he was a hopeless pervert just because he . . .'

"Ahhh," sighed McClaren. "And that's the bottom line, isn't it? They despised him and condemned him . . . because he loved you."

Brian shifted away and refused to meet the FBI agent's gaze. "He doesn't love me. Why the fuck would he love me, when every bad thing that's happened to him has been because of me? He almost . . . died because . . ."

"He would have," McClaren interrupted. "If not for you, he would have died there in that parking garage. You do know that, don't you? Along with all this other bullshit that you've adopted as gospel, you have surely realized that Dobbs, or Hobbs, or who-the-fuck-ever - would not have walked away and left him alive to identify his attacker. I've read the police reports, Brian, and there's no doubt that if you hadn't been there, that motherfucker would have finished what he started, and Justin would have died."

Brian managed to get to his feet without resorting to using his cane to push himself up. "And if I hadn't been there in the first place, it would never have happened at all."

Acting on nothing but pure instinct, McClaren reached up and grabbed Brian's arm and jerked him back down beside him, neither one of them sparing a thought to how such a maneuver might affect his injuries. Later, the FBI agent would be grateful that the only sign of physical discomfort Brian allowed himself was a soft "Oof!" as he landed.

"What? You're God now? The All-powerful Kinney is able to look into the hearts and minds of lesser mortals? I told you that I read the police reports, but now I have to wonder . . . did you read them? Especially the part about Justin giving the little fucker a handjob after school one day. Did you read that? And surely someone as smart - as brilliant as you - the Mighty Kinney - knows that there's nothing that terrifies a homophobic prick more than any tiny little notion that maybe - just maybe - he's not quite as hetero as he wants everyone to believe."

Very deliberately, McClaren reached out and braced his hands on either side of Brian's face, forcing him to turn and meet his eyes. "He didn't attack Justin because of what you did. He attacked him because of what Justin did - and because he realized that Justin saw that the big, bad, hetero jock had loved having his willie whacked by a piece of blonde boy-ass."

For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, and McClaren sensed that this was a pivotal moment - that Brian's reaction here would set the tone for everything that came later. They would be friends - or they would not - depending on what happened how.

"You do realize," said Brian slowly, "that the only reason you're making perfect sense is because I'm stoned to the gills."

McClaren laughed, helped himself to another deep drag, before claiming that luscious mouth and sharing the hit.

Brian drew back, and smiled, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "We're done with this. Okay?"

The FBI agent sighed. "We are, only . . ." He debated just spitting it all out - dropping the other shoe - but ultimately decided against it. Still, he felt compelled to reinforce what he'd been trying to say. "Just remember . . . while it's true that you and I would never have met if this weren't my job, and might never have been friends, even if we had met . . . I think we are friends now. And friends - sometimes they screw up and make bad choices, but generally . . . they mean well. I have your back, Brian. Even when you're mad enough to spit nails at me - or vice versa. I hope you'll keep that in mind."

Brian bit his lip, studying his companion's face and trying to figure out what it was that insisted on raising a red flag in his mind. "That sounds suspiciously like a preface to an apology," he remarked. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

The hesitation this time was very brief, but still noticeable for a man as perceptive as Brian Kinney. Nevertheless, when McClaren replied with a simple headshake, emphasized by eyes that quickly looked away, Brian decided to allow the evasion - for now.

"Okay, you two," called Trina Thomas as she finished setting the patio table for dinner for four. "Time to decide if you're going to make a meal of each other - in which case, give me a minute to fetch a chair so I can make myself comfortable for the show - or you're going to be blown away with my most famous culinary masterpiece, which poor clueless, unsophisticated souls might classify with a plebian name like Crabmeat Remoulade, never knowing that they're discussing something so extraordinary that it should be identified as food for the gods."

"Modest," remarked Brian drily, "isn't she?"

But, as it turned out, he was forced to eat his words, and admit that Trina was, indeed, modest, as the crab cakes, dripping with an incredibly rich and delectable cream sauce with a unique taste that not even Alexandra Corey - who had dined in some of the most elegant locations in the world - could identify, proved to be every bit as spectacular as she'd claimed.

And, exactly as she'd intended, Trina's beautifully prepared meal had served to further defuse the tension that had been crackling around the cottage's three primary residents all day, so that when Brian looked up from his empty plate, and favored her with a scapegrace smile, she felt an unexpected stir of warmth in her heart.

"Ruint, huh?" he asked, eyes glinting topaz in the flicker of the flames of the hurricane candles on the table.

"Ruint," she answered, raising her wineglass to him.

"How about you come back to Pittsburgh with me?" he asked, surprising himself by making an offer he hadn't really intended to make.

Trina laughed - a rich, infectious rumble. "Are you proposing to me, young Mr. Kinney?"

And Brian laughed too - an easy, comfortable sound that caused the two FBI agents to exchange soft, wistful smiles. Both realized that it was a sound they hadn't heard often, and would like to hear more frequently.

"Hey," said Brian, retrieving his iPod from a nearby shelf where it had been providing a selection of soft classic rock as a perfect background for their meal. "I think I've got the perfect thing for . . ." He spent a moment scanning through the menu, looking for what he wanted. Then he smiled.

"Yeah, perfect," he said with a grin, and watched as Trina's face reflected his own smug satisfaction as the first notes of the song sounded.

Brian stood up, and both Corey and McClaren noticed that he was becoming less dependent on his cane with every passing hour, as he stepped forward and took Trina's hand. "May I have this dance?" he laughed.

Trina Thomas was a big woman. Kind-hearted individuals would have described her as buxom, or statuesque, perhaps. The less tactful would simply have called her fat. But for all that, she was surprisingly graceful and light on her feet, and she accepted Brian's invitation with a bright grin. Still, given his recent injuries, his ability to maneuver her form to the rhythm of the music should have been compromised, at least, but somehow, it wasn't. They moved easily together, laughing over some shared, private comment.

McClaren was thoroughly enjoying the view, noting how the warm light reflected from the lamps inside the house picked up the bright hues of the tropical beach dress that was her trademark fashion, and highlighted the beautiful lines of Brian's face and body while obscuring the scars he still bore. He glanced over at Alexandra Corey and suspected that she was thinking the same thing, as the music played on.

Red, red wine,
It's up to you . . .
*

The music and the dance went on, but the two FBI agents suddenly went very still, barely breathing, as both heard the sound of a car pulling up out front, and the slam of its doors.

Brian, meanwhile, managed to spin Trina under his lifted arm, only staggering a little, apparently oblivious of the eyes that followed him so eagerly. Although, thought McClaren, that was probably just an illusion; he was pretty sure that Brian Kinney always knew when he was being watched - and enjoyed the effect he had on the watchers.

Only this time . . .

Brian spun his partner again, but a flicker of light from the candles caught a peculiar expression on his face, as the lyrics reached a particularly poignant moment.

I was wrong,
And I find
Just one thing makes me forget . . ."


A faint shuffle of sound, footsteps on sand, and then a voice - deadpan, determined not to laugh, but filled with such joy that it was almost overwhelming. "Well, I see some things never change. You still can't dance for shit."

And for one single moment, the entire world seemed to pause in its spin as time ceased to exist.

Brian turned, very slowly, and Chris McClaren made certain to stay focused on that exquisite face. He didn't need to look at Justin Taylor to know that the smile the young man wore was almost incandescent, spoke of love that could never be denied, of a heart reaching out, filled with the purest, most undeniable happiness imaginable. That went without saying.

But it was Brian's expression he had to see - Brian's reaction to what he could not have anticipated.

And he saw it.

Only for a moment, gone almost before it could register: Brian Kinney - open, naked, exposed, and unshielded.

And he felt something that he had never realized he would feel. In that fleeting second, he knew what it was to be heartbroken, to yearn for something he would never have.

For that one tiny frozen moment in time, it was pure, undiluted love that he saw in Brian's eyes - the kind of love that only the rare few are ever privileged to feel, and even fewer privileged to be the focus of.

He had never realized that he hungered for such a thing, and he understood immediately that he would have been better off never knowing.

Brian Kinney would only and ever love one man like that. It was in his eyes, written on his face, etched into every line of his body, and wrapped all around him like a cloak he would never succeed in shedding.

It was there . . . and it was gone, and in its place loomed a towering, frightening surge of pure rage.

And through it all, incredibly, Justin Taylor kept smiling.

TBC


* Red, Red Wine - Neil Diamond

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