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

Sorry for the delay, Dear readers.  More medical stuff that had to be addressed, but I think now it's all taken care of.  Anyway, more exploration of the re-alignment of the dynamics between B&J, and a bit more revealed about the investigation.  We're still a number of chapters away from any kind of resolution, and I sincerly hope I'm not boring the stuffing out of anyone because I can never say anything in one word when three will say it better (which is the gospel according to Me. :))

Anyway, here we go, and I hope it pleases, and another big thank you for those who name me and my mega-long story as a favorite.  All I can say is you're really, really patient and generous.

CYN

Some are like water, Some are like the heat,
Some are melodies, Some are the beat,
Sooner or later they'll all be gone,
Why don't they stay on?
It's hard to get without a cause.
I don't want to perish like a fading voice.
Youth is like diamonds in the sun,
And diamonds are forever.
So many adventures couldn't happen today,
So many songs that we forgot to play,
So many dreams swimming out in the blue.
Let them come true.
Forever young, I want to be forever young.
Do you really want to live forever?

Forever Young
--- Marion Gold, Bernhard Lloyd, Frank Mertens

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


It was so rare that he could barely manage to concede that it was happening at all. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time it had happened, and he wasn't particularly anxious to do so anyway.

He would have denied it, but there was little point, since the near-black eyes which were boring into him like twin diamond drills saw it anyway, whether he chose to acknowledge it or not.

Brian Kinney was . . . squirming.

The woman who stood looking down at him was obviously not in the mood to brook any argument. "I did not spend all day in the kitchen, slaving away over a hot stove in an effort to create a new, signature Trina Thomas piece de resistance just to have you dribble some nonsense about 'no carbs after seven'. Besides, this . . ." She held out a plate bearing a tower of chocolate confection, dripping with a glossy praline sauce, and crowned with a thick swirl of mocha . . . "hardly qualifies as 'carbs'. That's like calling Joe Montana 'a quarterback' - accurate enough, but ridiculously understated."

"Trina," he said wearily, "I'm not . . ."

Very deliberately, she leaned forward and covered his mouth with her hand. "He'll be back," she said softly. "You know he will."

He pulled away, frowning. "Maybe. For a while."

She straightened up and regarded him with a speculative gaze. "You know what?" she said finally. "I don't know if I should be surprised - or just comforted - to see that fags and dykes - your words, not mine - can be just as stupid and screwed up as the rest of us. Are you really that blind, Brian? Do you really not know how he feels about you?"

"I do know," he retorted. "I always have, but . . . it was never enough before. Why should it be enough now?"

She shrugged. "Maybe because he almost lost you - for good."

He looked up at her, and she almost recoiled from the glint of anger in those spectacular eyes. "Oh, that's a comfort. So I can use this whole shitty, fucked-up mess to bind him to me - to hold him prisoner. To scare him into staying by my side instead of doing whatever he might really want to do."

But if he thought that he would intimidate this woman into backing down and retreating before his obvious annoyance, he was very much mistaken. "And what is it," she demanded, "that you think he might want to do - more than he wants to be with you, that is?"

He shrugged. "The idea was always for him to become the next Andy Warhol."

"Aaah!" she replied with a nod. "The next Warhol. Pardon me for pointing out what would seem obvious - to me, at least - but Warhol is dead and gone, and biographers speculate that he wasn't a particularly happy man. Genius maybe - but lonely, cynical, and basically unfulfilled. His art didn't seem to bring him much joy. Is that really what you want for Justin?"

"It's not about what I might want for him. It's about what he wants for himself."

To his surprise, she laughed. "For someone who thinks he's so smart, you are one dumb little asshole! You need to step outside your own, narrow preconceptions, and take a good look at your young man, Mr. Kinney. All he wants - all he's ever really wanted - is you. He's just waiting for you to show him that it's what you want too."

"But what if . . ."

She leaned forward and dropped the plate, piled high with the sinfully delectable, splendidly redolent dessert, into his lap. "Hasn't anybody ever told you," she said softly, "that you think too much? Stop thinking about what you should do - for him - and start doing what you need to do - for both of you.

"Now shut up . . . and eat."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but ultimately, he didn't. Instead, he shut up - and ate - and Trina, looking extremely satisfied with herself, left him to his contemplation - and his chocolate concoction.

Ten minutes later, Chris McClaren appeared out of the darkness, his hair and shirt still damp from the raindrops that were falling now only in random spates, accompanied by ragged gusts of night wind.

Brian, trying without success to resist licking his spoon to capture the last tiny trace of mocha frosting, barely managed to keep his mouth shut and not ask the question that was trembling on his lips and written in his eyes.

The FBI agent paused at the edge of the deck and spent a moment looking out to sea, his profile limned briefly by the sweep of the lighthouse beacon which seemed, somehow, brighter in the aftermath of the storm.

"It's up to him now," he announced finally, before turning to look down at Brian, "and you. The two of you - together - because neither one of you can do it alone."

Brian hesitated, setting his plate aside and reaching for a cigarette - lost in thought. Finally, he looked up, and McClaren wondered - not for the first time - how anyone could claim to know this man and not see the ordeals he endured, many of them self-inflicted. "Was he . . . all right?" Brian asked finally.

McClaren huffed a deep breath. "Depends on how you define 'all right', I guess. He's a strong young man, but he's . . . damaged goods, Brian. Just like you."

Brian winced, but did not try to deny the conclusion. "And how do I . . . fix the damage?"

"You don't. Because you didn't cause it, although I'm pretty sure you won't ever manage to believe that. Still, the only thing that will fix it is to move forward, to do what the two of you need to do to build a life together. That's the only thing that will fix either one of you."

"But what if . . ."

"Shit! Stop thinking, Brian. And start doing."

Brian blinked. When, he wondered, had he - Brian Kinney, the legendary poker-faced Stud of Liberty Avenue - become so fucking transparent?

McClaren moved forward abruptly, and leaned down to capture Brian's lips in a quick, hot kiss, taking advantage of the opportunity to sweep his tongue into the honeyed warmth of that addictively-sensual mouth, now enhanced by the rich sweetness of chocolate. Then he stepped back and smiled. "Don't fuck it up, Bud. You've got a real chance here - to grab the brass ring. Don't be stupid, and let it just slip through your fingers."

Brian looked up, and surprised a fleeting look in dark blue eyes - a look that might have betrayed a flicker of lost hope, of a mask being firmly set once more in place. "Chris," he whispered, "I . . ."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

The smile was shaky, but only for the space of a heartbeat. "You know what."

And, of course, he did know. Just as he knew how unkind it would be to try to repair what could not be mended.

"Where is he?"

"He'll be along. Let him come to you."

Brian looked out toward the ocean, and saw the moon edging out from beneath the clouds that had obscured its brightness during the storm. "Then what?"

The FBI agent shrugged. "What? You want me to write the script for you? Fuck that, Brian. From here on out, you're on your own."

Brian nodded, and opened his mouth to express his thanks for McClaren's intervention, but, in the end, he didn't, knowing there was no way to verbalize what was in his heart, and knowing that the man would not want to hear it anyway.

"Just don't fuck around all night," the FBI agent cautioned. "Remember that your kid will be here bright and early in the morning - and probably won't be particularly happy if you're too fucked out to play with him - and we have an appointment at the federal judge's chambers in the afternoon, so they can take your deposition."

Brian sighed, warmed by the reminder that Gus would be with him the next day - but not so happy about the prospect of having to relive his nightmare again, in the presence of a whole new group of spectators. He didn't like playing the part of a victim, even when he was the victim.

McClaren saw and understood the conflict in the man's face, but knew there was no comfort he could offer that would do any good. Instead, he simply laid his hand once more on a broad, strong shoulder before walking away.

And he disappeared into the house, never once looking back. Not, at least, until he was safely inside where Brian could not see him. At that point, he did look back - looking his fill. Storing up memories for the time which would come soon enough. The time when Brian Kinney would become just a name in a file, just a subject of an investigation.

Just someone he used to know.

He sighed. Yeah, right!

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


Of course, he was waiting. It only made sense that he would be. And not only that he'd be waiting, but that he'd be looking so completely smoking hot, so completely Brian-Kinney incredible that he could have ended any blossoming discussion with a gesture as simple as a lifted hand or the curl of a lip.

But he didn't.

He just stood there, at the edge of the deck - prime Brian in black wifebeater and well-worn 501's. No shoes or socks, of course. No belt. No fresh shave, so the chin and cheeks were slightly stubbled - and perfectly beautiful. Just the way Justin preferred him.

Some small part of the younger man wished that he would make the peremptory gesture. Would simply open his arms and sweep away every question, every trace of doubt.

But he didn't.

No gesture; no questions; no words. He just stood there and waited, as self-contained and fundamentally cool as he'd always been.

Only maybe not . . . quite.

Brian continued to stand motionless, watching as Justin approached slowly while trying to identify the faint trace of emotion on his lover's face.

His Brian - quintessentially, perfectly, uniquely his, in a way that no one else could ever be, and in a guise that no one else would ever . . .

Later, when he remembered that revelatory moment, he would try to deny the power of the thought that struck him, try to reshape the memory to ignore the fact that his knees almost buckled under him and he almost fell, staggered by an epiphany that was so primal, so fundamental, that he would never understand why he hadn't seen it before.

It couldn't be that simple . . . could it? And if it was, how could he face it? How would he restructure his thinking if he'd been wrong all this time? And, above all, how could he have been so monumentally stupid?

He paused on the step below the deck, and tilted his head to look up - way up - to meet the gaze of the dark eyes that regarded him with a pale glint of speculation.

"Do you still blame yourself for my bashing?"

Brian's eyes went wide. So . . . no warm-up period allowed, but straight to the heart of the matter. The only question was . . . how to respond.

He thought for a minute about what McClaren had said to him; then he recalled the comments of Trina Thomas.

Was it truly time to drop the masks? To let Justin see the man beneath the façade, and hope against hope that he would still find that man . . . worth loving.

Brian looked away from the brilliant eyes which seemed to be penetrating all the way down into his soul, and spent a moment gazing out to sea. His answer, when he worked up the courage to give it, was curt. "Yes."

Justin was not nearly so reticent. "Even though you know it wasn't your fault?"

Brian's smile was slightly mocking. "And how would I know that? Because you told me so? Do you really think that changed anything?"

"But it wasn't . . ."

Brian lifted one hand, palm forward and looked down, gazing directly into the depths of bright blue eyes, and making a conscious effort to hide nothing, to resist ducking behind the mask. "You can slice it and dice it any way you choose, but the elementary truth is that if I hadn't given in - hadn't gone to your prom and taken you out on that dance floor and shoved what we were in their faces - Hobbs would never have gone after you."

"You don't know that."

Brian lifted his arms and draped them across Justin's shoulders and leaned forward to brace his forehead against the cap of bright golden hair. "Yes. I do."

"No, you . . ."

"What? Now you're the expert on guilt? All of a sudden you think you know . . ."

"I know this." Justin laid his hand across Brian's mouth. "If that night hadn't happened, we wouldn't be standing here like this now. It was all part of what made us who we are - Brian and Justin. No longer you and me . . . but us. And if I could go back and change anything - anything at all - I wouldn't. Because this is worth whatever we had to go through to get here."

"Stop!" Brian's voice was sharp with bitter anger, hard, almost brittle. "Don't be fucking stupid. What you went through . . . if I could go back, could wipe that night out, I would. I'd do anything to take it back, to make it not . . . "

"Don't I have the right . . ."

"No!" It was a primal scream, something that burst from the depths of his core carrying all the weight of the memory that had never died, never even faded to something less than immediate, unbearable pain. "Because . . . you weren't there. You didn't have to stand there and watch your life bleeding out of you - helpless and lost and so, so sorry. So sure that you were going to die, and that I'd never get the chance to tell you . . ."

"To tell me what?"

Brian was suddenly fighting to breathe, fighting to regain some tiny semblance of control, and the tears were upon him then, overwhelming any possibility of holding back, or refusing to let the weakness be seen. "To tell you . . . that I'd have given anything - anything - for it to have been me lying there instead of you. That you never deserved it and I . . ."

"You thought you did."

Brian did not answer, but his silence was confirmation enough.

"And now?" Justin's voice was hoarse, thick with tears he refused to shed.

"What about now?" Brian lifted his hand and cupped Justin's face with aching gentleness.

"Do you think that I deserve to feel guilty over what happened to you?"

"No, but it's not the same thing."

"Does it even matter?"

For the first time, a faint gleam of speculative interest flared in dark hazel eyes. "What do you mean?"

Justin stepped up onto the deck and moved to the seating area, drawing Brian along behind him, so that, when he sank into the cushions of the old lounge chair, his companion was pulled down with him, and they settled naturally into the positions that they always assumed when seeking comfort and closeness, with Brian cradling Justin in his arms and looking down into that exquisite face and Justin having access to the warm sensuality of the perfect skin in the soft recess under Brian's jaw, where he proceeded to bury his face and inhale the essence of Brian Kinney - sweat and smoke and musk and maleness. Nothing sweet or delicate or perfumed about it - but perfect just the same.

"I mean," he said finally, comforted by the sensation of having breathed Brian into his body, and looking up so that they were staring directly into each other's eyes, "that whether you're right or wrong - or I am - we have got to find a way to put it aside. Or we lose everything, Brian. Everything. Because, when you let go of all the bullshit, all that matters . . . is us. And you need to understand that. There are other things in my life that I love; other people that I care about, but, in the middle of my heart, the place that is at the center of my being, there's only you. If I were to learn tomorrow that I could never paint another stroke, it would hurt me, okay? I would miss it - terribly. But I could live with it, as long as I knew that every day of my life would be another day shared with you. That's the bottom line. That's what matters. But if we don't find a way to rid ourselves of this guilt, then someday - sooner or later - the load will be too heavy for us to stand, and we're going to pay a price that neither one of us will be able to endure. We're going to lose each other. And that, I can't do. Anything else, Brian; I can deal with anything else, no matter how bad it gets. But I - can't - lose - you. Do you understand me?"

"Justin, I . . ."

"Please, don't." It was just a whisper. "Please don't give me reasons, or practical rationalizing, or all the ten thousand logical explanations of why we have to analyze it to death. Because we don't. There is no analyzing this - no way to explain it or understand it. There is no logical reason why we feel what we feel. But we feel it, just the same. We love each other, Brian. Doesn't matter if it makes sense; doesn't matter if it's logical. It's right - just because that's the way it is. Please. For once in your life, don't try to figure it out. Just . . . let it be."

Brian could not quite stifle a grin. "You sound like a fucking Beatles song."

"Yeah, well, Lennon and McCartney had it right all along, didn't they? In the end, all we really need is love - yours for me, and mine for you - to keep us forever young and beautiful, as long as we're together. Right?"

"If you start singing, this conversation is over." The light in Brian's eyes was brilliant, not to mention exquisitely perfect, and Justin could only grin.

Brian twisted and propped himself on one elbow, tracing a gentle finger down the side of Justin's face. "I never wanted this, you know," he said softly. "In fact, it's what I didn't want - more than anything, because I couldn't let myself believe in it. I never wanted anybody to be able to . . . touch me, to reach inside and expose what lives way down in the darkness there." He drew a deep breath, and looked up, not wanting Justin to see the shadows rising in his eyes, as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Sometimes, I hated you for that - for not taking no for an answer, for making me feel things I never intended to feel. Sometimes, I still hate you for that - almost as much as I love you for it."

He looked down then, quickly enough to glimpse the rapid surge of pain in Justin's eyes, and he was sorry to have caused it, but, somehow, he wasn't sorry to have revealed the truth. It was something that needed saying. So he apologized in the only way possible - the patented Brian Kinney way - without a word. No regrets, no excuses, no apologies, but the touch of his lips said it all.

Justin's smile was achingly tender. "So . . . are you saying that you were wrong? That you learned to believe in something that you never believed in before?"

That sensually perfect mouth went very still, before twisting into a characteristic smirk. "Have we met, you and I? I'm Brian Kinney - in case you were wondering."

Justin laughed softly. "Okay. Conceding that you're still you and some things will never change, I think I have to point out that, sometimes, things do. People do. People sometimes stumble across things - important things. My granny used to call them 'Come-to-Jesus moments' And I think I just had one."

Brian, who was concentrating on trailing his fingers through the silken softness of a mop of blond hair, went very still as something moved deep in his eyes. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," said Justin with a huge sigh, "that I owe somebody a debt of gratitude that I'm never going to be able to repay - and I get the distinct feeling that he's never going to let me forget it. I'm going to be paying for a long, long time."

"Sounds like my kind of guy."

The mischief in the depths of Justin's eyes was suddenly submerged beneath something else - something slightly brooding, maybe even a little uncertain. "That's a part of what I learned," he admitted.

"What the fuck are you . . ."

"Your friend," Justin interrupted. "Your 'McFed'. I think he just did me the biggest favor of my fucking life, and I'm pretty sure it was the last thing he really wanted to do."

Brian frowned. "What did he tell you?"

Justin wriggled slightly, settling more deeply against the faded cushions of the lounge. "That's just it. He didn't tell me anything - exactly. He just left it out there, for me to figure out on my own." His eyes were suddenly huge and filled with a tender glow. "And I realize that it was the only way I was ever going to understand. If he'd just told me - if anybody had just told me - I wouldn't have believed. I had to find it for myself. And I did. I saw what I've never been willing to see before, and . . . it changes everything, Brian."

"If you're about to launch into a bunch of existentialist mumbo-jumbo, just save . . ."

It was uncertain which of them was more surprised when Justin surged upward, twisting his body and pulling Brian down and to the side at the same time, so that when it was done, it was the tall brunette who was lying on his back looking up into starlit eyes, and the smiling blond who was gazing down at him.

"You might not like this," Justin whispered, leaning forward then and taking a moment to trace the outline of Brian's ear with the tip of his tongue, "so why don't we . . . do it . . . Kinney-style?"

Brian settled easily on his back, shifting to pull Justin closer and better align the twin bulges in their groins, smiling to note that - no matter how serious the discussion - some things truly never changed. "So far . . . what's not to like?"

Another minute was spent with Justin exploring the downy softness between Brian's jaw and his clavicle, with tongue and lips and teeth. Then he sat up and wrapped his fingers in the hem of the wifebeater, to pull it up to expose the sculpted shape of beautifully toned pecs and obliques, but his eyes were once more locked with Brian's, seeking clues to the thoughts behind the beautiful face. "Have you ever wondered why I left you so many times?"

And there was no way of refusing to see or recognize the quick billowing of cold shadows forming in hazel depths, as Brian struggled to reposition the mask of invincibility.

"No," Justin said quickly, once more leaning in - this time to taste and nip at lips that had gone stern and motionless. And he kept on tasting and nibbling and licking until they softened beneath his efforts and began to respond. "I need to say this," he whispered, "and you need to hear it. Every time I left you - even the first time, when I ran off with Ethan - it was because I managed to convince myself that you'd wait for me. That you'd always be there to take me back. I didn't even realize that I was doing it, but I was."

Brian shifted, and the jerkiness of the movement was adequate warning that he had not liked what he was hearing, that anger was stirring inside him. But Justin was determined to have his say, to get this ugly dark secret out into the open air where it could never harm them again. So he set about soothing Brian again, with lips and fingertips and tongue and a hand that splayed across a silken chest before inching down and slipping inside the waistband of jeans now growing too tight for comfort.

"And the reason I was able to do that," he whispered, "was because I assumed that you - being Brian Kinney - were never going to let anyone else get close enough to see you as anything other than the asshole you always played." Another kiss, and the hand descended lower, now caressing the taut skin of the belly and just brushing against the dark curls forming a perfect silky frame around the cock that was rapidly surging to rampant fullness. "The Stud of Liberty Avenue; the player that nobody was ever going to be allowed to know - that nobody was ever going to want to love, because everybody knew, from the get-go, that Kinney, the Great and Powerful, didn't do love. So they'd fight to get close enough to get fucked by you - to suck you, to rim you, to let you invade their bodies, to let you use them, to experience the ultimate goal of mind-blowing sex with the fuck-master - but the idea of loving you - of even knowing you - nobody was ever going to even consider it. You were never going to let anybody else touch the man behind the mask. And something in me knew that - counted on that. Used that."

He leaned forward again and traced a wet trail down across nipples and pecs and paused to explore the dark crater of the navel. "I managed to convince myself that you would always be there. That because nobody else would ever figure out who you really were, or see the man behind the shit-head image, that I could always come back and pick up right where we left off. Because I knew the truth, you know. Even before you ever said it; even before you managed to admit it to yourself. I knew you loved me . . . and I used it, Brian. I used it to build myself a safety net. Something to catch me, whenever I fell."

He moved again, to shift downward, but this time the rock-hard arm that circled him held him motionless, and the look in the eyes that stared up at him was stern and relentless. "So," said Brian, and Justin almost recoiled from the coldness in his tone, "is that what this is, little twat? Did you need catching . . . again?"

Justin managed to dredge up a tiny smile. "I think I'll always need you to catch me, but . . . it's not the same thing. Because - thank you, Jesus! - I've finally seen the whole truth. No matter how much you might have tried to avoid it, tried to hold people at arm's length and never let anybody in, there were always going to be those who were smart enough and perceptive enough and determined enough, to fight their way through. To find and understand and recognize the man inside. It was just dumb, blind luck that it never happened before. McClaren - he showed me that. If I just go along, assuming that you'll always be there for me - because nobody else is going to fight for you or want you . . . or love you . . . then I'm going to be the one to wake up one day, and find that my safety net is just gone, that somebody managed to come along and roll it up and walk away with it, while I was busy fucking around with shit that, in the end, didn't matter at all."

Brian shifted, and leaned up, his face as still as if carved from stone, eyes brilliant with a fury that was fierce enough to strike fear in most mere mortals. "Which means what . . . exactly?"

But Justin remained unperturbed, unintimidated, and fearless, and pushed Brian back down in order to once more begin his exploration of that not quite perfect - yet - body, with tongue and lips and hands, moving to grip the bulge at Brian's crotch and begin a slow easy slide to foster further hardness, further growth. Brian managed - barely - to avoid groaning, and to maintain the demanding expression on his face.

"Which means," Justin whispered, "no more games. No more stupid assumptions. No more relying on blind luck." He sat up then and braced his hands against Brian's shoulders, while managing, at the same time, to grind his hardness against Brian's, casually re-emphasizing their most fundamental connection to each other. There was a deep, unlimited passion in his eyes as he stared down at the face that was almost painful to behold in its beauty, and in the vulnerability it had never revealed before this moment. "Which means that - from this day forward - you belong to me, Brian Kinney. And I will fight for you, to my last breath, no matter who tries to get in my way. Even if it's you." He leaned forward then, and took Brian's lips in a scalding kiss, before pulling back just enough to whisper. "Marriage or no marriage. Vows or no vows. Commitment or no commitment. Doesn't matter. From this day - until the day that you no longer want me - you are mine!"

Brian went very still, and his eyes were as opaque as emeralds in the darkness, so dark that Justin could read nothing in them - no light, no love, no joy, no anger . . . nothing. Until there was a faint stirring, a glimmer that was not unlike the first, pale precursor of dawning, accompanied by a faint sigh, preliminary to . . . Brian pushed up then, using his size and strength to unseat his small but wiry companion and tilt him to his side until they were lying face-to-face, with virtually no space between them as Brian's hands came to rest framing Justin's face, but lightly, as if he feared that his touch might cause injury.

"Have I ever told you," he said softly, "how beautiful you are? You're . . . a miracle, Justin. You . . . breathe life into me." He smiled then, obviously embarrassed by such a lesbianic admission, and a tiny glint of mischief flared in his eyes. "My own personal little fountain of youth." But the mischief - and the sardonic tone of voice - was gone quickly, as he paused and moved to touch his lips against Justin's eyes, first one and then the other, with aching gentleness. "You make me believe in something . . . beyond myself. Something I never knew existed, until you."

Justin pulled back slightly, and lifted his hand to run it through dark, silky locks. "And the guilt?"

Brian sighed. "It's a part of me."

"But . . ."

Brian pulled his young lover closer, until Justin's face was buried in the natural niche of his throat. "I am what I am, Justin. I tried to change for you once before, and look where that got us."

Justin lay still, content to feel Brian's breath caress the silkiness of his hair. "But I don't want you to be miserable. I don't want you to mourn because you think you hurt me."

Brian smiled. "There's a simple remedy for that."

The blond pulled back then, sensing that this was important and needing to watch the expression on Brian's face to understand it. This mattered. "Like what?"

Brian went very still and waited until Justin was looking directly into his eyes, the windows - according to the poets - of his soul. "Just stay with me," he said, very softly but very deliberately. "That's all."

Justin didn't bother trying to conceal the tears that sprang to his eyes as he threaded his fingers through Brian's and brought their joined hands to his mouth. "We fight together," he whispered. "For each other. With each other. Side by side, against all comers. No more letting anyone else decide what's right for us, or dictate what we should do or how we should act or what we need. Right?"

Brian shrugged. "Unless . . ."

But Justin was not buying it. "Right?" he repeated, more urgently, while nibbling at the base of Brian's thumb, almost hard enough to hurt.

The tall brunette grinned. "Bossy little shit, aren't you?"

At that, to Brian's surprise - and the dismay of his cock which was, by this time, very hard, very hot, and feeling very deprived - Justin leapt to his feet. "Come with me," he laughed, "and I'll show you bossy."

"Justin," Brian said quickly, rising with only a tiny nuance of unsteadiness to detract from his usual easy grace. "Wait. If we're going to do this, if it's really time to lay all our cards on the table, then you have to hear it all."

Justin closed his eyes, and wanted - more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life - to refuse to listen. To run, and keep running. To not hear what came next because something told him that it would be crucial - even vital - to the question of whether or not they could build a future together, and what if . . . Very deliberately, he refused to complete that thought, and simply waited.

Brian wrapped his arms around Justin's waist, and leaned forward until his lips were just touching the curve of the blond's ear. "It's a double-edged sword, Justin. I never wanted to feel this, but now that I do, I can't do it half way. Yes, life without you is something I - I never want to go through again, but . . . but if the choice is between staying away from you to keep you safe and risking your life, then - then, there is no choice. Do you understand me? I can live with whatever I have to live with, but letting something happen to you - or to Gus - because of me. That's . . . that's something I couldn't stand, and you have to realize what that means."

Justin pulled back then, and stared up into the green-flecked eyes that were staring down at him, offering complete candor - and demanding nothing less in return. "I do," he said finally, "but . . ."

"No. You don't."

Justin frowned, obviously confused. "Why do you . . ."

Brian's inhalation was hoarse and shaky. "Because you don't know what it's like." He closed his eyes then, and was instantly transported back - and it was as fresh and indelible in his mind as if it had happened only moments ago. "I had to stand there . . . and watch you die. That's what I thought was happening. I was watching your life bleed out of you, and I could hear Hobbs screaming that it was what you deserved. That it was what all faggots deserved. And your blood was pouring over my hands, and it was so hot and bright and slick, and then . . . then it started to cool and thicken, and it was like . . . it was like it was you, going cold and dead in my arms."

He opened his eyes then, and stared down at the exquisite, painfully young face looking up at him. "Don't ask me to risk that again - because I can't. If you tell me that I have to stop protecting you, in order for us to be together, then . . . we can't be together. Because I can't go through that again."

Justin studied the expression on Brian's face, and the pure, unshielded love glowing in his eyes, and knew what he had to say. And knew that he had to mean it, as well. Just saying it was not enough. "Then protect me," he whispered, "just as long as you remember that I have to do the same. You're Brian Kinney - the great and powerful - and you have to protect us both, because if anything happens to you, then we're both lost. Maybe you're right; maybe you could live without me - although I doubt it. But I don't think I could say the same, and I don't want to find out. So . . . together - or not at all."

Perhaps it was not exactly the answer Brian had hoped for, but, ultimately, he decided that he could live with it.

"Now be very still," Justin whispered. "I think it's time to put this deep discussion to bed - and concentrate on more immediate concerns."

The smile that touched Brian's lips was spectacularly beautiful. "Such as?"

Brian felt a jolt of pure joy as he saw the light of mischief flare anew in Justin's eyes. "Such as . . . this."

Justin was on his knees, opening Brian's fly, and swallowing his throbbing cock so quickly that neither of them had the time - not to mention the inclination - to check to see if anyone was watching.

Someone was - but not for long.

Justin had always had a lovely, innate talent for administering exquisite blow jobs, and he had only gotten better at it over the years, so it didn't take him long to nuzzle and suck and lick and deep throat the perfectly-shaped, thick organ in his mouth to bring Brian to a mind-bending orgasm, which almost sent him to his knees. Thus, for once it was Justin who provided the safety net, who caught him and cradled him in strong, steady arms and soothed him until his breathing returned to semi-normal rhythm.

"Holy shit! That was hot!"

Justin's smile was ridiculously smug. "When you're sufficiently recovered - Geezer - you think you can manage to hobble along and follow me upstairs?"

"Where we going?"

Justin leaned close, and dragged the flat of his tongue up the center of Brian's chest, pausing along the way to detour to dark nubs, which were already hardening once again, generating one of Justin's genuine, sunshine-caliber smiles. Another one of those things that (he hoped) would never change was Brian's ability to instantly recover from his last orgasm, in order to get ready for his next one. "We have a date, you and I."

"What kind of date?"

"With a tub full of frosting. Do you have any idea how wonderful that huge, beautiful, iron-hard dick is going to taste when I get through slathering it up with thick, dark mocha chocolate?" He leaned closer. "First I'm going to lick it off. Then I'm going to suck it off. And then . . ."

"And then?" Brian's whisper was rough and honey-sweet.

"And then I'm going to fuck you, Mr. Kinney. Deep and slow, and very gentle. No pain, no rush, no urgency. Just me inside you, where I'll always belong."

Brian grinned and nuzzled the soft spot just below Justin's ear. "We might have to fight about that, Sunshine."

The blond nodded, and Brian felt his breath catch in his throat when he read the pure, undiluted love in the younger man's eyes as Justin picked up a half-empty bottle of beer on the table beside them and lifted it in a semi-mocking toast. "Here's to the Taylor-Kinney War. May it live long - and prosper."

Brian's laugh was rich and full and infectious. "How did I ever live without you, you ridiculous little twat?"

"You didn't," came the answering whisper. "Now haul your ass upstairs, Kinney. Mocha frosting waits for no man."

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


Trina Thomas was retrieving her purse and windbreaker from the front hall closet when she heard the clatter of footsteps thumping through the kitchen and then up the stairs in a broken rhythm - starting and stopping and starting again - accompanied by murmurs and whispers and the snicker of laughter - and she paused for a minute, waiting until she heard the solid clunk of the closing of the master bedroom door before taking her leave.

It had been a long day, and she was very tired. Nevertheless, she could not quite suppress the tiny smile that tugged at her lips. A long . . . productive day.

Trina had made no bones about it. When she looked at the long, tall, beautiful drink of water who was Brian Kinney, and the adorable young blond who was Justin Taylor, she felt like weeping to realize that neither of them would ever establish a traditional family, or father children by some suitably lovely young woman.

And yet - she had to admit it, though she found it hard. There was something profoundly beautiful about the interaction between the two of them. She had never had any close contact with homosexual couples before - had never even contemplated the reasons for their existence, and had never once had an inclination to do so.

Until now.

She had not expected to be touched by the sight of the two young men together; she had not expected to concede that their love could be real and precious and exquisitely lovely.

She had not expected to believe - period.

And she'd been wrong.

And now, it seemed, she had another lesson to learn - about how same-sex love could be every bit as painful and heartbreaking as the so-called 'normal' kind.

She paused in the doorway of the seldom-used front parlor - a tiny room with little to recommend it, especially its non-existent view. Which, she realized abruptly, was exactly what had drawn its current occupant to tuck himself into its darkest corner where he was still sitting, concentrating on nothing more than regulating his breathing, and - obviously - not hearing anything beyond it.

"Can I get you anything, Agent McClaren?" She asked gently.

The light in the room was almost non-existent, but she could see him flinch away from the softness of her tone - and the sympathy it conveyed. "No. Thanks. It's late. You should be getting home."

There was a sudden, muffled burst of laughter drifting down from overhead, and he flinched again.

"You know," she said slowly, "there's a lovely little beachside bar down at the marina. It's a ten minute walk from here, and there's always a lively crowd. And I hear they have the best Mojitos on the coast."

He managed to summon up a weary smile. "I'm working - in case you've forgotten."

Another faint burst of shared laughter - a deep, rich basso rumble and a softer, sweeter and somehow more seductive tenor response.

"I haven't forgotten," she answered, "but maybe you should - for once. Does the phrase 'above and beyond the call' mean anything to you?"

He shook his head. "In the language of the agency, there's no such thing."

She moved further into the room and perched on the arm of the worn old sofa. "There are others around who could take over for you."

"No," he replied with a sigh. "There aren't. It's my job."

"Maybe," she agreed, "but sometimes a smart man knows when to step aside."

"I can't . . ."

"Chris," she said gently, "you don't need to be here . . . tonight. It's too much to ask - of anyone."

But McClaren was as solid as a stone tower. "I'm the one who keeps him safe."

"Yeah? And who does the same . . . for you?

He stood up and walked across the room to stand before the narrow window that looked out toward the front entrance where two security staffers were taking advantage of the small booth-style gate-house to shelter from the last remnants of the rain, and probably flipping a coin to see which of them would remain snug and dry and semi-dozing in the relative comfort of the tiny building and which would take the next perimeter patrol - randomly scheduled within every given hour. Faint strains of Jim Morrison's incredibly tender rendition of Touch Me was drifting across the yard, and McClaren almost rolled his eyes at the tongue-in-cheek quality of Fate at its drollest.

"I'm gonna love you
Till the heavens stop the rain." *

Fuck!


"Thanks, Trina, but you really don't have to be concerned. It's not anything I haven't dealt with before. So just . . ."

"Is that so?" she asked quickly, her skepticism not even remotely tempered by her sense of empathy. "So you fall in love with everyone you're charged to protect? You must have your own personal shrink on a full-time retainer."

His smile was rueful. It was seldom that he was so thoroughly busted. "Okay. That was a stupid thing to say, but . . . I can deal with it."

"Because you have no alternative," she said softly.

He could only nod.

She picked up her things, ready to depart, but she hesitated. "You surprised me, Agent McClaren. I would have thought you'd be immune - to charms like his."

Despite himself, the FBI agent laughed. "Charms? You think he has charms?"

"When it suits him," she answered.

He spent another minute gazing out into the night, considering how to respond. "Brian's so-called 'charms' are just . . . a means to an end. He can use them - or not - according to the needs of the moment. I have no doubt that he frequently charms potential clients or business associates - people he needs to cultivate. But other than that - I don't think he gives a shit if anyone is charmed or not. So . . . no, it's not charm, Trina. It's more primal than that. It's . . ."

But he fell silent then, obviously unsure how to explain something that he actually found inexplicable.

"Elementary, perhaps?" she replied, her eyes soft with understanding. "You've actually managed to get a glimpse of the man inside and found . . . what?" Her voice grew more gentle, dropping almost to a whisper. "Something you never thought you'd find in anybody."

"Aren't you tired?" he asked sharply. "I'd think . . ."

"No point in sniping at me, Baby," she replied. "I'm not the one that put that hurt in your gut."

"There's no hurt in my gut," he said coldly.

"No? You could have fooled me. I could have sworn you were sitting here in the dark, trying to figure out . . . how to say 'good-bye'."

"Am I going somewhere?"

Her sigh was gentle as she stepped forward and braced his face with gentle hands. "No. You're standing still, while he's . . . he's already gone. I think . . . he was always gone."

A quick, barely discernible grimace touched his face, but McClaren had said everything he was going to say, and she wished for a moment that she could turn off her insight, that she could refuse to understand how he felt as he offered her a final barely-there smile before moving back into the house. The man was struggling to deal with something he'd never expected to face - a side effect of his interaction with Brian Kinney that neither of them had anticipated, and she wondered if they would ever completely manage to confine it to the past and leave it there. Something told her that it would leave scars on both of them, scars which might fade in time, but would never be completely gone.

She heard the agent make his way through the cottage's darkened interior and open the door to the deck, just as another intimate murmur of laughter drifted down from upstairs, and she hoped that he'd made his escape in time - that he hadn't been forced to listen to it - but she understood that, in the end, it wouldn't make any difference. Whether he'd heard it or not, whether he'd seen it or not - and she was pretty sure that he had - it wouldn't change a thing. He knew what was happening in that bedroom. He knew what it meant and what it boded for him.

Chris McClaren would certainly recognize a farewell when he saw it, whatever guise it might take.

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

The car was fourteen years old, but it was beautifully kept, its deep scarlet paint job - known. back in the day, as candy-apple red - and black rally stripes almost pristine, providing eloquent evidence of loving, meticulous care by its owner. Perhaps it was not quite old enough - yet - to be considered a classic, but Nicholas Avolar was sure that it would achieve that status one day. It was his passion. Everybody needed one, of course, and this was his. He might, on occasion, have fleeting thoughts of other things that might spark his interest or intrigue his thoughts or engage his feelings, but he didn't allow himself to wander very far into the landscape of those fantasies.

Nicholas had seen enough in his young life to know about prices that had to be paid and things that had to be resisted, if one were to have any hope for survival. And if, deep in his core, he knew that accepting such limitations was tantamount to sacrificing any hope of ever allowing anyone to get to know his true identity - beneath the surface - it was simply another thing that had to be handled.

Nobody ever said that life was fair.

But he loved his Camaro Z28 hatchback. It was his one extravagance, his one indulgence, the one thing he owned that he really could not afford, but would never, never relinquish. He smiled whenever he recalled that the purchase of it had been made possible only by the assistance of one of the Club's primary movers and shakers - as a reward for Nicholas' devotion to providing impeccable service and unwavering loyalty to the select group of patrons who were his responsibility. Perhaps it had not been a completely selfless act of charity, since it had certainly insured Nicholas' renewed determination to provide any service - no matter how big or how small - that the man might need. Nevertheless, he knew he would never forget it and never be able to repay the kindness.

His shift was over now, and it had been a particularly grueling day as it always was when the patrons were conducting investigations into potential candidates for admission. The vetting process was strictly confidential, of course - swathed in deliberately arcane ritual; only the executive committee members were familiar with the full criteria used in the final analysis. But part of the process involved an elaborate dinner party to observe how potential recruits interacted with existing members, and it always required exceptional efforts from the staff. Everything had to be perfect, from the setting, to the service - from pre-dinner cocktails to post-prandial cigars - and, most particularly, to the quality, quantity, and presentation of the food. On this particular occasion, the results had been spectacular, with both Rachel Charles and Shirley Harper achieving superb results, and the staff had been treated to effusive verbal acknowledgements and even monetary bonuses from the membership, above and beyond customary gratuities. Not huge sums of money, of course, which would have been considered excessive and in questionable taste. But generous, nonetheless, for those who depended on the Club for their livelihood.

Nicholas slipped his hand into his pocket to make sure the three crisp twenty-dollar bills were still where he'd tucked them, as he moved toward his car, pausing to use the tail of his shirt to gently buff away a smudge on the passenger-side rear fender.

God, he loved this car, and he paused to savor its sleek, beautiful lines and run his fingers across the horizontal bar of the spoiler.

He particularly loved when somebody else - friend, acquaintance, passing stranger - expressed appreciation of his pride and joy, as was happening at this moment, when Shirley Harper was coming toward him, her eyes sweeping over the car, front to rear and back again, with an appreciative smile.

"Okay," she called with a quick laugh as she approached, "let me guess. You got yourself a rich old sugar mama who bought you a coming-of-age present when you turned eighteen."

He frowned for a moment, before deciding to accept the comment as the good-natured ribbing it was intended to be.

"Nope," he replied. "I bought it myself - with a little creative financing, courtesy of a friend. You like?"

"Jesus! What's not to like? It's a classic, Nicholas. What do you do? Spit-shine it every day?"

"Pretty much."

"Bet it's a real chick magnet, huh?"

Nicholas' eyes dropped quickly as a flush stained his cheeks. "Not so much."

And in the mind of Sharon Briggs - undercover cop extraordinaire - a soft bell began a repetitive "ding, ding, ding", and she wished, for a moment, that she could produce a Brian-Kinney equivalent to test her theory. Either Brian in the flesh, to tap into his infallible gay-dar, or a similarly irresistible counterpart, to watch the youth's reaction to sex-on-legs. But on second thought, she was pretty sure she wouldn't need it. Her own gay-dar - more commonly used to identify lesbianism in her own gender - was probably enough, in this case. Nevertheless, she still wished that she had access to typical Kinney wisdom at this moment. Despite his well-deserved reputation as a rogue and a bounder, Brian had always exhibited a startling ability to come up with exactly the right words to guide young, frightened gay men through the maze of sexual uncertainty and the trauma of coming out.

She wished she knew what to say to young Nicholas, to help him find his way, but escorting young males through their de-closeting experience was not exactly her forte. But then, she realized, there might be someone else who could provide the guidance he needed - and with considerably more tact than he might have gotten from the always honest but frequently too candid Stud of Liberty Avenue.

"Don't suppose you'd care to offer a lady a ride?" she asked, deliberately ignoring the rosy flush that still discolored his cheeks. "Unless you have something else to do," she added, not wanting to alarm him by pushing too hard.

"No," he answered quickly. "Not a thing. But what about Miss Rachel?"

"Long gone, Hon," she replied, moving around the car to wait beside the passenger door. "Mr. Clayton's driver always drives her home after one of her culinary triumphs. By this time, she's knee-deep in dishing up late supper. You hungry?"

He moved around the car to open the door for her. "I, uh, I don't think the rest of the Charles family are too fond of me. Especially Buddy. But I'll give you a lift."

She waited until he slipped behind the steering wheel and started the car, enjoying the throaty growl of the engine. "Sweet," she said with a grin. "And you should tell Buddy to go fuck himself. Miss Rachel likes you just fine, and I figure you've gotta be hungry since you sure as shit didn't have time to eat anything between juggling courses."

She lit a cigarette then, rolling down her window to let the smoke escape, and sneaked a quick look at him as he dropped into first gear to make his exit from the parking lot, before coasting down the hill toward the street, where he shifted into second as he eased into traffic. "They really keep you hopping, don't they? Mr. Clayton treats you like his personal servant."

She feigned disinterest as she noted the quick flare of resentment in his eyes as his face grew stony. "I owe Mr. Clayton - and so does my family. He's done a lot for us."

"Really?" she replied. "He doesn't impress me as the philanthropic type."

Though she was careful to avoid looking directly into the young man's face, she noted the quick clinching of his jaw as he accelerated through a caution light. "Not to everyone," he admitted. "But . . . he's been good to my mother. And to me. So I try to return the favor."

At that point, she did turn to look at him, to study the dark brooding quality of his eyes. "From where I sit," she said softly, "it looks like you more than earn whatever he might do for you. You're very attentive to his needs."

For a split second, she thought he might snap at her, offering up a not so subtle suggestion that she keep her snide remarks to herself and mind her own business. But in the end, he didn't. He chose to smile, instead, and brush off her concerns. "Isn't that what being en employee of The Club is all about? Exceptional service - for exceptional clients."

"Spoken like a perfectly trained sycophant," she laughed.

He shrugged. "Ass-kisser extraordinaire. That's me."

She turned to look out the window, understanding that her next comment would be better received if she appeared to be offering nothing more than a casual observation. "I don't envy you. Most of the time, I'm glad I don't have to spend much time in their presence - catering to their needs or listening to their conversations. Doesn't it ever . . . bother you?"

He drew a deep breath. "I make it a point not to listen."

"Oh, come on," she retorted. "I'm only subjected to it once in a while - when the PTB want to congratulate me on my latest ganache praline with crème fraiche creation, or - more likely - pick my brain for the recipe - but even in that limited exposure, I hear more than enough of their phobic crap. Don't expect me to believe that you don't get sick of it. You're in there constantly, and I don't think they bother to try to watch their words when you're around."

He was silent for a moment as he took advantage of a break in the traffic to accelerate around a bright yellow Hummer, but he looked confused. "Phobic?" he echoed.

"Phobic," she repeated. "People always hate what they're afraid of, don't you think? As in claustrophobic, agoraphobic, xenophobic . . . homophobic. In the end, it all comes down to fear."

She was pretty sure that he remained unconvinced, but at least he was thinking about it.

"Why should they think of watching what they say around me?" he asked finally. "To them, I'm just another piece of furniture - the hired help."

It was flatly spoken, but the undercover cop clearly heard the nuances of resentment that hovered beneath the surface of the youth's resignation. "Stockwell's a real piece of work, isn't he?"

Nicholas smiled, and she was pretty sure that she recognized a gleam of approval in his eyes. "Yeah. The adopted child - if you know what I mean."

She frowned. "No. I don't think I do." Although, in point of fact, she did, but she wanted to hear what he would say, as it would provide more clues to allow her to get to know the individual who lived behind the façade of Nicholas Avolar.

"Stockwell wasn't one of the original blueblood members," he explained. "He was just a peon." His grin was slightly venal. "Like us. Until he managed to scale the political heights and wind up as the leader of Pittsburgh's finest, and a candidate for mayor."

"So . . . what? They welcomed him into the fold?"

He shrugged. "It happens sometimes. Not often, of course. Mostly, you have to be born to The Club, with membership being handed down like some sacred tradition." He grinned quickly. "Or royal blood. But sometimes . . . it's an advantage to have a few members with political clout, but most of the old guard don't have much interest in running for office. That's the reason for the occasional membership drives - like the one tonight. If you took a look at the guest list - the 'recruits', as the members like to call them - you'd have seen what I mean."

Sharon, who had examined the list carefully and noted the presence of a federal judge, a county commissioner, and a marketing director for a major investment firm, managed to look clueless. "Sorry. I was up to my armpits in crème brulee. What was so special about them?"

"Clout," he replied. "Although most of them won't get in; they just don't fit the mold, if you know what I mean. But a couple will - the ones whose membership will benefit the organization, and who know how to show appreciation for the honor."

"Like Stockwell?"

He nodded. "Like Stockwell."

"Yeah," she said slowly, "but he sort of screwed the pooch, didn't he? With that whole indictment, homophobic-gaybashing business. So why is he still . . ."

Nicholas laughed - a short, ugly bark of disdain. "You don't really think they'd have impeached him for that, do you? Shit! They wanted to pin a fucking medal on him - only they had to maintain a bit of discretion. Political correctness doesn't mean much to our members, but even they can't ignore it completely. On the surface, anyway."

She blinked. "Impeachment? They actually call it 'impeachment'?"

This time, the laugh was genuine and hearty. "They do. Which is meant to indicate that it's a lot easier to get into the White House than to be welcomed into The Club."

She grinned and nodded. "So . . . as for Stockwell. What's he up to now? What does he still have to offer as a member?"

Now the smile was bittersweet. "Don't fool yourself, Honey. Stockwell may have taken a lick or two, but he's far from out of the game. He's still got powerful friends, plenty of connections, and major money backers. And he sure as hell hasn't forgotten a thing about what happened to him. If you think he's just going to lie down and fade into the background, think again. For Stockwell, the wheels are always turning, and, when he's ready, you'll be amazed how quickly people are willing to forget that whole anti-gay thing."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

Dark eyes flickered toward her, bright with speculation. "Haven't you heard? Gay-bashing is a fine family tradition in the Pitts, and it's just as likely to get him elected as to prevent it. He's still got plenty of support. He's just biding his time and . . . cleaning up a few loose ends. When he's ready, he'll be right back on the front page, challenging the city to 'clean up its act and support the fine, upstanding, moral position of the community'. If you doubt it, just wait a few months - and see."

Sharon turned to stare at him, barely daring to breathe. "What kind of 'loose ends'?"

"How should I know?" he snapped, downshifting as he approached a major intersection.

She waited until he glanced at her to initiate a quick eye-roll. "Hel-loo-oo," she said, with exaggerated emphasis. "Piece of furniture? Isn't that what you just said to me? So why would you not know?"

He sighed. "You know how I keep my job?" he asked finally.

"By knowing how to kiss ass like a pro?"

Against his will, he grinned. "Unlikely - since they're all got an extensive staff for just that purpose. No. The biggest part of my job - beyond ass-kissing - is discretion. Knowing when to speak, and when to shut my mouth."

She opened her purse and made a big production out of searching through it, huffing a big sigh to emphasize her dissatisfaction in not finding what she seemed to be looking for.

"Did you lose something?" he asked.

"Yeah," she retorted. "My press pass. I need to show you my credentials, so you know it's legit when I offer you a whole" . . . She paused to count up the coins in her change purse . . . "$2.11 to violate your confidentiality agreement and give me the scoop."

There were a few beats of silence before he started laughing. "You're a trip," he finally managed. "Why are you so interested in Stockwell, or what might go on in The Club?"

She shrugged. "Just curious, mostly. And a little bit paranoid, I guess. I always like to know what's going on around me, so I don't get caught unaware if things go to shit."

He was quiet for a moment, obviously lost in thought, before he took a deep breath and offered his reply. "Well, there's plenty of shit going on, for sure. Most of it, I don't have a clue about - major-league wheeling and dealing involving investments and market manipulations and legislation . . . shit like that. But once in a while, I pick up on a few things."

"Such as?"

"You remember when all the shit hit the fan during Stockwell's campaign?"

She nodded. "Vaguely."

He smiled. "Nothing vague about it inside the membership. Holy shit! It was like a tsunami or something. They were all just . . . thunderstruck. That somebody had actually had the nerve to stand up and defy a man like Stockwell . . . they were . . ."

"Amazed? Mortified?" she asked, when he seemed unable to find the right word.

But he shook his head, and glanced at her again, his mouth twisted in a smirk that would have done Brian Kinney proud. "Pissed," he said firmly. "They weren't embarrassed, and they couldn't have cared less about whatever Stockwell had done. They were just frustrated that he'd been exposed, and that they'd lost a boatload of money they'd invested in his campaign. And furious at the person who'd exposed him."

She managed to look confused. "Person? What person?"

He didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to fiddle with the radio, changing stations until he came across Coldplay harmonizing about planets moving at the speed of light. "For a long time, I didn't know who he was. They just called him 'the fuckin' fag'. That was when they were busy thinking up all the nasty things they wished somebody would do to him. Later on . . ."

"Later on?" she prompted when he seemed reluctant to continue.

"I learned his name. It was Kinney. Brian Kinney. He was the ad man for Stockwell's campaign in the beginning. But he . . . well, according to the members, he betrayed Stockwell's trust, by digging up some old dirt on him and using it to cost him the election."

"Nicholas," she said slowly, being careful to keep her tone as neutral as possible, knowing she was treading on fragile ground here, "if I recall correctly, Stockwell lost because it came out that he was involved in covering up the details about the murder of a young gay man. How can they possibly believe that it was because of this . . . Kinney person? How was it his fault that Stockwell could have done such a thing?"

The youth sighed. "But that's the thing, Shirley. In their eyes, that Kemp kid . . . wasn't worth worrying about. They never quite dared to say it - publicly - but I'm pretty sure they thought he got what he deserved, and they blamed Kinney for exposing it and turning it into such a big deal."

She could not quite swallow the surge of anger that fire through her. "Nice people, our bosses," she observed, her tone clipped and cold.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Real nice. But you just have to realize that they . . . they come from a different world. They just don't see things the same way we do."

"Is that supposed to excuse this attitude? Jesus, Nicholas, they're . . ."

"Monsters?" he interrupted. Then he sighed. "Yeah. I know - but they're monsters who learned to be monsters, at their mothers' knees. Or, more likely, at their fathers'. And mostly, it doesn't touch us. We're . . . exempt from their contempt."

"Really?" she scoffed, deciding that she'd had enough of dancing around the subject. "And what if we were gay, Nicholas? Would we be exempt then?"

She watched closely enough to see that his breath caught momentarily in his throat - but only very briefly. "Guess we'll never know," he replied. "Since we're not."

Every neuron in her mind was screaming at that moment - urging her to challenge him and to demand an explanation of his reasons for making that assumption. But she didn't, because she had something more important on which to focus.

She settled back in her seat, her brow furrowed in thought. Then, she looked over at him, and allowed her eyes to widen. "Kinney," she said quickly. "Wait - I know that name. He was the guy - I saw the pictures in the tabloids - the guy that was abducted and beaten half to death by . . ."

She fell silent then, eyes growing wide, and deep in her mind, she felt the visceral satisfaction that always came at the moment of victory - of confirmation - for Nicholas' expression said it all, even though he did not offer a single word in response to her comment. It was there, nevertheless, in the thick, viscous, acrid horror in his eyes.

She'd have been tempted to shout "Bingo!", if only the circumstances hadn't been so ugly and so dire, and if only this young man had not been in such spectacular pain, even if he didn't even realize it.

Nicholas Avolar knew the truth. Now, all she had to do was get it from him - or find someone who could
.
Time for a change of tactic, since she was certain that any further direct pursuit would only frighten him into prolonged silence.

"My brother's going to be at Rachel's," she said, apropos of nothing. "You should sit down with him and talk. I think you'll like him."

"Yeah? Why do you say that?"

She very deliberately did not smile, and didn't even think about giving voice to the thought that was screaming in her mind. Because you're going to take one look and go home dreaming of having him in your bed - not to mention your body.

"Because everybody does - once they get to know him. Although that's a bit of a challenge. Jed can be a bit . . . standoffish."

"Why's that?"

"He's lived through interesting times. He's a veteran. Carries some old scars, but, if you take the time to let him get used to you, it'll be worth the effort."

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "I should probably be getting home. My mom worries when . . ."

She grinned. "Your mommie still keeps tabs on you."

His smile was embarrassed. "Yeah. She still thinks I'm twelve."

She let her eyes drift down his body and back up again. "Oh, you may be many things, Young Nicholas, but twelve is not one of them. So how about it? Come in for a minute. For dessert, if nothing else. She's got a new masterpiece she just developed - a personalized version of Bananas Foster, combined with a caramel-base cheesecake."

He grinned. "How do you two stand each other? It must be like the cooking Olympics in that house - every damned day."

Her smile was slightly lopsided. "We decided first thing that we could either compete - or join forces so that it's us against the world, and the results have been . . . spectacular."

"Not to mention fattening," he laughed.

"That too," she admitted. "But you gotta admit it - when life really sucks and everything around you is going to shit, there is nothing quite as comforting as a big slab of something delectable, mouthwatering, sinful, and guaranteed to clog your arteries. Except sex, of course, but that's just a different kind of delectable mouthwatering sin, isn't it?"

"A primo-quality eighth of chronic ain't bad either," he observed with a smile.

And Sharon Briggs couldn't quite suppress a huge grin, in the realization that Brian Kinney would most certainly approve of the addition of this young man to the elite ranks of Liberty Avenue society, always assuming that he would ever admit that such a thing actually existed, as he still occasionally denied the possibility of anything being fabulous - or elite - in Pittsburgh.

The grin softened to a smile as she recalled that her father had once observed that Brian Kinney was, in some ways, the most arrogant snob he'd ever met - and she had not bothered to deny it. With appropriate apologies to Thomas Jefferson, she acknowledged that some truths really were self-evident.

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

"Shit!" said Jared Hilliard, AKA Jed Harper, as he sprawled on a deck chair and unbuckled his belt, his dinner plate - bearing only a few crumbs of the crust of Rachel's extraordinary chicken pot pie - on the table beside him "I'm not coming over here any more."

"Of course, you aren't," said his pseudo-sister. "Until next week."

Incredibly blue eyes, set in a perfectly symmetrical face the color of creamed coffee, glared at her, before closing as he groaned again. "I don't do fat and flabby."

"Aha. A benefit of living on the streets."

"Fuck you, Baby Sister."

"Right back at ya, Brother Mine."

Sitting on the top step of the Charles' back porch, Nicholas Avolar alternated between spooning up scoops of an incredibly rich banana/brown sugar/rum/cheesecake concoction, and studying the two people who were seated nearby. The amber reflection from the bare insect bulb in the fixture by the back door was kind to the young woman who - for some reason he could not quite fathom - had developed a fondness for him, in spite of his inveterate shyness. Her skin was particularly lovely - almost translucent - in this light, and her smile was even warmer than usual. He had, at first, found it difficult to believe that she and this tall, muscular, semi-taciturn young man were siblings, since they did not resemble each other in the least. But then they'd begun to talk and snipe at each other, and he quickly realized that what they lacked in physical similarity, they made up for in almost identical attitude.

But this - this was something new. "Wait," he said sharply, swallowing a mouthful of his dessert far too quickly - which, he thought, was probably a mortal sin, given the quality of the dish. "You . . . you're a street person?"

Hilliard - perfectly in character - went very still and very stiff. "Now how could I be a street person?" he retorted. "My hands and face aren't filthy, I don't smell like week-old garbage, and I'm not pushing around a grocery cart full of junk and swilling Thunderbird. Right?"

"Jed!" snapped his distaff co-conspirator. "Get off his case. He didn't know."

"Jed" allowed himself to look mollified - but only a little.

"Look, Man. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't realize . . ." Nicholas fell silent, as the older man turned to stare at him, and he was momentarily lost in the depths of those incredible eyes. "Are you looking for . . . I mean, if you need a job, maybe I could . . ."

Jared Hilliard - needing nothing from his alternative persona to express his amusement - laughed aloud. "You could what? Put in a good word for me - at your precious Club?"

A quick spark of anger flared in Nicholas' eyes, and Jared had to look away to conceal the quick flash of relief that almost certainly flared in his eyes. At least, the kid - the intensely beautiful, exquisitely vulnerable kid - was not without spirit. "Look, I know it's not exactly most people's dream job, but it's better than nothing - isn't it?"

Hilliard allowed the laughter to falter and leveled a penetrating look at the youth, a look that held something Nicholas could not quite identify, although he did wonder - briefly - why a man like this, who had nothing, who lived on the street and seemed without purpose or focus, would feel sorry for him.

Hilliard, meanwhile, took a moment to exchange glances with his partner-in-crime, grateful for the content of their quick, whispered conversation as he'd entered the house, before he'd been introduced to young Avolar; her observations were - as always - spot on and extremely valuable, and already paying off.

"Not all things are better than nothing," said the homeless man softly, but, to Nicholas' surprise, there was no hostility or resentment in his tone. "But that's something you only learn with time. Nevertheless, thanks for the offer."'

Sharon/Shirley had observed the exchange from beneath lowered lashes, apparently intent on spooning up the last of her dessert, but actually well pleased with the direction the conversation was taking. "It's not an idle boast, you know," she commented, her tongue busy with licking the last drop of caramel from the corner of her mouth. "Nicholas is the favorite of the high-muck-a-mucks of The Club - chosen by the In Crowd. When he says he could get you a job, he's probably right."

Hilliard turned to glare at his 'sister', making sure that Nicholas was paying attention. "We've talked about this before, Shirley. I don't want a job like that, and they sure as shit don't want me."

She huffed a dramatic sigh. "You need to be practical, Jed, and stop letting your pride get in your way."

He laughed again, loud and long, and Nicholas found himself grinning, without knowing why. It just seemed . . . appropriate.

"Lots of people would tell you that the homeless have no pride," he observed when he was able to catch his breath again.

"Yeah, well, lots of people are stupid."

Hilliard raised his glass of iced tea. "I'll drink to that."

Once more, Nicholas was looking back and forth between the siblings, trying to understand what they were really saying to each other - beyond the obvious. He didn't want to be curious about this man - this vagrant individual who was exactly the kind of person his mother had always cautioned him against - but he couldn't quite manage to turn off his urge to learn more. "So," he said slowly, "is it okay if I ask . . ."

And then, of course, it was Jared's turn to experience that moment of elation, that burst of triumph in recognizing that the bait, so carefully prepared and presented, had been taken. "You can ask whatever you like, providing you realize that I don't have to answer anything at all."

Nicholas nodded. "Why do you . . . do it? You're obviously not disabled; you're in . . . great shape, from what I can see. So why . . ." He looked up then and fell silent as he saw the ice rising in those incredible blue eyes.

"Wow! You're amazing. You've known me . . . what? An hour, tops? And you're already able to vouch for my physical health? You're definitely in the wrong business. You should become an internist - a new version of Dr. House - or a professional psychic."

"I'm sorry," Nicholas said quickly, quietly. "That was a stupid thing to say, and I didn't . . ."

Hilliard got to his feet. "Right. You didn't mean it." He turned to his sister, and managed to wink at her before moving toward the steps. "I'm out of here."

"Hey!" she said quickly. "Did you see the '91 Z28 in front of the house?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So," she replied with a grin, "it belongs to the young miracle worker there."

Hilliard paused, apparently debating with himself whether to go - or linger - and Nicholas, desperate to make amends for a faux pas he didn't completely understand, saw his chance. And took it. "Would you like to take a spin in it?"

Nicholas rose quickly. "Come take a look. I've worked really hard on it. When I got it, it was just a beat-up old heap, but now . . . Well, you tell me."

"Z28, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Manual transmission?"

"Yeah."

"V8?"

Nicholas smiled. "What else? I take it you're a fan?"

The older man compressed his lips, not quite managing to suppress a smile. "I owned an '89 IROC-Z, back in the day. Before the Army. Before . . ."

The smile became a broad grin. "Then what are we waiting for? Maybe . . . I could buy you a beer?" He chuckled softly. "It was a big tip day, so we could say that drinks are on Chief Stockwell."

Hilliard's eyes narrowed. "He's not the chief any more, is he?" he asked, silently cheering the fact that the young man had broached the topic of the disgraced police chief with no prompting from anyone else.

Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Maybe somebody should tell him that. He still thinks of himself as one of the power brokers."

Hilliard decided that he'd delayed long enough to set the hook solidly. Besides, he really had owned that IROC-Z, and he saw no reason why he should not enjoy a little spin in Nicholas' sweet ride while pursuing further information.

As it turned out, the ride was every bit as sweet as the undercover agent might have anticipated, and Nicholas was delighted at the man's obvious enjoyment of the demonstration of the car's power and superb condition. They rode around for a while, streaking down the freeway and then venturing off into more rural roads with lighter traffic and more opportunities for intricate maneuvers.

Not until they were heading back into the city did Nicholas voice a question which had obviously been on his mind since the subject had been broached on the back porch of the Charles residence.

"What did you mean?" he asked, speeding up to merge into the traffic on I-279. "When you said that you didn't want a job like that - and that they didn't want you. Why wouldn't they want you? You're obviously not stupid, and you're a veteran, which is a big plus as far as they're concerned. And you're smart and strong. And you'd look good in the uniform, and . . ."

"And I'm black. In case you didn't notice."

"Plenty of blacks work at The Club, including me." His voice took on an edge, a bitter vein of steely resentment. "Always assuming that half-breeds count in your view . . . and your own sister works there. So . . ."

Hilliard shifted in the dark leather of the bucket seat, and turned so he could study the profile of the young man in the driver's seat. "I'm also homeless, Nicholas. You think they'd be OK with that too?"

"But if you had a job, you wouldn't be homeless any more, would you?"

Hilliard smiled. "Are you thinking you're going to take on the job of fixing what's wrong with me, Kid? Because if you are, you have no idea what you're letting yourself in for."

"No," the younger man said quietly. "I didn't mean . . . It's not really my business, is it? But . . . I just thought . . ."

"From the perspective of people like your buddy, Stockwell, I'm beyond fixing. Trust me on that. But tell me something. How can you stand being around someone like that? Knowing what he is - what he does. How can you stomach it?"

Nicholas shrugged. "He never did anything to me, so . . . what difference does it make how he treats anybody else?"

"Really? So . . . you don't care what he does to other people, as long as you can keep your cushy little minimum-wage job and your sweet little ride and live in your little fantasy world? It doesn't matter what else he might be involved in?"

"I didn't say that. It's just . . ."

"You know what people on the street are saying about him? Have you heard the latest gossip?"

"I don't listen much to that kind of thing."

Hilliard's eyes were hard. "Maybe you should. Then maybe you'd hear about that guy who was attacked and beaten half to death by a bunch of gay-bashers after he was grabbed off the street outside the nightclub he owns down on Liberty Avenue?"

"Yeah. I heard about that. But what . . ."

"Turns out he was the guy who was behind the campaign to defeat Stockwell when he ran for mayor. Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"

Nicholas was suddenly aware of a lump in his throat and a painful knot in his chest. "Don't know anything about that."

"Really?" Hilliard didn't bother to try to disguise his skepticism. "At the very least, I'd think you'd have heard Stockwell and his cronies gloating about that guy's . . . Let's see now. What would they call it? Bad luck, maybe? I'll bet they were tickled pink that he got what he deserved. Right?"

Nicholas hesitated, swallowing hard. "Well, yeah. Maybe. A little bit."

Again, Hilliard turned to study the young man's face. "And you, of course, couldn't say a thing. Right?"

The young man's smile was rueful. "What do you want me to say, Jed? It's my job. And my mother's job. Our lives depend on those people, and . . . look! I'm sorry for that guy. I'm sure he only did what he thought was right, but it's got nothing to do with me."

Abruptly, Hilliard leaned over and touched gentle fingers to the softness below Nicholas' right ear. "Tell me something, Kid," he said softly. "How long do you think you're going to be able to believe that? How long before you can't manage to ignore the truth?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nicholas said harshly, jerking away from the offending hand. "What are you . . ."

"This is what I meant," Hilliard explained, knowing that he was taking a chance, but seeing no other option. Too much time had elapsed already, and every day that passed without the development of corroborating evidence to support the testimony of Brian Kinney was a day of increasing danger for both Brian and the people close to him. It was time for a leap of faith. "When I said that your precious Club members wouldn't want me working for them. I'm not just black, young Nicholas." His use of the term favored by the Club patrons for their favorite waiter was deliberate. "And I'm not just homeless. I'm also gay." A calculated pause, and the voice dropped to a gentle murmur. "Just like you."


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

It had been a long night, and Chris McClaren was pretty sure he had never been so glad to see the bright streaks of burnt orange and coral sunrise streaking across the eastern horizon.

For the second night in a row, he had slept fitfully, avoiding his bedroom and spending most of the night in the office, poring over files and evidence and dozing off finally, sprawled on the old sofa with a stack of files spread across his chest. He had known it was not a good idea, that he would pay for it with the coming of the new day, but, in the end, he had also known he had little choice. He simply could not bring himself to climb the stairs and crawl into his bed in the little corner room that overlooked the stretch of shoreline off to the North.

He told himself his reluctance had nothing to do with any sounds he might have overheard in the course of the quick trip to get to his room or while he was burrowing into his bedding. Of course, what he told himself was completely immaterial, but he felt a little better for not forcing himself to confront a truth he just didn't want to see - yet.

As he did every morning, he blessed Trina's thoughtfulness as he moved into the kitchen and was greeted with the rich, full-bodied aroma of coffee in its purest, most elemental form. He would leave the espressos, the lattes, the cappuccinos, and the thousand and one other variations of same to those with exotic tastes; all he wanted was coffee, strong and black and caffeine-rich.

He poured himself a cup, moved to the front door to retrieve the morning paper that one of the security staffers had dropped on the porch, and wandered back through the house to take a seat at the bar in the kitchen where he helped himself to one of the apple-cinnamon muffins that Trina had baked the day before.

The woman was a wonder, and a triple blessing. At least.

He reached over and switched on the Bose Wave radio affixed to the base of the overhead cabinets, adjusting the volume to a pleasant murmur and scanning through a hash of country-western offerings and a couple of hard rock stations before finding something that suited his mood more perfectly.

However, after only a couple of bars of Bill Withers' exquisite rendering of Ain't No Sunshine, he realized his mistake and reached over to find another selection, but he failed to reach his goal, as strong fingers curled around his wrist and pulled his hand back.

"Leave it. Never too early for a little blues."

The FBI agent - deliberately - did not turn to look at the man who was standing behind him. Close behind him. Too close.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his voice steady and without inflection. "All fucked out?"

Brian shifted forward briefly, allowing his chest to just brush against McClaren's back, before moving to settle on the adjacent bar stool. "You really want me to answer that," he asked, "or is it just your PMS acting up?"

McClaren turned to stare into the eyes of the smart-ass sitting beside him, noting as he did so that the morning light ignited topaz glints within those hazel depths, and promised himself that he was absolutely not going to smile at the man's incredibly puerile humor.

Then he smiled. "Fuck you, Mr. Kinney."

Then he rose and moved around the bar. "Your usual poison?" he asked, retrieving Brian's favorite mug from the cabinet and reaching for the espresso carafe, in its place beside the more plebeian coffee pot.

"You don't have to wait on me," Brian snapped. "I'm not an invalid."

"No, you're not," McClaren replied, calmly proceeding to pour out a generous serving of the dark, aromatic liquid. "You're actually a completely capable asshole - but your leg is bothering you this morning. You were limping when you stepped around me. Too much time on your knees last night, old man?"

Brian accepted the mug with a mocking grin, while lifting his middle finger in a quick, upward thrust.

"I'm surprised you're up so early - or are you only up because it was up?"

Brian shook his head. "Just got a call from Ron Peterson. My kid'll be here in an hour."

The song on the radio continued to play.

" . . . ought a leave the young thing alone
But ain't no sunshine when she's gone . . ."
**

"They're playing your song," McClaren observed.

"Fuck you!"

"Not any more."

Brian simply smiled, and took a moment to savor his espresso, wondering - not for the first time - if anybody would ever invent a method for mainlining the stuff, directly into the arteries to provide a mind-blowing boost to start the day.

They sat together for a while, feeling awkward at first, but the unease slowly faded, until they were finally able to turn and face each other and revel once more in the ability to enjoy the view.

Two beautiful young men, once intimate but separated now by a growing chasm. Nevertheless, they found that they could still communicate without extraneous words.

"He thinks you did him a favor," Brian said finally, very softly.

"He's wrong."

Brian simply nodded. "I know. Are you . . ."

"If you ask me if I'm okay, I'm going to forget that you're a pathetic cripple and punch your lights out."

"Okay. Although 'pathetic cripple' is a bit much, don't you think? Give me a couple more days, and we'll see who's pathetic. Anyway, whatever you said to him, it helped him over a rough patch, so . . . thanks for that."

McClaren grinned. "So he figured it out. Good for him - and for you."

"Yeah. Good for me. I . . . won't forget it."

The FBI agent laughed. "He's the one who better not forget it. Next time, he might not be so lucky."

"Still, I don't think he'd have figured it out - or that either one of us would have figured it out - if not for . . .

"There are things known and there are things unknown and in between are . . ."

"The doors
***," they chorused together.

Brian turned again to stare into eyes glinting bright with amusement. Then he chuckled softly. "You're the only man I know who can quote Morrison, and make it sound natural."

"And you're the only man I know who could identify the source."

McClaren went back to contemplating the bottom of his coffee cup. "It's not like you were meant to be the love of my life, you know."

Brian nodded. "I know."

But he turned then and leaned forward, his lips just touching those of his companion, there and gone almost too quickly, too gently for the sensation to register. "Thanks for opening that door. I'll remember," he whispered.

Then Brian rose and walked away, leaving McClaren to watch him go. He had not lied; he had never even contemplated the possibility that Kinney might actually be the love of his life, but something inside him had recognized it just the same. It would never be, but it would forever linger in that sweet realm of fantasy unrealized, of might have been.

It was something he would learn to forget - sooner or later.

He turned away then, went back to his coffee, never realizing that the conversation - and the kiss - had been witnessed by a silent observer who had run through a gamut of emotions during the brief interlude. Dismay, uncertainty, anger, alarm - but in the end, there was only gratitude.

Justin Taylor had always been a smart young man, and he was certainly wise enough to understand that, with a lot of help and a little luck, he had dodged a bullet.

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

TBC

*Touch Me - John Densmore, Rob Krieger, Jim Morrison, Ray Manzarek -the Doors
**Ain't No Sunshine - Bill Withers
***Jim Morrison

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