Timeless

Chapter 47

First love is a kind of vaccination which saves a man from catching the complaint a second time.

-- Honore de Balzac

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The breeze had sharpened as the night deepened, and by the time Brian made his exit from Turnage's house, it was cool enough to make him wish he'd grabbed a jacket in his haste to escape from the cottage. So he paused to light a cigarette, taking advantage of the temporary shelter provided by the covered entryway.

At least, he observed, it had stopped raining, and the moon was now draping the landscape in a coat of silver light and shadow - a lovely chiaroscuro portrait of shifting possibilities.

He stood still for a moment, wondering where the fuck that thought had come from. Was he going soft - even poetic - as he moved irrevocably toward middle age?

Shit!

Then he spotted the figure poised at the edge of the driveway, sitting astride a powerful Harley and watching him with narrowed eyes.

Shit!

"I don't like being stalked," he muttered as he walked toward the car.

"And I don't like being played." McClaren climbed off the bike and turned to face the man who had become his primary responsibility, as well as his focus in life - in more ways than one. He placed his hands on his hips and did not bother to try to hide his anger. "What the fuck did you think you were doing, Brian? Christ! Didn't you learn anything from . . ."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Wrong, Shithead! A babysitter is exactly what you do need, until you stop playing stupid games and start facing the truth. You're not invincible, Brian. You're not bullet-proof or immortal. And there are people out there - close by, apparently - who want to kill you. What's it going to take to . . ."

"Do you really think I don't know that?" Brian's voice was very soft - and icy cold. "I was there, Chris. I saw it in their eyes and heard it in their voices, and I'll never forget it, no matter how long I live, I know what it is to be hated; so do you. We're fags, and you don't grow up like us - in this country, in this century - without learning that early on. But this was different. This wasn't because of what I choose to do in bed, or who I choose to do it with. It was personal; it was about me - Brian Kinney, the man. Not Brian Kinney, the fag. I can't let them win. I won't. And that's what happens if I close myself off and hide. If I run away and find a hole to crawl in. Can't you understand that?"

"And if they manage to kill you? Won't they win then?"

"Maybe. They'll succeed in shutting me up, for sure. But they still won't force me to change, to become someone or something I'm not. Don't you get it? Can't you . . ."

McClaren stepped forward then, and grabbed Brian's biceps, his hands hard and bruising. "And if that happens, what will it do to Gus? Or to Justin? Christ, Brian, why can't you see . . ."

Brian shoved violently against the FBI agent's chest, freeing himself with one massive thrust. "What I see," he replied, "is that they'll be safe. They'll hurt - for a while. I know that. But, in the end, they'll be safe."

McClaren went very still then, the sharp blades of his rational mind struggling to cut through the confusion and the massive layers of camouflage with which Brian characteristically concealed his own deepest truths. And he saw - finally. Saw, and wanted to weep.

Thus his voice was a pale specter of his usual robust tone when he decided to speak again. "And what if it's one of them? Either one of them?"

Brian had gone still as well, and there was a darkness in his eyes unlike anything McClaren had ever seen there before. "That's when they win. Because then . . . then there's nothing left."

And McClaren heard - as clearly as if some supreme omniscient being had leaned forward from the sky to speak in his ear - the fundamental truth Brian had wrapped up tight in his own perceptions and tucked away at the core of his soul, the truth that he himself would never verbalize: that neither Justin nor Gus would be destroyed by the loss of Brian . . . because losing Brian would be the best thing that could happen to them. Because however much they might love him, it was a love he had not earned and did not deserve, and never would. He was perfectly comfortable - endlessly gratified - by the notion that he could inspire lust, adulation, sexual hunger, and intense jealousy, but love . . . that had never been part of the equation that made up Brian Kinney, and Chris McClaren was pretty sure, in that moment of epiphany, that, in the dark shadows of Brian's self-image, it never would.

The world could be a very dark place sometimes.

Brian moved away, heading for his car and feeling the chill of the night more keenly as the wind off the water frisked around him, like a wayward child at play, and McClaren felt the loss of more than just physical contact. Brian was withdrawing - slowly, of course, in increments of inches - but he was definitely moving back, looking for convenient shadows.

"Wait!" The FBI agent's tone was as brisk as the wind - and as cold. "Why did you come here? Why did you need to see Turnage?"

Brian spun back, and his face was sharp, etched with barely-restrained fury. "Did it ever occur to you that I might want to speak to my doctor - in private? That some things are just none of your . . ."

"No. It didn't. Because they're not. If it concerns you - or your health - it is my business."

"No, it's . . ."

"Just tell me, Brian. No matter how much you might disagree, there are some things that you simply can't handle on your own. So . . . tell me. I know there's something wrong - something beyond the injuries you've been treated for. I've known for a while, so save us both a lot of trouble - and tell me."

Brian hesitated for a moment before turning away and sliding into the BMW's leather seat. "I have to see another specialist. Turnage will call tomorrow for an appointment. So far, it might be nothing - and I don't want to speculate."

McClaren sighed. "And when it's not . . . nothing? Will you tell me then?"

"Probably won't have a choice."

"No. You won't."

"Did you find out anything? About the call?"

"They're still tracing it down, but I can already tell you what they'll find."

"As in . . . nothing?"

"More or less. Probably made from a prepaid cell, using some kind of electronic device to disguise the voice. We might get lucky and track down where it was bought, and then, if we can pinpoint the time of the sale, go over security footage and come up with something. Maybe."

Brian nodded. "You heard . . . what was said?"

McClaren found that he did not really want to look into Brian's eyes as he remembered that ugly voice and the words it spoke. "They gave me the gist of it."

To his own surprise, Brian dredged up a wry snicker. "It's a beautiful world we live in, isn't it?"

Unexpectedly, the FBI agent stepped forward and pulled Brian out of the car, manhandling him without much effort, and setting him against the BMW's rear passenger door, prompting Brian to recall that the man was a lot stronger than he looked. McClaren just stood there for a moment, his hands still bracing Brian's shoulders, and when he smiled, Brian noted glints of fire and ice in the depths of those blue eyes and wondered briefly whether or not he should be alarmed.

"You're never going to let me in. Are you?" It was barely a whisper. "Never going to let me see everything that you are."

Then it was Brian's turn to smile. "What makes you think there's anything more than what you've already seen? I'm a superficial bastard, you know - hardly worth your in-depth analysis."

Complete stillness for the space of a heartbeat. Then McClaren nodded. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

He leaned forward quickly and pressed a hard, demanding kiss against Brian's mouth, pressing just hard enough and lasting just long enough to encourage Brian to think - for a split second - about opening his lips and granting deeper access, and, for that tiny moment, the FBI agent allowed himself to savor the taste and breathe the scent that was so uniquely Brian Kinney, understanding that his window of opportunity was closing fast, growing thinner with every tick of the clock, and would soon be restricted to nothing but memory. Then he made a little sound in his throat, a rumbling sound that might have been a moan - or might not - and backed away just as abruptly as he'd leaned in.

"What was that for?" Brian, for once, sounded genuinely puzzled.

"Just making sure," came the answer, as the FBI agent moved away and picked up his helmet.

"Of what?"

A tiny sigh, and a quick bite of the lip. "That your immune system is functioning perfectly."

With that - and a flicker of a scapegrace smile - McClaren was on the bike and cranking it up, and there was no more chance for communication as the howl of the engine exploded into the night.

But, for a moment, Brian just stood there, wondering what the hell the kiss - and the comment - had meant.

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Melanie stood in the middle of the room, shoulders squared, eyes filled with dark sparks. "I said, 'What is she . . ."

"And I heard you the first time," Lindsey interrupted, her voice heavy with weariness.

"So answer the question."

The resentment that flared in the depths of Lindsey's eyes was more than a warning; it was almost a Red Alert that transformed shades of cobalt blue to glints of ice. "I would answer," she said softly, "if I thought it was your place to ask. But it isn't. You couldn't be bothered to call and let me know you were coming by? You couldn't even pick up the phone to check on Gus, so why should I . . ."

"What . . ." Melanie paused, and swallowed hard, summoning up the breath and the will to hold her temper and speak more calmly. "Why would she be here?"

"Officer Briggs," Lindsey said slowly, "is a member of the Pittsburgh PD, in case you've forgotten. And she's part of the investigation into the attack on Brian."

The lawyer's eyes narrowed; then she strode forward and leaned over to lay one hand on the mostly empty wine bottle. "Investigation huh? Carried on under the influence of an expensive wine - which just happens to be one of your favorites, Linz. Police procedures must have changed significantly since I last had dealings with the local cops. Last I heard, 'Ms. Briggs' and her ilk were more likely to ply you with cheap beer and hip-hop music."

Sharon Briggs rose abruptly, and was instantly gratified to discover that - at her full height - she had a four inch advantage on Melanie Marcus, enabling her to look down her nose at the obviously annoyed attorney. "My . . . ilk? And what ilk would that be, Ms. Marcus? Exactly? Are we talking about a homey influence - with me in dreadlocks, sprinkling my regular speech with Ebonics and packing a bag full of fried chicken and watermelon? Or perhaps it would have been more acceptable if I'd come in a yarmulke, carrying a screw-top bottle of Mogen David and some matzo balls?"

Melanie's fists were suddenly clinched, and she was obviously fighting to suppress an urge to snarl, but she wasn't fighting very hard. "How dare you?"

"How dare I what? Sling ugly stereotypical racial slurs at you, while you obviously feel free to indulge in the same without fear of reprisal?"

"I wasn't . . ."

"Yes, Mel. You were." And the tone of Lindsey's voice said that there would be no argument on this score. "Comes under the heading of 'turn about's fair play'. Now, what do you want? It's late, and I'm . . ."

"I want to know where - and how - our son is, and when . . . when you're going to put all this foolishness aside and come home - like you should." Melanie had deliberately turned her back on Sharon Briggs in an effort to rein in her temper and focus her attention and her efforts on the only person she really wanted to address. The effort, however, was only marginally successful, judging from the strident quality of her voice. "Or are you going to let Brian finally get what he's always wanted. Are you going to let him destroy what we've built together? Is that what this is going to be all about, in the end?"

Lindsey let herself sink down onto the ottoman that was fortuitously located right behind her, as her knees seemed suddenly insufficient to support her. "Jesus, Mel! Do you hear yourself? Do you even remember that our wedding would never have happened - without Brian? That we would have lost each other - almost before we came together - if Brian hadn't stepped in to . . ."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" Melanie, patience exhausted, dropped all pretense of camouflaging her anger. "Please tell me we are not going to start singing the praises of 'St. Brian' again. You know him, Lindsey. You know he never does anything for anyone except himself. If he helped us, it was because he didn't want to be bothered with having to take care of Gus. Or you. Why can't you wake up and realize that he figured out that I was the best shot for getting rid of you and your baggage?"

Even Sharon Briggs - completely peripheral to this phase of the conversation - felt the stillness that suddenly permeated the room, as if all the air had been sucked from it, leaving only a dark void in its place.

"My . . . baggage?" Lindsey said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "Is that what my son is - to you? Baggage?"

"Not to me," cried Melanie, too outraged now to pay close attention to the look in her partner's eyes. "To him. That's all he ever was to Brian - and you know it. He doesn't love Gus. The same way he doesn't love you, and it's way past time for you to grow up and accept that."

Lindsey looked up, and found an unexpected expression of warmth and empathy from the undercover officer, her chef's attire looking slightly ludicrous in this semi-elegant setting. The blond rose slowly, taking a deep breath and pausing to organize her thoughts before offering a response. "From your perspective," she said finally in an eerily calm voice, "I'm sure you're right. You have a very . . . unique definition of love, I think. No. Brian doesn't love me the way a man loves a woman. Or the way he loves Justin, or Gus. And he never will. And I won't even bother to address your belief that he doesn't love either of them, because - frankly - that's none of your business. And you happen to be dead wrong. But I'll tell you how much he does love me - and Gus. He loves us both enough to pretend to be unaware that the money he's provided for all these years is far more than I needed to support Gus. It also supported me - and you - and our daughter. He loves me - and Gus - enough to accept your resentment toward him and ignore your constant attempts to drive a wedge between him and his son. He loves us enough to put up with you, at your worst. What's really too bad . . . is that you apparently don't love us enough to return the favor."

Melanie opened her mouth, rage blazing in her eyes - and found that she couldn't summon up a single, coherent word to say that would refute the accusation against her.

She was right about Brian; she knew she was right. She had always been right. But, in the grip of desperation, she couldn't come up with the facts she needed to document it. And perhaps the bottom line was that there might not be sufficient proof, for Lindsey might go right on believing what she wanted to believe and ignoring all the rest, demonstrating a 'facts-be-damned' attitude that nothing would ever manage to dislodge.

Brian Kinney was costing her everything - her life; her wife; her son. He was winning, and she was turning into . . . No; that was wrong. She wasn't turning into anything; it was him. It was always him. He was turning her into a loser - a victim of his manipulation.

She could not - would not allow it, but - for this moment - she couldn't think of a way to turn the tide in her favor.

Eyes grim and filled with barely contained fury, she glared at her partner for a few, silent moments. Then she turned and stalked out of the suite, arms swinging and spine so rigid that she looked like a majorette setting the pace for a marching band.

The silence behind her was thick, almost acrid with the taste of bitterness.

Until Sharon Briggs settled back into her chair and regarded Lindsey with a sardonic smile. "Didn't you say something about good whiskey? Or should I run down to my muscle car and fetch a pitcher of Kool-Aid?"

It wasn't funny; it shouldn't have been funny. Stereotypes were never funny.

And yet Lindsey laughed. Then she laughed harder and was grateful when Briggs joined in, even though, if pressed, Lindsey could not have explained what she was laughing at, or why it felt so liberating.

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Brian and Chris talked very little when they returned to the house. It was not that they had nothing to say to each other; it was, in fact, exactly the opposite. There was plenty that needed saying, but neither one had any idea of how to go about broaching the necessary subjects or clearing the air.

So the only exchange between them was a brief but thorough report on Katy's condition, as offered by the security team at the hospital, a reassurance that the technical experts were actively pursuing the origin of the phone call Brian had received, and a completely unnecessary precautionary remark from Brian, reminding McClaren that the appointment which Rick Turnage would be making for him - with the unidentified 'specialist' - was not a subject for open discussion or idle commentary.

Thereafter, they spent a few moments staring at each other, oddly comfortable with the silence, and it was uncertain which of them was more surprised when Brian reached out and stroked his thumb through the stubble on McClaren's jaw line in a fleeting but tender caress. Then he simply turned away and hurried into the house, suddenly eager to reach the generous stash of premium quality weed semi-concealed in that discreet little cabinet in the study - the one that everyone in the household knew about but no one bothered to acknowledge.

He doubted that anyone would deny him a bit of chemical comfort for surviving the tribulations of this interminable day.

Behind him, standing on the edge of the deck with pale moonlight pooling around him, Chris McClaren simply stood motionless for a while, staring into nothingness long after Brian had disappeared into the dark interior of the cottage. He spent some time wondering if he had been mistaken - wondering if a simple touch could possibly convey as much as he'd thought he'd heard in that singular moment, without a single word actually being spoken. Wondering if he'd been right in thinking that it was the only kind of good-bye he should ever expect to receive, but no less real, no less fundamental, than the actual words would have been.

Brian wasn't gone yet - but he was going - and the FBI agent knew that he'd been warned to prepare.

Brian - being Brian - had not lingered, had not displayed any ambiguity, which did not mean that he was any less aware than his counterpart; it only meant that he was less disconcerted by having to flounder through uncharted territory. Brian Kinney simply didn't do disconcerted.

And there was that promise of physical, mental, and emotional release that awaited him in the lovely privacy of his office.

But . . . first things first.

He climbed the stairs quickly and made his way to the room that he and Justin shared - the room that now housed his only child. He was overly cautious as he approached the bed, making sure not to disturb the boy's much-needed sleep, and spent several moments simply staring down at Gus, who was snuggled into a rolled-up quilt, with Beau tucked up against him. Someone - Trina, probably - had turned on a light in the adjacent bathroom and left the door just slightly ajar so that the bedroom was not completely dark, and Brian found that watching his son sleep in the gentle reflection was something he would probably never tire of. The little boy - his little boy - was smiling as he shifted slightly, and Brian suddenly felt a lump in his throat that he couldn't quite swallow. His child; who could have imagined that he would have a son of his own? Beyond that, who could have guessed that he would love this tiny being so deeply that the idea of losing him or seeing him harmed in any way would be something he couldn't bear to contemplate?

He leaned forward and skimmed his hand over the dark, spiky hair that was so much like his own, and noted lovely details: the sprinkling of freckles that emphasized the adorable, slightly pug nose; the tiny shadow that marked the suggestion of a cleft in the strong chin; the thick, lush arc of dark lashes against creamy skin; the sweet curve of soft lips, pursed in a tiny pout.

"God!" he whispered finally, barely audible. "You are so beautiful."

He was careful not to speak too loudly. Gus, after all, might not appreciate that particular adjective at this stage of his life. He might even grow up to regard that word as an insult to his masculinity.

Gus might grow up to like . . . girls.

But that was a bridge that need not be crossed just yet. And Brian smiled. There was also the absolute truth of the fact that - when this lovely boy did grow up - he was going to be a primo heartbreaker, and, right now, it didn't seem to matter much whether the victims were male, female - or both. It was a petty thought, and he knew it, but the notion of a new generation of broken hearts a la Kinney put him in the mood for a bit of celebration - and he knew exactly where to find it.

He tucked the quilt more tightly around his son's slender body, dropped a kiss on that tousled, spiky hair, and even soothed the dog with a quick stroke, until it settled more comfortably against Gus's body.

Then he went downstairs where he retrieved his treasured stash, and rolled a joint quickly, his fingers deft and sure from long experience.

He waited until he was outside and moving toward the greenhouse before lighting up and enjoying the first deep drag, the sheer physical pleasure of it inspiring him to contemplate some small nuance of pity for those who had never savored the experience. He couldn't claim to be approaching a state of mellow relaxation - yet - but he would get there soon enough.

He was taken by surprise when he almost stumbled across Trina Thomas as he stepped through the open French door of the greenhouse entrance.

Trina was on her knees, her fingertips tracing through a bright drift of spiky crimson and rose and blush pink flowers, lush and glistening with water droplets in the reflected glow of the security lights scattered randomly along the paths through the structure. A basket at her side was overflowing with perfect samples of the riotously thick blossoms.

Brian took another drag from his joint before fixing her with a sardonic smile. "What are you doing? I don't think I pay you enough to take on the gardening chores - at midnight."

She managed to dredge up a small grin, but it was framed with ca cautious weariness. "Well, you got that right," she replied, deftly plucking a faded blossom from the low free-form planter bed that covered an eight-foot sprawl. "But actually, this is a kind of therapy for me. I find it soothing, and . . . well, this batch of blooms is . . . it's . . ." She fell silent for a moment, before regarding him with a slight nuance of defiance. "You're going to think it's silly, I'm sure, but I kind of . . . promised Simon that I'd take care of this one."

Brian went very still. "You talked . . . to Redding?"

"Yep."

"Why would you . . ."

"Begging your pardon, Master," she retorted, making absolutely no effort to suppress the sarcasm, "but I wasn't aware that your contracted use of my services entitled you to dictate who I get to talk to."

Brian considered it for a moment; then he nodded, but his concession did nothing to melt the ice in his eyes. "You're right. Of course. But there is the matter of him being a security risk - and a potential threat to my . . ."

"The operative word," she interrupted, "being 'potential'." She plucked one more imperfect blossom from the batch in front of her before rising to her feet and tossing the discards into a rubbish bin. Then she turned to regard him with steady resolve.

"I understand why it was necessary to send him away. I really do. And if it were my son at risk - or my lover - I'd probably have done the same. But that doesn't mean that I believe it was the right thing to do. You don't know him, Brian. How could you? But . . ." She paused then, obviously searching for the right words to justify her opinion.

"Do you know what these are?" she asked finally, her hands spreading out to encompass the huge mass of blossoms at her feet.

"Horticulture isn't my thing," he replied, taking another drag of his narcotic of choice and not bothering to wonder where she was going with this. She would get to her point in her own good time and her own fashion. If he had learned nothing else about this enigmatic woman, he had learned that.

"Yeah," she agreed. "I've noticed. Anyway, these are snapdragons, Brian. Very old-fashioned. Not particularly exotic. Fairly common, even. Except in this case, for these specific blossoms are not common at all. Snapdragons are now grown all over the place. They're generally treated as annuals, because they're so readily available that it's hardly worth trying to preserve them through the winter. You just let them die out when they're finished blooming, and plant a new batch when it's time to get ready for the next spring. But not these."

"Okay," he replied, when she paused, as he moved into a shadowy corner of the greenhouse and sprawled on his favorite lounger. "What's so different about these?"

"This particular batch has been here - sheltered, cared for . . . preserved, if you will - for decades."

Brian blinked. "Decades?"

"Yep. For that matter, so have several other specimens here, including many of the clematis vines and some of the bougainvillea. But these particular ones - the snapdragons - are special."

Brian took another drag and then - to her surprise and maybe even his own - he offered it to Trina. Even more surprising - to them both - she accepted the offer.

"If you break out in a chorus of 'My Favorite Things'," he remarked, "this conversation is officially over."

She laughed. She frequently had no idea why she actually liked this young man so much - but this was not one of those moments.

She sank into a chair and regarded him with a smile. "This," she said, her hands sweeping around to indicate the entire contents of the greenhouse, "is all an homage to a very special young woman. Granted, it's not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill monument, but it's the only one he was ever allowed to offer her."

"Redding?"

"Yep. He was a poor, relatively uneducated black man, hired by Old Man Bailey - the original founding father of this place - because he was good with his hands, because he was a hard worker, and because he knew a bit about farming - and because he 'knew his place'. That's how white supremacists used to express their approval for black men who continued to play the role that white society wrote for them. Simon was one of those black men who sort of . . . slipped through the cracks of the civil rights movement. Born a bit too early, maybe, to be comfortable on the cutting edge of the change, and a little too late to be one of the crowd that got grandfathered in. He just kind of . . . hovered between the extremes. Nothing in the way of family support to see that he got a good education, and not really gifted intellectually - not gifted enough, anyway, to capture the attention of a rising liberal influence hungry for young black causes to champion. Although, if you ever got a chance to talk to him - to really hear what he said and what he thought, I think he'd have surprised you. But, like many of those in his generation, he just stood by and watched history sail on without him. He did his job, kept his head down, avoided controversy - would probably have lived out his life without ever once wandering out into the whole racial/cultural/bigotry complexity except . . . " She sighed, and took another hit off the joint before passing it back to Brian.

"Her name was Lillian . . . and believe this, if you never believe anything else, young Master Kinney: fate can be a cruel bitch. Because here was this handsome, healthy, young black man - reasonably content with his lot in life even if the rebellious youth of his time insisted that he shouldn't be - who went to work one day, just as he had every other day for a number of years, and arrived at the house only to be introduced - hat in hand, of course - to the new mistress of the place. He was the hired hand, and she was the lady of the manor.

"I don't know the details. I don't even know if anything ever really happened between them - and don't give me that smart-ass look, because you know exactly what I mean. She was not exactly welcomed with open arms by the local society ladies. Creole origins and a dark beauty that did not entirely rule out some questions about her racial background . . . well, you can guess the rest. Add to that the fact that she had a wicked sense of humor, and a tendency to ignore the local social mores and laugh at herself and everyone else around her, and . . . well, you can certainly figure the rest out for yourself, since you've never wasted a moment worrying about trivialities like what other people think of you.

"She was like that. You'd have liked her - and she'd probably have tried to adopt you."

He waited then, but she seemed to have lost her train of thought. "So what does this have to do with . . ."

"This place . . . it was special. To her. To both of them, actually. And it's still special to him. I understand why the FBI and your security people felt compelled to take action - to eliminate a possible threat to you. But Simon . . . I don't believe that he would have used this place like that. I don't believe he would have violated something that he holds so precious. They built this flower bed the year before she died, working together to plant the snapdragons in this private spot, which was the only place that they were ever able to relax and forget about prying eyes and wagging tongues. Here, they could enjoy each other's company and practice what they both loved - growing beautiful things. And these flowers are a monument to the time they had together. They keep coming back, year after year after year, because he's made sure that they do. That's why he's been here all the years since she's been gone - not just because it's his job and what he gets paid to do. He does this for her. Preserving this place. Preserving what's left of her. Preserving his memories. He wouldn't defile it by being a part of something so ugly as the attack on you, simply because you happen to love someone society disapproves of. If anyone in the world could understand that - understand you and your life - it's Simon. So . . . even though I know that you did what you had to do, I will also do what I must. He called - just the once - and asked. So I'll tend her flowers, until he can come back to do it himself."

"He told you all this?"

She laughed. "Not in so many words. He never said much, beyond a few little stray comments over the years. But there were rumors, of course. This is a small southern town; gossip is its lifeblood. Plus, I saw some of it for myself. I went to school with Lillian's older daughter, and I came here a few times when I was a girl. While the pillars of local society never did really accept her, all the young people loved Lillian. She had no pretensions - and no patience with those who did. And Simon was . . . he was just always there. Just a presence in her life. Never said much. Made himself scarce mostly. But you could see it in his eyes sometimes, when he let himself look at her, and - once in a great while, if you were very lucky and paid special attention - you could see it in hers."

Brian studied her face, and was somehow not surprised to spot a tracing of tears on the lovely café au lait smoothness of her cheek.

"So . . . you don't think they ever . . ."

"No way of knowing for sure, of course, but . . . no. I don't."

Brian took a drag. "Some people would say that was really stupid of them. Both of them."

"Yes," she agreed. "Some people would." She turned then to stare at him. "But not you."

He smiled, and looked, for just a moment, like he wanted to argue. But then he didn't; he grew quiet, listening to the soft susurration of the night wind, noting how the foliage around them shifted in the shadows, sending coins of light and shadow dancing across the graveled surface of the greenhouse, and let his smile grow to indicate a gentle indulgence. "No. Not me."

He didn't stop to analyze why he felt that way; he didn't even stop to ask himself an even more important question, for he had finally achieved what he'd gone looking for.

He had reached the desirable state of mellow, so he didn't waste time wondering about anything.

Later, though, he might. Maybe he would ask himself how it was that the people who purported to know him best - to know him like the proverbial back of their own hands - would have scoffed at his reply to her comment, would have refused to even consider the possibility that Brian Kinney might know anything about the simple beauty and precious quality of love unrealized, cloistered and preserved in a space forever unreachable. He smiled and refused to dwell on that observation, or wonder how it was that this lovely woman, an acquaintance of only a few weeks and a refugee, in her own way, from a completely different world, could see him so clearly.

It was, he conceded, an intriguing question which he might examine - someday - he thought, as the object of his musings favored him with a remarkably sweet smile before rising to retrieve the basket of lovely blossoms she had gathered and then stepping forward to drop a gentle kiss on Brian's forehead while trailing a quick caress through the thickness of his hair.

Neither spoke again, as both realized that they had said all that needed saying.


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Midnight had come and gone by the time the SUV made the turn through the gate and pulled up in front of the garage. Katy was fast asleep, cradled in her mother's arms, and did not even stir when Lance Mathis lifted her and carried her into the house, with Cynthia walking alongside, never losing contact, her hand continuously stroking the silky strands of her daughter's blond locks.

Justin, from his place in the front seat, watched in silence as the group made its way up onto the deck and into the cottage, while Howie and Delia exited from the escort vehicle, and Eugene walked back to the gatehouse to report to Chris McClaren - and when in God's name did that man ever sleep? Or was he just one of the walking dead, a creature of the night with no need for the restorative properties of slumber?

Justin remained seated for a while, looking out through the window to the shore, where the tide was going out now, leaving a dark, uneven shadow on the sand.

The house was dark - silent - but it was not completely still. A moving shadow at an upstairs window indicated that Ron Peterson was still awake, and lights were still on at the rear of the house.

Gus would be sleeping, of course. His grandfather had let him call to tell Justin 'Good night' when he'd finally been convinced that it was bedtime, or, more likely, when he just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and Justin had promised massive castle-building efforts for the morning.

Just minutes later, Brian had called to speak to Cynthia who had forgotten to grab her cell phone in the rush of the emergency, and the sharp tension in his voice had not eased until she'd delivered the good news that Katy was going to be just fine, and would sport nothing worse than a spectacular bruise as a souvenir of her misadventure - a badge of valor which the teen-ager was looking forward to displaying for the entire household.

It had been chaos at the ER - something that was apparently a normal condition on a week-end night - and they had all been grateful for the presence of Kevin Halloran, who had elected to follow them to the hospital in his own car and run interference in order to avoid unnecessary delays and dispense with red tape. Although FBI credentials ordinarily opened doors quickly and efficiently, emergency medical settings were frequently chaotic and disorganized, and completely unimpressed by security protocols and government hierarchies. In the end, having a member of the emergency staff on hand to step in on their behalf proved to be an invaluable asset. Justin had been appreciative, of course, but had not enjoyed having to wait to speak to Brian as Halloran took center stage to deliver a brief but thorough report summing up Katy's condition.

Justin had managed to control his impatience - barely - knowing that the young doctor was the kind of tender morsel who would, under normal circumstances, have inspired him to utilize all his seductive wiles to get Brian as far away from temptation as possible; he had not failed to notice the tiny, subversive sparks of interest in the medical student's eyes when he'd responded to Brian's admiring gaze back at the cottage. Still, it would be churlish in the extreme to demonstrate the measure of his distrust when Halloran had been instrumental in getting Katy the treatment she needed in a timely fashion. Nevertheless, he would make sure that there would be no further contact between the handsome young doctor and the Stud of Liberty Avenue. He was grateful for the help - but he was not stupid.

After Brian had been sufficiently reassured, Justin had finally managed to find a private moment for a bit of personal conversation, but their connection had been sporadic and halting and finally faltered altogether, and they had decided to end the call in a mutual display of irritation.

Still, it had not ended badly.

"I'll be waiting for you," Brian had assured him. "In the greenhouse."

Justin had managed - just barely - not to run out into the parking lot and launch himself into a flurry of handsprings. He loved Gus; he loved him more than he could express - almost as much, he thought, as Brian did. But that did not change the fact that the child's presence in their bed had served as a wet blanket when it came to their sex life.

He was hungry; he wanted - no, he needed a huge dose of that legendary Brian Kinney cock, 'huge' being the operative word.

Quickly, noting that his breathing was already unsteady and that there was a growing pressure in his crotch, he climbed out of the car and hurried toward the house, taking a moment to zip into the study and retrieve and program his iPod, along with a few other supplies. He knew exactly what he was going to do - and what kind of accompaniment he needed to pull it off - 'off' being the operative word.

Then he thought about it for a moment, and decided that he needed a few more props, in order to achieve the effect he wanted, for he realized that he didn't want to be the only one hard and hungry and panting with need. He wanted Brian to feel the same; he wanted to be needed, desired, and craved.

He wanted Brian Kinney almost on his knees - almost begging.

Almost.

He hurried to gather the rest of his supplies before heading out the door, making a quick detour to the gatehouse where Chris McClaren turned to look at him with lifted brow. It was immediately obvious that he'd noted the variety of items that Justin was balancing in his arms and realized that something was definitely up, but he chose to say nothing, simply waiting for Justin to explain the purpose of his visit.

"If you value your life," said Justin, refusing to explain anything but making his purpose very clear, "do not come anywhere near the greenhouse for the next, ummm, hour - or so."

The FBI agent snickered. "Yeah. Right. Enjoy yourself, Stud Muffin. But just . . . just take care. Make sure he's all right before you spring your little ambush."

Though every nerve in his body, not to mention every instinct in his mind, was screaming at him to turn around and rush away to find what he had been thinking about for many long hours, something else whispered to him, taunted him - insisted that there was something more here, something he needed to discover - and he went very still.

"Why wouldn't he be all right?"

McClaren shrugged. "Rough day. You know."

"He's had plenty of rough days lately. But he's fine. He'll always be fine."

McClaren reached out suddenly and gripped Justin's wrist, hard enough to bruise. "Are you really so sure about that? Do you just automatically accept what you see on the surface - and never look any deeper? Never try to understand the things he doesn't say? Some motherfucker called him tonight - to taunt him, to make sure that he understood how close he came to losing his son. That's the world he lives in; that's the world he has to exist in. So you need . . . you need to find his truth. The real truth."

"Jesus!" Justin felt something seize up in his chest, as he realized exactly what such a call would have done to Brian.

"Yeah. Now do you understand, Justin? Now do you see?"

Swallowing a burst of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, Justin managed to produce a lopsided smile, albeit a very small one. "You called me 'Justin". Should I be scared?"

"Of course, you should be scared, Twink. Did you hear what I said?"

Justin took a deep breath, struggling to hang on to the bravado that was the only thing making it possible to him to remain calm - relatively. "Of course I heard it. Do you think I don't know what it does to him - what he feels whenever he's confronted with anything that supports his conviction that he's responsible for every bad thing that happens or might happen? To Gus - or to me? Or to anybody that he fucking cares about? Do you really think I'm that stupid, or that he'd waste his time on somebody who was? I know all about it; trust me. I do, but . . ."

Justin paused, suddenly unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

"But what?" The FBI agent prompted, sounding slightly pensive, slightly less belligerent than before, but still impatient enough to insist on a deeper explanation.

Justin was slow to answer, reluctant to speak at all, but finally choosing to do so, apparently realizing that he was not going to be given an alternative. "But if I let him see it - if I let him know how much it scares me - then he goes hyper-defensive, super-controlling on me, and tries to push me so far away that I wouldn't feel the fall-out if he went down under a nuclear explosion. I can't let him do that, Chris. Do you understand that? He may not admit it - may never allow himself to know it - but I can't live without him. I tried; I really did, but . . . in the end, without him, my life is empty and cold and meaningless. And here's the part that he's never going to concede: it's the same for him. Neither one of us is ever going to be complete without the other. So - for now - I do what he needs me to do, and if that means playing the role that he writes for me, then that's how I play it. God knows, it ain't perfect, but it works. It gets us through the bad times."

Acting strictly on instinct and putting caution and reason aside, the FBI agent pulled the younger man close and stared down into his eyes. "God damn!" he muttered. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? So fucking beautiful that it hurts to look at you. And I do know how he feels about you, no matter how much I wish I didn't. In fact, nobody knows it better than me. But here's a basic truth, Justin - hard to put into words but true just the same. You have to be bigger - bigger than he thinks you are. You have to look deeper. You have to see better, because - no matter how much he denies it - he's living with more pain than he can handle. Today . . . today was almost too much. And if you can't figure that out, if you don't manage to push through all the crap and see the man he is - inside - then . . ."

"Then what?" Justin's instinct was to jerk free and snarl his defiance. But something else - something deeper and more visceral than his momentary annoyance - held him still. "Then what?" he repeated - louder and sharper.

It was uncertain which of them was more surprised when McClaren leaned forward and covered Justin's lips with his own - just for one, fleeting, harsh, breath-taking moment. It was so quick, so reflexive, that it was over before Justin could even think of reacting. "Then," McClaren whispered, pulling away just a bit, "you lose him. And he loses everything. Dig in, Justin, and dig deep. You're strong enough, and I think you love him enough. But don't fool yourself into thinking it's going to be easy. Brian Kinney is never easy. He never will be."

Justin's eyes were huge and glossy with unshed tears. Then he smiled. "But worth it?" he asked softly.

McClaren grinned and stepped back. "Oh, yeah."

Justin shifted slightly, but he did not run. He simply stood there for a moment, looking up into the shadowed depths of cobalt blue eyes, steely with resolve. Then he smiled. "Okay. I can hardly believe it, but - for once - we agree on something."

"Yeah. We do."

Justin moved then, racing away into the night and hurrying toward the only refuge he would ever really need and the only man who would ever be able to provide it, realizing as he ran that some things would never change; Chris McClaren would still never make his Christmas card list, and that was unlikely to change - ever. But maybe - someday - at some random moment, he might spare a thought for the FBI agent and remember a debt he owed and a cost that he had not been required to pay, because someone else had paid it for him.

Maybe. Occasionally. But not tonight.

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

Justin was careful to approach the greenhouse in silence, tamping down on an almost uncontrollable urge to break into a sprint and leap forward to claim that which made his life worthwhile. But he forced himself to slow down, suppressing his own impatience to achieve an unexpected level of serenity. As much as he wanted to throw himself into Brian's arms and devour Brian's lips and body, he also wanted to watch for a moment, to savor the anticipation, to revel in the certainty of his welcome within those sheltering arms.

The greenhouse was always a peaceful place - warm and welcoming and beautiful - but, at night, thick with shadows, it took on an additional persona. It became a place of mystery, of soft, uncertain focus where a tiny sidestep might very well allow fantasy to shift into reality. The play of light and shadow made it seem to linger just on the edges of possibility, a product of perception as much as fact.

He paused in the deep gloom just outside the spill of the pale glow of the path lighting, and found himself barely able to breathe as he took in the details of the beautiful tableau laid out before him.

The corner of the structure where Brian was sprawled out on a cushioned lounge was more secluded and heavily shadowed than the rest of the interior, and Justin wondered - fleetingly - if that arrangement might be deliberate. A quick, sweeping glance around the interior of the greenhouse confirmed that there was no direct line-of-sight from that corner to any observation point within the cottage. Interesting - and extremely convenient, he thought with a smile that contained not a single trace of innocence.

The chill of the night air, along with the dampness of the ocean-side setting, should have been intense enough to compel Brian to clothe himself against the physical discomfort, but, once more, the greenhouse provided sufficient shelter to allow him to disregard such a need, insulating him with layers of lush foliage and sheets of glass. Thus, the corner was comparatively warm and protected from the elements, and he was clad accordingly - jeans that hugged that perfect ass, fitting exactly as jeans should always fit on such a body - and nothing else. The sculpted surfaces of his chest, his arms, his shoulders were all revealed by the gentle glow of the interior illumination, slightly misted by tendrils of smoke from the joint in his hand; his head was turned slightly to the right so that his profile was clean and perfect against the dark foliage that climbed the trellis behind him, and off to his left, just within a drift of shadow, the lyrical splash of the multi-tiered fountain caught occasional glimmers of ambient light, reflecting soft flickers of radiance to touch his face and even spark glints of auburn from the thick thatch of his hair as he nestled against a plush pillow.

He had always been beautiful; that was a given. But he had never been more so than he was at that exact moment.

Justin paused, fighting to swallow around a huge lump - the kind that always formed in his throat when he was caught unawares, at moments when he had allowed himself to forget the stunning physical perfection of his partner and stumbled across an unexpected vision of that loveliness, a beauty so stunning, so heart-wrenching that his mind was suddenly empty of everything except the painful certainty of how much he loved this man, and how dark his life would become should he ever lose him.

He spent a moment savoring the view, tasting the rich sensation of the tableau on his tongue, like fine, distinctive wine, before managing to shake off the spell of enchantment and recall the details of his campaign of seduction. He didn't really want to hurry, but certain details of his plan precluded dawdling.

Thus he moved quietly, taking care to arrange his supplies for both security and ease of access while Brian remained still, eyes closed and chest moving in a soft rhythm as he concentrated on the virtuoso acoustic guitar work and singular, slightly roughened voice of Eric Clapton.

Justin hesitated again, just to listen.

Then we'd go running on faith;
All of our dreams would come true,
And our world will be right
When love comes over me and you.*

The voice, the cadence, the lyrics - everything about the song seemed to slip under his guard to inhabit a special, hidden place in his heart, and he wondered if the same might be true for Brian; he even wondered if that might account for his lover's preference for Clapton unplugged - a preference that would probably have surprised most of Brian's friends, as he was much more likely to be associated with heavy metal and hard rock and his affection for Billy Idol - or jazz of the coolest persuasion. It was vaguely distracting to realize how few people would recognize the deeper, more complex details of the man none of them knew as well as they thought they did - a man who had a compelling affinity for rogue individualists like Oscar Wilde or James Joyce or J. D. Salinger, while dismissing Hemingway as a "lightweight"; a man who could quote Dylan Thomas on virtually any subject if he wanted to - but almost never did; a man who had a snide affinity for Lewis Carroll's specific, amazing brand of lunacy and never bothered to explain why; a man who could contemplate the intricacy of Bob Dylan's efforts, and recognize the innate difference between the works of genius and the drivel written just to please the masses.

A man unlike any other; a man that very few would ever understand.

Another intriguing topic - for another day - but for now, time was awastin', and Blue Bell Cookies 'n Cream ice cream - "best in the world," according to Trina, barring the Butter Crunch version which was, unfortunately, off limits for Brian - was waiting in a small cooler in a niche by the doorway, hopefully softening just enough to be drippable and smearable across a tantalizingly beautiful naked chest, and liquid enough to invite an eager tongue to retrieve it or use it to paint sensual swirls on golden skin.

But for now . . . he needed a bit of stage setting.

He managed to move quickly and silently across the shadowed interior of the greenhouse and switch out his pre-programmed iPod for the one that had been providing mood music for Brian's current bout of lethargy.

Then he took his position and waited for his cue.

There was absolutely nothing lethargic about the hard, driving blast of heavy guitar, thumped through with hard drumbeats, a la Foreigner, that shattered the peaceful ambiance of the night; nor was there anything remotely laid-back or lazy about Justin's movements as he leapt into a pool of light just a few feet away from the grotto in which Brian was reclining, and began to systematically, sensually, and provocatively strip off his clothing to the coarse beat of one of the band's biggest hits.

Brian stared for a moment; then he grinned, his expression as feral as an alpine wolf in winter, as Justin pantomimed the lyrics of the song, grinding his hips in perfect harmony. The grin grew wider - and hungrier - as Brian realized, not for the first time, that his young lover could have been a professional erotic dancer if he'd wanted. His breathing grew labored as he watched Justin draw closer, and use his shirt like a veil to tantalize, draping it around his torso like a ribbon, and then trailing it through his fingers, revealing skin as pale and creamy as silk

"Now it's up to you;
We can make a secret rendezvous,
Just me and you;
I'll show you loving like you never knew.
That's why . . .
I'm hot blooded." **

Brian shifted slightly to get a better view, and a stray beam of light revealed that his 501s were actually unbuttoned, and there was no indication that he had bothered with underwear when he'd changed into the well-worn jeans. The upper edge of a dark, lush triangle of pubic hair was a stark contrast against golden skin. Brian Kinney, after all, did not tolerate tan lines. As Justin twisted with the rhythm of the music, running his hands down across his chest and then further down, skimming past his waist, and stroking across his belly and the triangle of creamy skin revealed by his open fly, his eyes were riveted to the tantalizing bulge beneath Brian's fingers. The blond tried to concentrate on his own agenda, on generating enough heat to intensify the sparks of lust he read in passion-dark eyes, but found that he was as much intrigued and inspired as his intended victim. It was difficult to control his breathing and to resist the growing urge to stop dancing and start something more tactile.

"Are you old enough?
Will you be ready when I call your bluff?
Is my timing right?
Did you save your love for me tonight?"**

The dancer gyrated slowly, turning so that he was looking back over his shoulder, biting his lip to control the urge to smile while watching Brian watch him, watching Brian want him, watching Brian . . .

Shit! Watching Brian's hand slip down inside his jeans and wrap around the massive throbbing bulge concealed in the shadows of his crotch. This was not going the way Justin had planned it out. It was Brian who was supposed to be so hard and aching that he could barely breathe; it was Brian who was supposed to go boneless and mindless with hunger; it was Brian who should be on the verge of explosive decompression in his need for the touch of Justin's dick; it should be Brian. Not Justin.

But there was absolutely no denying the huge, aching throb in his own groin as he watched long, deft fingers delve further into that dark triangle and begin to move in a distinctive, unmistakable rhythm.

"No!" Unable to restrain the urge, Justin jumped forward and jerked Brian's hand free of its place between his legs.

And immediately, the lust in those night-dark, pupil-blown eyes was sparked with glints of fury. "What the fuck are you doing?" Brian demanded, his voice rough, almost hoarse.

"That," answered Justin, soft and breathless, "is mine. Not yours to play with."

Brian went very still. "You staking a claim, Sunshine?"

Justin felt a tiny tremor of unease deep in his chest, as he realized that he wasn't sure just what he was hearing in his lover's tone - derision, skepticism, amusement . . . or defiance.

"Yes. That belongs to me." Then he grinned. "Unless you decide otherwise."

The stillness lasted for a few more seconds - or a few more lifetimes. Justin would never be sure which. Until Brian smiled, allowing the remnants of any anger he might have felt to just slide away into oblivion. But the message - though unspoken and unacknowledged - had still been clear enough.

Brian Kinney could only be claimed . . . if Brian Kinney decided to allow it.

Justin briefly considered lodging a dispute, but, in the end, he didn't. Other things - more pertinent to the moment - demanded his immediate attention.

The song was building to its crescendo as he unbuttoned his own jeans and let them fall, turning as he did so to take advantage of the drift of the soft light against his body which touched him like a fine mist, emphasizing the pallor of his skin against the dark foliage around him. The effect was definitely not lost on the man who lay watching him.

Then he moved forward, deliberately displaying the tube of lubricant that he'd extracted from his pocket; he knelt at the bottom of Brian's lounge chair before scooting forward to settle himself astride his lover's thighs. Looking directly into Brian's eyes, he began to prepare himself, his breath growing short as he lifted himself up and watched Brian studying the angle of his body and his fingers as he slowly, repeatedly pushed into the sweet darkness of his own channel.

Brian swallowed - just once - but it was enough to make Justin smile. It did not, however, prepare him for Brian's quick movement that grabbed him by the biceps and jerked him forward until he could feel the hardness of Brian's groin thrusting up against him. "And that?" said Brian, in a harsh whisper. "Is that mine?"

And there was then no more time for thinking or arguing or claiming territory - or words. There was only the need, the all-consuming need.

Justin lifted up to wrap his hands in the fabric of Brian's jeans and yanked them down and off in one hard jerk. Then he dropped to his knees and buried his face in that thick thatch of pubic hair, nuzzling for a moment before wrapping his mouth around the thick throb of that perfect dick and licking voraciously, like he couldn't get enough of its sharp, musky taste, coating it first with a generous slick of his saliva and then, with one twist of his hand, lubing it from base to tip before leveraging his body up and over, to reposition himself, hovering for just a heartbeat to look down at the sheer perfection of the body laid out beneath him before sliding down hard and fast, impaling himself and then going as still as stone, allowing himself time to adjust while reveling in every twitch and throb of the massive organ that filled him to capacity.

Brian was not quite as successful in achieving complete stillness. Though he managed to suppress an almost irresistible urge to thrust up into that luscious voracious heat, he could not prevent the tremor that shook him as he bit down hard on his lower lip to stifle the guttural groan that rose in his throat. At the same time, he arched his back and gripped his hands on Justin's thighs, hard enough to bruise.

"So," he managed to mutter through clinched teeth, "is this the plan then? Fucking hard to Foreigner?"

And at that instant, as if planned, the hard-driving thrust of the rock number ended, followed by a quick beat of silence.

"No," Justin whispered. "The plan is . . . "

The music that rose around them then was gentle, beautiful, a sweet velvet stroke against silken skin.

"Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words."***

"Fucking soft . . . to Flack."

Brian laughed, but it was a gentle sound, as subtle and warm as the light glowing in his dark eyes as he watched Justin edge forward and lean down to fit his body, skin-to-skin, slick and clinging against Brian's torso while he set up an easy, delicious rhythm, clinching and unclinching on the throbbing hardness within him.

Justin was primed and ready to allow Brian's forceful nature to take over, to set the pace which would grow harder and faster, and then harder and faster again. Thus he was astonished when that didn't happen. Not immediately, anyway.

In Brian Kinney vernacular, they had fucked hundreds, perhaps even thousands of times but they had never fucked like this.

Their bodies moved together, keeping time with the soft beat of the music, as Justin leaned forward and explored Brian's mouth, allowing his own to be explored in turn, as Brian moved his hands to span Justin's ass, to balance him and caress him, but not - for the moment - to brace him for deeper penetration and harder action. As Justin lifted and settled, grinding crotch to crotch to intensify the slow friction between them, Brian shifted slightly, adjusting his angle so that every upstroke allowed him to nudge against that perfect, magic nub within Justin's passage, setting off sparks of pure euphoria with every thrust.

Justin pulled away a bit, so he could gaze down into the eyes that were looking up at him, totally open and unmasked for once, filled with passion and hunger and need and a vulnerability that was normally concealed beneath layers of bravado and pride. It was an exchange unlike any other they'd ever shared, and Justin went totally still, as Roberta picked her moment.

"He sang as if he knew me
In all my dark despair,
And then he looked right through me
As if I wasn't there."

"Promise me you won't," Justin whispered, pushing down and clinching tight and feeling - once more - the incredible sensation of being filled by Brian - being owned by Brian. "Promise me you'll never look through me, that you'll always see me."

Going completely still for the space of a heartbeat, Brian caught his bottom lip between his teeth in a burst of sheer panic, before realizing that the comment was just a reaction to the lyric. The request was clear enough in itself; it carried no hidden purpose. It was, however, enough to drive him to renew his claim, his ownership of the body that surrounded him, staking its own claim in return.

He tightened his grip on that sweet, perfect ass and thrust upwards, claiming more, slipping deeper.

"I will always see you." His voice was hoarse, almost guttural and veined with something that might have sounded like desperation, for anyone sufficiently detached to notice and identify. Which Justin, of course, was not. "I will always see you - just as you are right here. Right now. Mine. Completely mine."

And, at that exact point in time, it was true - true enough, at least, that Brian saw no need to look beyond that moment - no reason to explore a future that might never happen. Thus, he drove ever deeper, setting a new pace, reaching for new plateaus of joining, burying himself and his consciousness within the perfect refuge that was Justin.

As they soared together, climbed higher and higher together, and ultimately exploded together, falling into new levels of mind-blowing physical ecstasy and plunging into a sensation of oneness, of union, that they had never achieved before, neither was capable of coherent thought, but both sensed that they had reached a new place, a new degree of togetherness.

A new connection, unparalleled in their history and formed within the framework of one infinite moment.

Brian - had he been capable of speech - would have acknowledged it as "the best fuck ever", which it was, but they both knew that it was much more than that.

It was at least an hour before they recovered enough to investigate the delights of Blue Bell Cookies 'n' Cream and explore, with eager fingers and facile tongues and warm, shared laughter, the possibilities it presented.

Meanwhile, in the deepest hours of the night, the FBI and security teams continued their patrols, guarding against whatever might lurk in the darkness beyond the perimeter, waiting for an opportunity. It was rare for the primary agent on site to walk night patrol, but it was even more rare for a breach such as the one experienced earlier to occur at this particular level of protection, so any attempt at getting a normal night's sleep would have been futile for Chris McClaren, who opted to spend the night guarding the beachfront. During the long hours of his patrol, he avoided the areas closest to the cottage and welcomed the crash of the waves and the moan of the night wind.

The sounds of the ocean were loud enough - almost - to block out everything else, and the roughhewn, granite-like surface of the cliffs to the South were a fair approximation of the complete lack of expression on the FBI agent's face. As dawn approached, there were occasional spurts of rain, which would have obscured any traces of tears on that stoic visage, just in case there had been any tears in need of obscuring.

Which there weren't. Of course.

FBI agents in general - and Chris McClaren in particular - did not weep; did not allow themselves to react to pain or loss, did not even acknowledge that such reactions were remotely possible.

Nevertheless, he thought, as the wind chafed his skin and misted his face with stray drops of salt water, it was proving to be a very long night.

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

Emmett leaned against the bar and watched the crowd on the dance floor sing along and grind hips and torsos in time with Poison's hard driving version of Look What the Cat Dragged In as he sipped his third Cosmo of the night and decided that being the boss - or acting in his stead - was no fucking fun at all. On an ordinary night, when Brian would be exercising his territorial rights - either downing shots of JB at the bar, or grinding against a luscious piece of blond boy-ass on one of the platforms or giving a how-to demonstration in the backroom or his VIP suite or even sitting in his office, smoking a pricy joint and venting his anger about whatever might have upset him . . . anyway, on such a night - with God in His heaven and all right with the world - Emmett could have been falling-down, can't-feel-my-tongue, who-cares-whose-hand-is-down-my-pants drunk by this hour.

But none of that was happening on this night, and three Cosmos were hardly enough to give rise to even a tiny little buzz.

On the other hand, the big, beautiful hand and lusciously-muscled arm that was fixed around his waist was almost enough of a consolation to compensate for the lack.

Almost.

He took a moment to review the recent events of his life, still not entirely sure that he had taken it all in, and he smiled when he realized that most people would find this particular venue completely inappropriate for this kind of reflection. Logically, one did not immerse one's consciousness in the mind-blowing thumpa-thumpa of Babylon at its
wildest in order to contemplate changes in lifestyle. But that - somehow - was exactly what Emmett was doing; was, to some degree, what he'd always done. He functioned best here - in the place that seemed tailor-made for him. He conceded that it would make no sense to anyone else, but it made perfect sense to him.

His life today was just settling into its new configuration, and he was still reeling - just a bit. In some ways, it had happened so quickly that it had felt like a whirlwind; in others, it had been years in coming. And now - here he was. Standing on the edge of a new, committed relationship with a man who had become the center of his universe, achieving an astonishing degree of professional success with both his catering business and his new position as confidante/designate of Brian Kinney, earning the respect of local business leaders and society movers and shakers, and the co-owner of a new home - so new to him and his partner that it was still primarily furnished with packing crates - except for the bed, of course. That had been the very first piece of furniture purchased for the classic townhouse.

Not too shabby, he thought, for a "piece of trash from Hazlehurst, Mississippi". It was a measure of how far he'd come that he could now contemplate the memory of that phrase and its origin, and not cringe away from it.

He could still hardly believe how rapidly things had changed.

It had only been a few months since he and Calvin Culpepper had reached a mutual decision to let go of their natural reticence enough to begin to explore the limits of their relationship, both uncertain of how far things might go, and he still wondered, occasionally, what might have happened if things had not shifted so radically, if the world had not drifted into a dramatic new orbit to turn on an unexpected axis and bring Drew Boyd back into his life.

Emmett still felt that he owed Calvin a huge apology, although the southerner had not seemed particularly surprised nor annoyed by the way things had worked out. Apparently, he had known the truth of Emmett's heart even before Emmett did.

Emmett turned then and allowed his green eyes, only slightly awash with unsated lust, to drift down the magnificent body posed beside him, leaning against the bar with easy grace. Drew - being Drew - read his thoughts perfectly and confined his response to a gentle smile.

God! That smile was almost enough to send him racing toward the stairs where he would drag his companion behind him, up to the sanctuary of Brian's office which was, for all intents and purposes, now his office where he could have his way with that fabulous body. Although, for some reason, he had never actually gone through with it - had never actually done the deed in that office.

He wasn't entirely sure why.

Then he sighed and sipped his Cosmo. Yes, he was; he knew exactly why. Because it was Brian's office, and some stubborn, stupid little voice in the back of his mind insisted that it would be a violation.

A violation. How stupid was that - and how would Brian Kinney laugh to hear such a ridiculously romantic notion!

Another sip; another sigh, and he turned to find Drew watching him with tender, sympathetic eyes that reflected so much love that it almost made his heart skip a beat. He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve that level of devotion, but he planned to make sure that he continued to do it, providing he could figure out what it was.

For his part, Drew reminded himself - as he did at least twice a day, every day - to count his blessings - to be grateful that he had managed to find his way through the stupidity of his own 'gay adolescence' - a term that Emmett had coined and explained when Drew had been abominably ignorant about what was happening to him - and find that Emmett was still there and only semi-attached to someone else.

The former quarterback owed a huge debt of gratitude to Calvin Culpepper, the man who had filled in for him, who had held Emmett's hand and warmed his bed and saved the place that Drew had left vacant in the haste of his departure to explore his strange, enchanting new world. And then, when Drew had finished his journey to adulthood, Culpepper had stepped aside, knowing instinctively that his term of occupancy was over - that he had been nothing more than a renter whose lease had been terminated. He had held Emmett's heart in trust and returned it at exactly the right moment to its rightful owner.

Culpepper, displaying the kind of graciousness that was considered to be stereotypical of southern gentlemen, had been diffident and charming, soft-spoken and retiring, and assured both Emmett and Drew that he was fine with the way things worked out - that he had expected it all along.

Emmett, apparently relieved by the easy resolution and grateful for the lack of a dramatic, nasty confrontation, had accepted those assurances, thanking his former companion for his understanding. Drew had echoed those thanks, appreciating the man's kindness. But he had seen what Emmett had not. When Emmett had turned to walk away, to step into the new life that was awaiting the two of them, Drew had happened to be looking straight at Culpepper and seen the quick flare of deep pain in the southerner's eyes. It had been gone almost before it formed, but it had been very real and very strong.

Drew, at that point, had stepped forward to shake Calvin Culpepper's hand and to murmur a soft, heartfelt expression of thanks - and sympathy.

One day he would find an opportunity to express his gratitude properly. With a prime filet at LeMont, perhaps, or a bottle of Dom Perignon. Or, with a little luck, with an introduction to some lovely young thing with a fondness for a Mississippi drawl. But whatever he did, It would only be a gesture; there was no way any gift could ever express the degree of his gratitude. Emmett, of course, would not recognize the deeper significance of the gesture, but he would be touched nonetheless, and that was the only thing that mattered, in the end.

He smiled as Emmett sipped, before tossing off the remainder of his shot of Chivas. He loved Emmett; he knew that now, and knew that he was finally ready to deal with it and that Emmett had been wise to push him away when they'd first been together. If he had never explored, never learned about the temptations and gratifications of his new reality, he would never have recognized the value of the treasure that was now his to claim.

On the other hand, he would rather drink acid than swill that nasty pink shit that Emmett thrived on. He was happy to be half of a loving, intimate, sentimental, committed relationship with his nelly-bottom boyfriend, but he drank like Brian Kinney, and he occasionally wondered if the two of them might have other things in common.

It was just an idle thought - much the way people of all sexual persuasions cast appreciative glances toward Brad Pitt or John Barrowman or the latest celebrity underwear model; it made no difference at all whether or not the object of speculation was straight or gay, available or spoken for, interested or not. It was just a factor of life, and, in this case, Drew was pretty sure that his boyfriend - the loyal and totally faithful love of his life - was equally curious. No one - barring the dead and certain individuals of the Lesbianic persuasion - passed within the orbit of Brian Kinney without feeling at least some tiny nuance of curiosity.

The man was a legend, and all reports indicated that he had earned that status.

It was certainly food for idle speculation - but nothing more than that for the two of them. Drew wasn't entirely sure at what point they had achieved a committed status; all he knew for sure was that it existed. It was real. It was Emmett and Drew - now and forever, or as close to forever as time, tide and the vagaries of the human condition allowed.

Emmett drained the last of his drink, slapped his glass down on the bar with a resounding clink, and nestled close against his partner's side, pushing his face into the dark softness beneath Drew's jaw-line and breathing deeply to inhale the man's slightly musky distinctive scent. "Penny for 'em," he whispered.

Drew grinned. "Oh, they're worth a lot more than that, Baby, but this might not be the right time - or place - unless you want to take a trip to the back room, but . . ." He nibbled for a moment at Emmett's temple. "Our bed is so much softer, and lets me thrust so much deeper into your hot little ass, so . . . "

Emmett pulled back with a grin and mimed fanning himself. "If you don't shut up, you're going to be shoving into that hot little ass right here on the fucking bar."

Drew's grin grew wider as he leaned forward to claim that soft, bee-stung mouth that was at the beginning and end of every dream he'd had for the last few months, as he visualized the lovely warmth that was waiting for them at home. It was never going to make the front page of House Beautiful or The Architectural Digest, and it wasn't anywhere near the same league as the penthouse he had once purchased as a gift for his new bride, but it was what Emmett had wanted. Moreover, it was a place where each of them could feel at home as equal partners. It would be foolish in the extreme for anyone to pretend that they were on equal financial footing; it was Drew who had signed the multi-million dollar NFL contract, retiring only after a severe shoulder injury had put an end to his glory days on the football field; thus it was Drew who would be financially secure for the rest of his life whether or not he ever worked again.. Without much of a stretch, he could easily have bought and sold downtown Pittsburgh, so he assumed most of the financial responsibilities for their partnership - unofficial as of yet, but not, perhaps, for long. But it was Emmett who provided the emotional grounding for their union, who transformed the simple little house into the perfectly lovely (if slightly more colorful than Drew might have preferred) home they both wanted, and who left his indelible mark on the unbreakable ties that bound them together.

Drew Boyd was a lucky man, and he knew it, and he was just on the verge of demonstrating the depth of his knowledge with a suitably intimate PDA when he paused, noticing a sharp, jerky, graceless movement disrupting the easy rhythm of the crowd on the dance floor. Then he took a deep breath in order to suppress an urge to roll his eyes and growl - all at the same time.

"You've got company," he whispered, realizing that he was not really surprised, that he had, in fact, been expecting something like this since the phone call he'd received earlier from Lance Mathis. According to the information provided by his cousin, it had been a red-letter day for all the members of Brian's entourage, including his security team, and it was only logical to expect that there might be further developments. Even on the home front. Not necessarily connected to the events at the beach house, but still part of the general picture.

Emmett, noting and easily interpreting the quick flash of irritation in his partner's eyes, gestured for the Latino bartender to bring him another Cosmo before turning to greet the newcomers, trying - without a lot of success - to make his smile look genuine and warm.

He had hardly seen Teddie at all in the weeks since Brian's departure, barring the train wreck at Debbie Novotny's house and an occasional across-the-room nod - perfunctory and chilly - exchanged during chance encounters at Babylon. And he had seen even less of his old friend's current companion. Barring the occasional Dyke Night, Babylon was a bar for gay men. Few women felt welcome there, although some did drop in occasionally to enjoy the view since, as Debbie was prone to say, there were few things in life more beautiful than physically perfect gay men in their prime.

Ted Schmidt, unfortunately, had never exactly been a member of that select group, though not from lack of aspiration. Even more unfortunately, he had recognized that harsh truth early in life and resented it - and those who effortlessly achieved what he could only envy - bitterly, although he was careful to conceal that bitterness beneath a penchant for sarcasm and an assumption of intellectual disdain.

Emmett sometimes wondered if his old friend really believed that anyone was fooled by his act, but, in the end, he had never made an issue of it, assuming that the pretense was a source of comfort for the accountant - real or imagined.

On the other hand, Emmett knew the truth of it perfectly well. He had always noticed when Ted would flinch away from the casual, callous comments which relegated him to the status of an onlooker in the formation of the gay pecking order; he had seen and identified the longing in the man's eyes when he watched the Brians and the Justins and the Drews and other equally luscious gay blades savor the fruits of victory only available to the physically beautiful - longing which would quickly, inevitably morph into the kind of scorn that is only fueled by envy - the kind that everyone recognizes but no one talks about.

Emmett had always understood the reality, of course, but he had been too soft-hearted to speak of it. Drew Boyd, however, was not so handicapped by emotional vulnerability or old loyalties. He might have been able to summon up some measure of sympathy for Schmidt if he had not also seen and diagnosed the man's pettiness and spiteful attitude, his not-so-subtle tendency to treat Emmett with a jocular disdain that was not nearly as jocular as he pretended, and - ultimately - the venomous nature of his behavior during this painful episode in the life of a man who was supposed to be both employer and friend. What had happened to Brian Kinney was so horrible, so heinous, that any attempt to take advantage of the circumstances, or of him at a time when he was so vulnerable and so damaged, was beneath contempt, as far as Drew was concerned, and he would be happy to take advantage of an opportunity to share his opinion with the man himself. Except for the fact that it would displease Emmett.

So he would keep his mouth shut - for the moment. On the other hand, even Emmett's potential emotional investment was not sufficient protection for Melanie Marcus. Because of her flagrant greed, antagonistic demeanor, and generally obnoxious behavior, she had given up any right she might have had to claim immunity from verbal assault.

"Emmett!" snapped the prime target herself, her voice sharp and icy. "We need to talk."

Emmett managed a smile, although it lacked warmth. "And good evening to you too, Ms. Marcus. So nice of you to drop in, and . . ."

"Emmett, please." Ted's bark indicated that he was obviously not in the mood for pleasantries. "This is serious, and since Michael and Ben and Debbie have all decided to buy the bullshit that's being dished out by Justin and Cynthia, and everybody has drunk the Kool-Ade, so to speak, regarding Brian's unwillingness to accept the truth, you - well - you might be the only one left who can see the whole truth and help us turn this disaster around."

"Meaning," drawled Drew with a tiny smirk, "that he's the only one who might be willing to buy into your version of 'Whatever Happened to Brian Kinney?' and speak on your behalf - before the proverbial axe falls. Right?"

"Emmett," said Melanie, deliberately turning her body so that she was gazing directly into Emmett's eyes but completely excluding his companion, "I don't think I have to remind you that I've been a good friend to you in the past. I was there for you. More than once, I had to help you pick yourself up, and fight your way back to regain your self-respect. I stood by you. Remember that? And now . . . "

"Now what?" Emmett's voice was very flat, completely non-committal. "Now . . . are you calling in a debt, Melanie?"

"Of course not," she purred, favoring him with a smile that she obviously considered winning, although all who witnessed it would have labeled it very differently. "That's not how friendship works, is it? It's just that I'm . . . I'm sort of . . . out of my depth here. On unfamiliar territory, so to speak, so I . . ." She fell silent abruptly, noting something in Emmett's face that made her uncertain of how to proceed.

Drew Boyd, however, was not uncertain in the least as he made a tiny, mostly unsuccessful effort to hide his smile when he leaned forward to offer a private comment, meant for Emmett alone - perhaps - but not quite inaudible to the new arrivals. "My, how the mighty have fallen!"

"Don't you have someone's balls to go play with?" asked Ted, his voice thick with acidic condescension. "Or are you too busy playing guard dog these days?"

"My," echoed Melanie with an ugly smile, "how the mighty have fallen!"

It was obvious then that both Melanie and Ted - in the guise of co-conspirators - expected both Emmett and Drew to crumble in the face of their wicked verbal assault - but it was not to be. Both were slightly astonished when their targets exchanged quick glances, then burst out laughing, until the former football player leaned forward - still smiling - to look directly into Melanie's eyes, then shifted his gaze to regard Ted with cool contempt. "Do you really think Emmett needs me to protect him? From you?" The raw disdain in his tone provided a clearer answer than any spoken word would have, and his grin grew wider as he saw Ted shift slightly away, obviously realizing that - physically - he was in the unfortunate position of looking like a squirrel confronting a mountain lion.

Drew laughed again.

"Can we talk - in private?" That was Melanie again, still determined to set the ground rules for the discussion she was determined to have.

Emmett hesitated just long enough to accept his new drink from the bartender, before replying. "My office?" he asked finally.

"Your office?" A perfect example of typical Ted-speak, with just enough emphasis on the pronoun to indicate his snide opinion of Emmett's use of the term.

But Emmett remained unperturbed. "For the moment."

"Pending the return of the king." Melanie's tone was caustic.

"Exactly." Once more, Emmett was perfectly satisfied to acknowledge an obvious truth.

Drew simply stood at the bar and watched as his partner led the way up the stairs to the office known to every patron of Babylon as 'Brian's Lair'.

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

Emmett paused for a single moment as he swept into the owner's suite. It would be considerate of him to behave graciously to his guests, to seat them on the little sofa against the rear wall and offer them refreshment and to seat himself there in the comfy armchair and play host, playing to the concept of one big happy family.

Only he wasn't feeling very familial. He was slightly surprised that Ted - who had always claimed to know him so very well - had not yet figured out that the emotion that had been driving him throughout the aftermath of the attack on Brian was not pride or ambition or duty or self-satisfaction; it was anger, and he couldn't think of two people more deserving of feeling the lash of its power than the two following him into the room, undoubtedly using these moments to gird their loins and prepare their arguments, completely unaware that - barring a miracle - they were doomed to failure.

Squaring his shoulders and suppressing a grim smile, Emmett moved around the desk and sank into the exquisite suede comfort of Brian's executive chair as Ted and Melanie, without awaiting an invitation, settled into the two smaller chairs arranged side by side in front of the desk.

"So," Emmett said slowly, touching a control in a recessed panel to adjust the lighting in the room, "what can I do for you?"

Ted grinned. "Mel would probably like a martini, and I could use a cold tonic."

Emmett nodded. "All available at the bar - once we're done here. So let's get to it, shall we? What's up?"

Ted restricted his response to a slow blink, while Melanie took a deep breath, swallowing her first impulse to verbalize her resentment at being treated like a petitioner. On the other hand, she realized, she actually was the petitioner in this case, and it was probably best not to piss off the man who was in a position to help her through this mess.

"Emmett," she said slowly, "have you talked to Michael at all since this whole mess began?"

He shrugged. "I talk to Michael almost every day, but I assume you're talking about a specific topic of conversation. What exactly . . ."

"Oh, yes, I am," she said quickly. "Notably, I'm talking about my daughter, and what he plans to do concerning our custody agreement. Not to mention what he might know about my . . . about Lindsey's part in all this."

Emmett studied her face for a moment, before clasping his hands in front of him and taking a moment to compose a response that would address the real issue at hand. "I'm guessing that you've been informed of the identity of the attorney that Brian has retained on behalf of Michael . . . and Lindsey. Now, keep in mind that I don't know a single thing about the Who's Who of the legal profession, but this . . . what's his name again -Liam Quinn? He seems to have a stellar reputation, even here in provincial old Pittsburgh. So I guess you've got a right to be nervous. I'd probably be petrified if I . . ."

"I am not petrified," Melanie said coldly. "He's just a glorified ambulance chaser, and no shyster is going to scare me. What I am is appalled - that Michael would stoop to this, and allow himself to be manipulated by Brian so that he winds up using our daughter as a weapon against me, in an attempt to force my hand so that I have to knuckle under and do whatever Brian wants me to do. Do you really think I should just . . . give in to these demands? Just let Michael and Lindsey be controlled by Master Kinney, and sacrifice everything that's important to me so that he can play his little manipulative games and run his little world as he sees fit?"

"Is that what you think is happening here?" Emmett sounded genuinely curious.

"What else?" she demanded. "Emmett, Michael has always listened to you. You're as close to him - in some ways - as Brian is, and he needs . . . he needs someone to provide perspective. Someone who isn't so blinded by love for St. Brian that he can see the truth and recognize Brian's manipulations for what they are. He's using this - all this - for his own gain and screwing the rest of us over. And Michael is playing right into his hands - which is, of course, not really surprising, considering that Michael has always been in love with Brian."

"You really believe that?" Emmett asked, startled by her vehemence. "What about Ben?"

"You don't believe it?" she almost snarled. "Face it, Em. If Brian curled his little finger just so, Michael would dump Ben in a New York minute and get down on his hands and knees begging to be fucked by the Liberty Avenue Prime Stud. Surely you don't disagree. And that's the kind of blindness I'm going to have to fight. Brian uses Michael like a puppet, and I need someone - like you - to make him see reason."

Emmett did not answer; instead he turned his gaze to Ted, to try to read the expression in the accountant's night-dark eyes. "And you, Teddie? Is that also what you see?"

"Well," Ted replied, obviously trying to choose his words carefully, aiming for greater subtlety, "I think that Brian himself is being influenced - played, if you will - so Mel and I are sort of . . . coming at the issue from two different directions, but the bottom line is that we both agree that this is just out of control, and nobody seems to want to listen to reason.

"I mean, look at all that's happened, Emmett. Leaving out all the uproar and horror and confusion of the original attack on Brian, everything that's happened since then has been directed toward driving wedges between him and the people who have served him best in the past, people who have been invaluable in allowing him to live the way he's always wanted to live. Granted, he and Mel have never been bosom buddies - and never will be - but her devotion to Lindsey and to Gus made it possible for Brian to walk away from any responsibilities he might have had toward the two of them. And then there's the whole issue of J.R. Michael has always been perfectly content to be allowed to be a part of his daughter's life without ever making much of a real contribution. He was more than willing to allow Mel to do whatever had to be done to see to their child's well-being, while he was free to concentrate on his comic book and playing wifey to Ben."

"Wifey?" Emmett echoed with a small, slightly catty smile.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Even Michael identifies himself as 'half drama queen'. And parenthood, for him, has always been more about playing house than taking on responsibilities."

"Uh - huh! But that still doesn't address your role in this little drama, does it? So what do you think he should . . ."

"He's closing himself off, Emmett." This time, there was no disguising the anger and the resentment and the bitter envy driving the complaint. "I've always been there for him. I bailed him out and watched his back and took huge risks to . . . to put him in a financial position that would have been the envy of the corporate world, and just, just look what he's done. He won't even talk to me any more; he won't even listen to my side of things, won't even let me tell him . . ."

"Tell him what?" Emmett asked, his voice so calm it was almost without inflection. "Tell him how you deliberately ignored his instructions and risked everything he owned in an attempt to ingratiate yourself to him so completely that he would be forever in his debt - that he would owe you such intense gratitude that he would never be able to repay it? Is that how you want to build the relationship between the two of you, Ted? Do you really believe - even if your scheme had worked out the way you wanted - that you were ever going to make him love you and respect you so intensely that he would make you the most important thing in his life? Is that really what mattered so much to you?"

Emmett rose then and leaned forward across the desk. "If that's what you wanted, Ted, then you need to realize one thing. Whatever you hoped to gain - you already had it. He trusted you; he cared about you. In the upside-down, crazy-ass Brian Kinney fashion, he even loved you, though he'd have died before admitting it. As for who bailed out whom, we seem to have different memories on that score. So now the question becomes, what the fuck are you doing sitting here, pointing out how I should step up and run interference for you and make him realize that you did it all for the love of Brian, when the truth is . . ."

He sat back down then, swallowing hard to control the anger roiling in his core. "The truth is that you had everything you could possibly want, and you fucked up and threw it away. And now, when you've lost your own money - and the FBI is the only thing that prevented you from losing his as well - now you expect him to smile and forgive you because, of course, you were only doing it for him.

"You were doing it - for you, Teddie. And anybody who claims to believe differently . . ." Emmett turned icy green eyes toward Melanie Marcus . . . "is simply playing you - to perpetuate their own agenda."

"I assume that little barb is meant for me," she snapped.

Emmett smiled. "Oh, don't kid yourself, Mel. If you think that little 'barb' even begins to cover what I have to say to you, better think again. You are . . . unbelievable. On the other hand, maybe you're not, because you're only doing what all of us - every single one of us has done since time out of mind. We've all looked at Brian and seen exactly what we wanted to see, conveniently ignoring everything that didn't fit our preconceptions. The difference is that some of us - finally - have seen the truth, while you go right on wearing your blinders. You claim that you've been the one taking responsibility for Lindsey and Gus, and for J.R., because that makes you feel proud of yourself, doesn't it? But the simple truth is that it's Brian - it's always been Brian who carried that load. Not just his money - although there's been plenty of that - but his willingness to let you play your little charade and claim your moral victories, just because he thought it would be better for all concerned to just maintain his low profile. Tell me something, Mel. Have you ever once stopped and figured out how many times he saved your ass? How many advantages you guys have because he provided them? How often he's played the scapegoat, provided a target for your outrageous accusations, allowed you to take credit for the things he's done? Do you even realize you're doing it?"

He looked back toward Ted, and could not fail to note the deep rage rising within the accountant's eyes. This was a waste of time; he'd known it from the beginning. But he was determined to finish it now, to make himself clear.

"So now, dear, old friends," he said softly, "we come to where the rock meets the hard place. Mel, I hope you're not naïve enough to believe that Liam Quinn hasn't made himself completely aware of everything that's happened since Gus was born. Not to mention J.R. Not to mention your current unlicensed status in Canada and your financial dependence on the funds that Brian provided - supposedly for Gus's support.

"At the same time, Lindsey has also been forced to open her eyes and come nose-to-nose with truths she never wanted to see. But she sees them now, and I doubt she'll ever be able to avoid seeing them again.

"And Ted, the same undoubtedly applies to you as far as Quinn is concerned. In point of fact, in your case, I'm pretty sure that the only reason you're not occupying a jail cell rather than your sweet little love-nest with Blake, is because Brian has chosen not to take legal action, which would seem to indicate that he still cares about you enough to let it go - for now. But you shouldn't just assume that he'll continue to feel that way. Your actions from here on out could change everything."

"Oh, and, by the way, casually dismissing the attack on Brian that started all this is just . . . I don't even know how to say it. Except that it makes me realize something - something I really didn't want to know, I guess. I think I've been as big a fool as anyone, because . . . Teddie, I . . . I'm beginning to think that I never knew you at all."

Ted rose quickly and leaned forward, bracing his fists on the desk. "That's enough," he snapped. "I don't need you and your cheap southern-fried wisdom, Auntie Em. I know exactly how to get myself back in Brian's good graces. It doesn't take rocket science to figure it out because we all know what a whore he is. His philosophy has always revolved around 'What have you done for me lately?', and it always will. Loyalty doesn't even enter into it. So when this is all over and done, don't bother to come sniveling back with an apology when he sees the light and remembers who he really owes his gratitude to. When that day comes, he won't even remember your name. And neither will I."

Melanie got to her feet abruptly and headed for the door, but she paused as she reached it, exchanging glances with Ted who favored her with an encouraging smile. She looked back at Emmett, and her expression was ugly, filled with contempt. "Better enjoy the perks of Kinney fandom," she announced, "while you can. When he comes back, you'll just be the kind of shit he scrapes off his shoe."

Emmett grinned. "Thanks for the reminder, Honey. I need to get the cleaning crew in here. Something really stinks."

He was laughing when the two of them stormed out the door, and he was still laughing when he picked up the phone and informed the general manager that they were to be escorted off the premises and instructed never to return.

It was petty, and he knew it.

But it felt pretty damned good anyway, and it was a perfect excuse for another Cosmo, which he would enjoy wrapped in the loving arms of his hunky partner.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
*Running on Faith - Jerry Lynn Williams
** Hot Blooded - Lou Gramm, Mick Jones
*** Killing Me Softly with His Song - Charles Fox, Norman Gimbel

TBC