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

Again, it seemed to take forever to finish.  But this time, it had nothing to do with my health and everything to do with the busy nature of the season.  Is it blasphemy to look forward to January 2?

Anyway, here it is - extra long again.  Hope it doesn't disappoint, and I hope those who have begun to wonder if it will EVER end will be encouraged to hear that this segment of the story should be completed in another chapter or two plus an epilog.

Thanks in advance for reading and sticking with me to the bitter end.

CYN

Chapter 54

And it seems like the time when after doubt 
Our love came back amain. 
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
And be my love in the rain. 

A Line-Storm Song
 - Robert Frost

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

Sometimes he loved the mountains almost as much as he loved the sea. Each setting had its own unique mystery, its specific aura of secrets held and closely guarded. Each had at least as much darkness as light, and each - sometimes - seemed to speak to his own darkness, the one he never really shared with anybody.

Each had its own song of solitude.

He wondered sometimes just how shocked all his friends and acquaintances and fuck buddies and . . . others would be to learn that some part of him loved the solitude and longed to wrap himself in it - forever.

For a moment - just one unguarded moment - he entertained a wish for Justin to be here, to appreciate the pristine gleam of snow on the high peaks as the incredibly detailed full moon rode low in the sky above the eastern horizon, pouring liquid silver across the landscape. Overhead, the stars were like chips of hard, polished diamond, cast by a careless hand across a plane of textured velvet, and the air was equally hard, crisp and almost painful against the warmth of the throat and lungs.

He told himself that the yearning passed quickly - was just one of those old habits that die hard. It was easier to believe that than to face the alternative possibility - that the yearning would always be with him, that he would have to live with it forever.

He'd shared such moments with his blond partner on a few occasions, basking in unexpected bonuses of beauty and serendipity, but . . . He needed to stop letting himself sink into those old memories.

Brian braced his hands against the balcony outside his third floor bedroom at the Griffin-Chatham Clinic - named after the doctor, of course, and a famed Colorado entrepreneur and philanthropist who had coughed up the original funding - and tried to ignore the eyes drilling into his back. Chris McClaren appeared to be relaxed - still wearing his 501's and a dark indigo, long-sleeved shirt, gaping open at the throat to expose a deep V of golden flesh. He was stretched out full length on the day bed that was provided to accommodate family members too paranoid to leave patients alone in the grasp of the medical staff - or bodyguards with the same motivation. It was roughly six inches too short for him, but he compensated for that by propping his pillow against the wall and pushing up against it.

It was incidental that he looked delectable, and Brian was ignoring him. Mostly.

The FBI agent was currently not a happy man, as he didn't like being ignored; he particularly didn't like it when he was not getting the answers he was seeking - answers he felt he had a right, even a duty, to know.

He'd known it from the very beginning, but he knew it more with every passing day. Brian Kinney was, potentially, the most infuriating person he'd ever known - even if 
he included a twin sister - his senior by 11 minutes - who, he had once believed, would ultimately drive him to uncontrollable alcoholism or rampant paranoia - or both. Then he smiled as a stray thought struck him; it was really too bad that Brian was gay. He and Christina would be a match made in heaven - or hell, depending on one's point of view.

But he couldn't quite suppress a lopsided smile then, as he allowed his eyes to drift over the perfect body limned in the lamplight glowing through the window, and recognized the blasphemy of his musings. Bare-chested and clad only in dark silk pajama bottoms, Kinney was the perfect icon of a gay man, destined to be the object of sexual fantasy for every young man - top or bottom - who had never developed any interest in vaginal exploration, and nothing in that observation was altered by the fact that plenty of women would fall under the same spell.

"Brian," he called finally, running out of patience, "it's fucking frigid in here, and you're supposed to be getting some sleep."

"Chill out, Nurse Ratchet." Pure Brian Kinney snark, and the FBI agent realized that he and the man who had become his primary responsibility had been around each other too much for too long as he had an almost uncontrollable urge to leap up, charge out on that balcony, and plant his fist in that perfect face.

Instead, by virtue of a herculean effort, he stayed where he was, adjusting his body to accommodate the confined space around him. "Come on, Brian. Talk to me. I know you've remembered something else. Or . . . I don't know - maybe you have a question that's just occurred to you. I can't read your mind, you know, although I'm pretty sure I come a lot closer to figuring you out than anybody else in your life ever has."

Interested despite himself, Brian turned just enough to meet McClaren's all too piercing gaze, which seemed to see so deeply into him that he was puzzled and annoyed and - just a little bit - uneasy. "You're deluding yourself," he said finally, sharply. "I don't have a clue what makes you say that, but you're . . ."

"Save your breath," McClaren interrupted, his voice slightly rough and displaying more raw emotion than he usually allowed. "I read you because I can separate what I see from whatever fucked up feelings I might have about you. That's the hallmark of a good agent, you know - to be able to put the feelings aside and deal with what's left. So if you don't want to admit it, suit yourself, but that doesn't change the fact that something's on your mind, and it'll be a whole lot easier on both of us if you just stop swanning about and spit it out."

Brian was startled into a reluctant smile. "Swanning? I do not swan."

"Yeah, whatever. Why don't you stop dodging the issue, and just tell me."

Brian turned back to spend another moment gazing up toward the highest peaks of the rough and tumble majesty of the mountains, before allowing himself one reluctant sigh and abandoning his study of the landscape. McClaren was right about one thing; it was fucking frigid on the balcony, and any warmth his room might have contained had been leeched away into the night.

He shivered as he closed the French doors and reached for his robe.

"Corey's coming tomorrow, right?" he asked as he moved to the vanity and quickly adjusted his hair to its customary perfect tousle.

"Right. Along with members of your entourage."

"Such as?"

"Liam Quinn, Matt Keller, Turnage possibly. Who knows? Diane Sawyer may put in an appearance before we're done here. She's probably hot on the trail of the story of the Hero of Liberty Avenue."

Brian's response was predictably dry. "Could I have Stephanopolis instead? He's more my type."

The FBI agent suppressed a sigh; he had been looking for a way to jolt the patient out of the sense of melancholy which had clung to him throughout the day. Not that Brian had said anything; in fact, he'd been unusually quiet since they'd arrived at the Denver airport late the previous night. Quiet, but not quite brooding; not quite morose. Just . . . apparently having little or nothing to say, no matter the provocation. Thoughtful, but unwilling to share the direction of his musings.

McClaren could not speak to the two hour period when Brian had been alone with Andrew Griffin. Even though he had gone to the physician himself, following that consultation, and tried to persuade him to share information about the results of the tests he had conducted so far, he had run into a steel wall. Surprisingly, he was pretty sure that the doctor's reticence had little to do with things like Hipaa regulations, or medical ethics in general. This was about Brian, who had - somehow - managed to impress the ophthalmologist sufficiently to gain a tacit loyalty. If the FBI was going to learn the extent of Kinney's optical damages, it was not going to come from Dr. Griffin. And, so far, it hadn't come from the patient either.

McClaren sighed. "Brian, you have to talk to me. You have to tell me . . ."

"Why? Why do I have to tell you anything?"

"Because it's in your best interest. Because your life - literally - is in my hands. That's why."

"For the moment, maybe. Or the hour. Maybe even the day. But soon enough, you're gone, and it's all down to me figuring out what I need to do. So why . . ."

"You think I'm just going to walk away from you - don't you?"

Brian's smile was bittersweet. "I think you're doing your duty, and, once it's done, so are you."

The FBI agent was silent for a moment, observing the stone-like stillness of Brian's face and considering his response with greater care than the comment seemed to warrant. "Has it occurred to you - at all - that this whole mess might be a long way from over?"

Brian frowned and couldn't quite suppress the tiny glint of confusion that flared in his eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"Because the attack against you was just the tip of the iceberg. Or haven't you figured that out yet?"

"Yeah, but . . . the rest of it has nothing to do with me."

McClaren allowed himself a tiny smile. "You know better than that. It might have been that way - in the beginning - but you're too smart not to have realized that this thing has a long way to go before we even begin to get to the bottom of it. There are major players involved, and the bashing of a so-called 'gay icon' is only the most visible example of a much broader criminal enterprise, generated by a network of shadowy groups dedicated to preserving time-honored 'Christian values' and - of course - finding new ways to make sure the rich keep getting richer at the expense of the masses. It's not about homophobia, or . . . let me rephrase, it's not only about homophobia. It's about using the ignorance and petty prejudices of the lower classes in order to manipulate them into accepting the twisted logic that convinces them that they're defending the American way of life while they're actually digging themselves in deeper and relinquishing more and more of their independence with every passing day. They're not just drinking the Kool-Aid; they're taking a bath in it. The people in charge of this massive effort use misdirection and tired old clichés to rant about the 'gay agenda' - but it's not really the gays who have an agenda; it's the good old boys network that figured out - a long time ago - how to grab the public by the balls and squeeze just the right way to herd them in the desired direction - like sheep."

"Wow!" Brian's eyes were suddenly very bright, blasted pupils notwithstanding.

"Wow, what?" McClaren's tone was heavy with suspicion.

"I never would have taken you for a classic bleeding-heart liberal."

"Oh, shut up!" The FBI agent had always prided himself on never allowing anybody to get a glimpse of his political identity, and Kinney had just - well, best not to dwell on the ribbons to which his customary dauntless armor had been reduced.

Brian shrugged. "Okay. Why is Matt coming here?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself. His response to me - when I attempted to persuade him to stay out of it - was a clipped reminder to mind my own business, and no amount of persuasion would convince him that you are my business."

"Am I?" It was not spoken with the characteristic Kinney brand of snark. Instead, it was - almost - a plea.

"You are."

"For as long as the feds think I'm useful."

McClaren sighed. "What do you want me to say, Brian? That I'm yours forever? We both know that would be a lie. Because I'm never going to be what you want. Because nobody's ever going to be enough to fill his shoes."

"But that's not the real reason."

The FBI agent didn't argue - didn't say what he wanted so much to admit, that to yield to the almost irresistible urge to give himself to this man - forever - would be to court destruction, for both of them. They might, with time and a large investment of caution, learn to co-exist in a kind of mutual orbit, but any attempt to merge would result in the kind of nuclear annihilation that neither would survive. And that was in addition to the irrevocable truth that Brian would never achieve a stable orbit with anyone or anything unless Justin was the primary component of the dynamics involved. Without Justin, there simply was no stability for Brian.

And that's what's wrong with him. That's what's got him running scared. Partly, anyway.

"You've got to tell me, Brian," he said finally, very softly. "If for no other reason than you need a sounding board. Someone to listen, or to argue, or to take it out on. What did Griffin tell you? And what have you remembered? I know there's something; I can see it in your eyes."

Brian moved around the foot of his bed and stopped in front of the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. "Lucky you," he said finally. "Because I can't."

McClaren frowned. "You can't . . . what?"

"Can't see it in my eyes. Can't really see anything in my eyes - or yours."

The FBI agent drew a deep breath, struggling for composure. "Tell me how bad it is."

Brian's smile was lopsided. "I can see you well enough to know you're still hot - that I'd still like to fuck you through the floor, but . . . that's just a general impression. I can see your shape; I can see that you're tall and fit, beautiful, golden skin, darkish hair, but . . . if I didn't know who you are, I wouldn't be able to identify you across the room. And, if you move a little bit too much to the side, into my peripheral vision area, then you're just a shadow. Not even enough to be sure you're real."

"Jesus! And Griffin - what did he say?"

"Bullshit, mostly. A pep talk designed to make the ones he can't cure believe that they can live a perfectly normal life - with just a few adjustments. Then he spent the next hour explaining all the reasons why he can't be sure yet, if a cure is possible. Although he did venture an educated guess about how extensive the treatment would be - if it works at all."

"And how extensive would it be?"

"Months, at least." Brian reached out and touched a forefinger to his image in the mirror, and wondered if he was really touching the reflection of his chin - or missing his goal entirely. "Maybe longer. And - when it's all over - still no guarantee that it will work."

He took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing in a near whisper. "I could still be blind - forever."

McClaren was moving almost before he realized he meant to, coming up behind the man who had somehow become the focus of his life and wrapping gentle arms around his waist. "You'll still be Brian Kinney, you know," he said softly. "Nothing changes that."

"Bullshit!" It was sharp enough to cut glass - and flesh. "You, at least, know better than that. I don't want empty platitudes. Not from you. There are only three people in this world that I trust to be honest enough to speak truth, no matter how ugly it might be, and you're one of them. Plus, more than the others, you have the ability to detach yourself and not be swayed by any . . . whatever it is you might feel for me. So don't fuck that up now, because . . . because I need to be able to trust you. For now. You'll be gone soon enough, just like you should be. But, for right now, no easy lies; no empty comfort. Just truth, okay?"

"But . . ."

"I'll be Brian Kinney. You know - the guy that used to be the king stud of Liberty Avenue. The guy that everybody wanted to fuck. Poor thing. Just look at him now - lost and blind and can't even tie his own tie or be sure that his socks match or recognize the difference between Beauty and the Beast and . . . well, you get the idea."

"I do, but that will never be you. If you wind up alone, Brian, it'll be because it's your choice. You think I don't know that? You think I don't understand that you've convinced yourself that a blind Brian Kinney is a burden no one should have to bear - that taking care of you will be a duty that no one will want to be saddled with? Fuck, Brian! Whether you see or you don't see, the person who lives inside you will be the same person who's always been there - smart and brave and full of piss and vinegar and ready to take on the world. That's who you are."

"Yeah. Take on the world - as long as there's somebody around to tell me when to duck."

"So what? So you can't live your life totally alone. That doesn't make you less than who you are. And I'm not the only one who knows it. He won't leave you, you know; he won't stand for being pushed away."

"Why not?"

McClaren almost flinched away from the note of bitter defeat in that soft voice, those clipped words. He did, in fact, step back a bit, and grasp Brian's shoulders in a brutal grip to force him to turn and meet his gaze directly, hoping to see some shadow of doubt in those hazel eyes - some shadow beyond the one that was always there these days. "Because . . ."

"No, don't try to answer," Brian interrupted, shaking his head. "Because there is no answer. He'll let himself be pushed . . . because that's what he's always done. He'll cry and he'll hurt and he'll scream that it's not fair. But, in the end, he'll go. He always does."

"Because you give him no choice."

Brian's smile was bittersweet. "There's always a choice. And he always makes the one that's right for him."

"And you? What happens to you when he walks away?"

"I watch him go, and know that it's the right thing for him to do."

McClaren wanted to argue, wanted to shout and bluster and deny . . . but he didn't, because, in his heart, he wasn't sure that Brian was wrong. He had heard all the old stories - everything from Justin and the fiddler, and the Pink Posse, and the trip to Hollywood and his hook up with the actor playing his comic-book super-hero, and the relocation to New York, and . . . the list was pretty long. Could it be that Brian was right? The FBI agent did not doubt that Justin Taylor loved Brian Kinney, but did he love him enough to sacrifice his life for him? Even if Brian would allow it - which he wouldn't - would there come a time when the young man would take a step back from the life they shared and remember the life he'd given up . . . and then what?

Brian seemed convinced that he knew the answer to that, and was determined that he would not be a part of it, and McClaren wanted - more than anything - for him to be wrong. But he couldn't be completely sure - could he?

"What else?" he said finally, cupping Brian's chin for a barely-there caress before stepping back. "I know there's more. You remembered something - didn't you?"

Brian sighed and moved away. "You don't happen to have a flask on you, do you?"

McClaren grinned. "Did you get a good look at Griffin's chief of staff? Even you wouldn't want to face off against that dragon-lady. She might be the first person you've ever met who's immune to your charms."

Brian grinned. "That sounds like a challenge, McFed."

"Stop trying to change the subject."

The grin faded to a knowing little smile. "You do know me well, don't you?"

"Yeah. So answer my question."

"I can't. Not really. It's not something I can put my finger on. It's just . . . something keeps telling me that we've missed something. Or someone. I'm not sure why I think so. But I do. Someone's avoided the trap; someone important. Someone with the power to call the shots and make everyone else step up and shield him from the consequences."

"How do you know that?"

Brian flopped down on the bed. "That's just it. I don't know how I know it. How's that for cryptic bullshit? I don't know how I know, but I know. Maybe we should call in Mystic Marilyn."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Look, I . . . can I have some time alone? I need . . ."

McClaren moved closer to the bed and looked down into that perfectly restored face. "What? What do you need?"

"Space."

"For what?"

Brian laughed. "You don't trust me, do you?"

"Only to a point."

"Relax, Chris. I'm not planning on taking a swan dive down the mountain. This is not a suicide watch, you know."

"Isn't it?"

That seemed to penetrate that superficial layer of composure that Brian so often wore like a cloak. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Because I can always see when you're weighing your options."

"Yeah, well, not that one."

"Not yet anyway."

"Kiss my ass - and get the fuck out of here. Leave me alone."

McClaren nodded. "All right, but . . ."

"Yeah, I know. If I need you . . ."

"Yeah."

Brian reached over and picked up a couple of pillows from the daybed, and placed them into McClaren's arms. "The floor is cold and hard in the hallway."

"Right. So don't sulk all night, okay?"

"Good-bye."

Abruptly, acting on nothing but impulse, the FBI agent leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss on the patient's forehead, before walking away without another word, leaving Brian to frown. He didn't want his keeper to grow fond of him; he didn't want McClaren to care or to feel empathy or to be bothered by his unease or worried about his future.

He didn't want to matter - to anyone.

He closed his eyes, seeking escape, but realizing quickly that there was none to be had, for the image that formed behind his eyes was much sharper and clearer and brighter than the one that he would confront if his eyes were open and the object of his scrutiny standing before him.

Justin - his image more precious and beautiful now than it had ever been, since Brian knew that there was a very real chance he would never actually see his young lover so clearly again. What would it do to him? How would he live with not being able to watch as time left its marks on that perfect face and body? How could he expect to know someone, to understand someone, to intuit someone's needs and wants and desires if he couldn't see that person's face, couldn't read expressions or note the darkening in sky blue eyes?

The answer was simple and unavoidable; he couldn't. Justin would grow away from him, even if they were perpetually bound together by his own helplessness. Justin would continue to expand his horizons and yearn for the dreams he'd always dreamed and - one day - he would look around and realize how much his devotion to a damaged individual had cost him. And love would turn to hate, as joy twisted into resentment and bitter anger.

That was what life would hold for Brian Kinney, if Dr. Griffin, AKA the miracle worker, could not restore his sight. He did not need a crystal ball or a fortuneteller to spell it out for him; he had seen it happen before.

But that brought up memories that he was not prepared to examine - the image of a painfully beautiful face with violet eyes, reflecting unendurable loss erupted into his mind, and he found it suddenly hard to draw breath. But no - he would not go there. Not tonight, and maybe not ever if he could find the will to resist. Revisiting the past would only intensify his own sense of impending loss, and that required no reinforcement. It was already far too real.

Brian Kinney considered himself strong enough to endure almost anything - but not that.

It was time to consider alternatives and prepare to walk off into the sunset, leaving behind a minimum of damage and a maximum of potential.

Quinn would arrive in the morning, and that was good. It would allow Brian to decide how to set things in motion in such a way that no one would be able to interfere or work around his intentions. And Matt's presence might also prove beneficial, even though he knew for a fact that the physician - best friend of his youth - would fight him tooth and nail to try to change his mind, but, in the end, would carry out his wishes no matter how much he might disagree with them.

Thus, there would be only one person missing - one final piece of the puzzle.

He picked up his cell phone and hit speed dial, knowing that it didn't matter what time it was or what he might be interrupting. Cynthia would answer; Cynthia would always answer. And she would do what he asked her to do - even if she hated it. She would do it, because . . . he told himself that it was because she believed that she owed him a huge debt of gratitude. That was easier to accept than the alternative. 

He didn't want to matter to her. He didn't want her to love him.

His smile when he heard her voice was slightly rueful, as he realized that nobody gets everything they want.

"Hi, Tink. I need you to do me a favor. If you don't dawdle, you can be on the morning plane that's going to bring Liam Quinn and Alex Corey here."

"Okay," she said slowly, obviously perplexed. "But why should I . . ."

"Because I need you . . . here."

She didn't hesitate. "Then I'll see you in the morning."

"Good girl."

She did not - quite - snarl at him, but he knew it was a near thing. So, when she arrived, she might be impatient, and out of sorts - even angry. But she would still come.

He knew better than to doubt that.

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


The house that would soon be known as the residence of Emmett Honeycutt - and friend - was almost too beautiful, thought Justin, as he sat cross-legged on a sumptuously soft leather ottoman, and tried to visualize the transformation that Emmett was describing, his enthusiasm typically Emmett - slightly over the top - but enough to generate an incredibly indulgent smile on the face of the 'friend' in the equation.

Drew Boyd was sitting at the bar, enjoying Emmett's latest dessert concoction - a multi-cultural trifle, combining elements of classic French cuisine with accents of Italian and Caribbean origin, blending the richness of crème brulee and ginger with accents of tiramisu and bananas foster. The ex-football hero could not even venture a guess about what it contained or how it was prepared; nor did he care. He only knew that it was almost as sweet and mind-blowing as its creator.

Almost. But then he remembered that he had actually enjoyed his very favorite dessert earlier in the day when he'd arrived home to find Emmett lolling in the hot tub, up to his eyebrows in scented bubbles and more than ready to welcome his lover into his arms and his body. With that memory playing out in his mind, Drew knew that no mouth-watering concoction - sweet, savory, or otherwise - would ever compare to the beautiful young man who was now the possessor of his heart.

He had been a fool when he'd allowed Emmett to walk out of his life, when he'd believed that he needed time to grow and explore and experience all the incredible pleasures of life as a gay man before he'd be ready to commit to any relationship. He had explored; he had experienced so much. He had sowed his wild oats and tasted forbidden fruit and submerged himself in physical pleasures so intense he'd never even imagined them before. But - in the end - he'd recognized a simple truth. None of it was worth losing Emmett. He was very thankful that he'd come to his senses in time to avoid burning the bridge that would carry him back to the love of his life - and that Emmett had been wise enough to allow him that time to grow and mature and run face first into the solidity of his own epiphany.

He didn't need to fuck every beautiful boy that crossed his path; he needed to fuck Emmett - and only Emmett.

Surreptitiously, Justin studied his hosts and realized that he was a tiny bit reluctant to admit that what he was seeing appeared to be very real. He had not expected to be treated to a demonstration of such deep commitment, since commitment had never been a part of Emmett's modus operandi, unless one counted the kind that rose and fell within a span of hours. Emmett had "loved" many times - the voluptuous curl of perfect lips, the sparkle of laughter in bright, beautiful eyes, the hand-pleasing shape of a flawless ass. All of these things, Emmett had loved - for a while. But he had never loved the complete package of a specific individual over an extended span of time, except once, perhaps. But that was a memory too painful to examine - painful for Emmett and even painful for his friends who remembered how broken he'd been by Teddie's betrayal.

Teddie - another memory best left unexplored for the moment and another speculation to avoid. The future of Ted Schmidt, as it related to the group that Brian always referred to - with a mocking smile - as the "Liberty Avenue Regulars" was problematic, at best, and tonight, with Brian temporarily out of reach and a big empty bed awaiting his return to the loft, Justin found that he didn't want to deal with "problematic".

He frowned as he scraped the last of his creamy dessert from his bowl, savoring the sweet coffee flavor that was somehow more dominant in the final bite. Was he just a bit jealous of the ambiance in this beautiful place, this elegantly decorated setting which was about to undergo something that Brian had once described as "Modifications by Emmett" - capitalization intended? That was silly, and he knew it. Why on earth should he be jealous - especially given the project that he was preparing to take on?

"I am so-o-o-o-o excited for you," Emmett crooned, as he sank into the plush easy chair at Justin's side. "And you don't have to worry about a thing. David LaMont is the architect who designed this place, and he's always begging Drewsie to let him bring potential clients in for a tour, so he'll jump at the chance to develop a little quid pro quo. And I am going to put myself at your disposal whenever you want. Just you wait; when all is said and done, you're going to create a house - no, strike that! Not just a house - a palace that is so fabulous, Brian is not going to believe his eyes. Just you wait and see."

Justin's expression was carefully, deliberately neutral, as he looked down at the sketches Emmett had drawn up, detailing the changes he planned to make in the house that Drew had built for him. Colorful changes. Very colorful changes, involving bright shades of iris and honeysuckle and mimosa, which would translate, in the unambiguous language of Debbie Novotny, to purple and pink and yellow.

"Emmett," he said finally, "I'm overjoyed that you want to help, but do you really think you're going to have the time? Between your project here, your oversight of Babylon, and your catering business. Didn't I hear something about you getting the contract for the Overstreet/Haxell wedding? And weren't you talking to Trina about opening a restaurant? How the hell do you think you're going to work my little project in to that kind of schedule?"

Emmett looked momentarily stunned. "I don't know," he admitted. "I never intended to get into so many different ventures. I just . . . I want everyone to be as happy as I am." He paused and looked up to meet the gaze of his significant other. "I want to share it with the world, and the best way I can do that is to cook for them. It's what I do."

"Yeah," agreed Justin, "but if you spread yourself too thin, you're going to lose your focus and forget what's really important." He nodded toward Drew, and was pleased to note how Emmett's eyes softened.

"I don't think I could ever forget that," Emmett said softly. Then he sighed. "But sometimes I'm so frazzled that I have to leave notes to myself to remember everything. I wish Trina would reconsider my offer. I could really use her help."

Justin sat up straight and blinked, thunderstruck by an epiphany and unable to imagine why it had never occurred to him before. "Oh, Emmett," he said with a happy smile, "I think I just might have the perfect man for the job."

It was Emmett's turn to blink. "Thanks, Honey, but I can't allow just anyone to stroll in and start whipping up their mama's version of chicken stew, now can I?"

"Of course, you can't. But how about someone who's got loads of experience, cooking in the culinary mecca of the South - someone who can prepare a praline bread pudding that will make you weep with joy?"

Realization sparked in Emmett's eyes. "Your Cajun friend? But would he be interested? Why would he . . ."

"Look, he's trying to rebuild his life. And he loves to cook. Right now, he's doing janitorial work at Kinnetik; Brian let him use the studio apartment in the loft there. But that doesn't require a lot of time, and believe me when I tell you that it's better if he doesn't have time to get bored - and thirsty. So . . . what do you think?"

"I think . . ." Emmett fell silent, his mind suddenly bursting with images and ideas and thoughts about a lovely little building near Parquet Square that had once housed a junior boutique, but was now sitting empty - a place with a view of gardens and willow trees and a tiny fountain and a second floor balcony with wrought iron railings and a trellis overgrown with clematis vines. He grinned and leaned forward to hug his youngest friend. "I think you should bring him to lunch - tomorrow - so we can get acquainted."
Through it all, Drew just smiled, and Justin felt the love that filled the house, as he realized an elemental truth. The ex-quarterback wouldn't care if Emmett draped the whole place in rainbow-colored silks, was tapped to cater celebratory dinners at the White House, and opened a roof-top, upper crust restaurant in New York, just as long as his beloved Emmett was the centerpiece of the décor of this house, coming home every night, always eager to slip into the arms of the man who loved him, always and forever Emmett, tight leather pants, tangerine shirt, and all.

Brian, on the other hand . . . Justin shuddered slightly, not even wanting to imagine the Kinney reaction to a décor inspired by Emmett's imagination. Still, he smiled, eager to accept his friend's encouragement even if he was less receptive toward his decorating suggestions.

"I gotta go," he announced, refusing to allow his gaze to wander to the crystal trifle bowl on the bar, still half filled with Emmett's delightful dessert. "My mom is determined to show me every upscale neighborhood within fifty miles, and she'll probably be banging on my door at the break of dawn."

"You know," said Emmett slowly, "there are plenty of building sites available around here."

Justin smiled, determined to suppress an urge to grimace as he imagined how Brian would respond to the idea of sharing a suburb with the Boyd/Honeycutts. In point of fact, he was pretty sure that the very term "suburb" was not one that Brian would embrace. Bri-Tin, much loved and much lamented, had been a true country home, without a single neighbor in sight. New Bri-Tin - silly name, of course, but it would do for now - would probably be the same.

On a hilltop maybe, he thought as he made his exit. Or overlooking a stretch of river.

He needed to start making notes - lists with headings such as "What would Brian like?" and - even more important - "What would Brian not like?"

Emmett and Drew had escorted him to the door, but they'd been so totally wrapped up in each other that he was not entirely sure they actually noticed when he was gone. He was glad he had brought his jacket with him when he emerged from the house. The night had turned cooler, and there was a fine mist falling, creating haloes around the street lights that lined both sides of the broad boulevard that stretched back toward the main highway. A low pitched wind had risen and seemed to create a faint moaning as it found its way through the stand of maple trees that marked the end of the cul-de-sac, and he suddenly - inexplicably - heard the murmur of soft words in his mind: "No, Baby. Nothing's wrong. I'll be with you soon. I promise."

He shivered - and didn't know why.

He paused as he reached his car and looked up just in time to watch the moon disappear behind a tumble of clouds, as the wind suddenly gusted, tearing the mist apart and sweeping tendrils into pools of shadow.

Justin shivered again. It wasn't really cold, but it was . . . He smiled and climbed in the car, feeling foolish. It was just the winds and the clouds; it was just spring in Pittsburgh.

There was nothing to worry about, and if his inner voice felt - just a bit - like whistling in the dark, he chose to ignore it.

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

"You really thinking of hiring Justin's friend?" asked Drew, settling back in his favorite recliner, and enjoying it even more than usual when Emmett curled up in his lap. "As I recall, he's no spring chicken. And although I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, the truth is that he's an alcoholic. So you need to be sure you want to take the risk. When you're trying to prepare truffles and foie gras for the most elaborate wedding Pittsburgh has seen in the last twenty years, you don't want to discover your assistant chef has drunk all the imported rum you'd planned to use in the mimosa punch and passed out in the pantry."

Emmett grinned. "You do have a way with words, mon cher - and you're right. But I've talked to him before, and I think he's making a genuine effort to get his life together. Still, I won't jump into anything until I make him understand what's riding on this. Then . . . we'll see. But now, let's talk about something really wonderful."

He settled himself more comfortably, delighted to realize that the proximity of his bubble butt to his lover's crotch had resulted in a wonderful, enormous stir of . . . interest. Which would have to be addressed very shortly.

Still, he wanted to broach the question that he had not quite dared to bring up in Justin's presence. 

"Is it really all over, Honey? I mean, is it really safe for Brian to come home? Have they really identified and captured all the bad guys?"

Drew shifted slightly, even more aware of the 'stirring' than his partner, but also realizing that he was not entirely comfortable with the question Emmett was asking. He had never been officially sworn in, of course, or deputized or even recognized as a formal member of Brian Kinney's security staff, but that didn't seem to matter. Because of his familial connection to Lance Mathis, he had been present for a lot of confidential briefings; had even contributed suggestions and observations in determining protocols for the best way for Mathis and his team to do their jobs.

And he had provided a sounding board for his cousin on more than one occasion - listening to rambling thoughts and suppositions and intuitive speculations to which no one else had been privy. He wasn't actually sworn to secrecy, but he still felt that to answer too frankly, to say too much was to betray a trust - even to Emmett.

"I'm not sure I'd go that far," he answered finally, laying his massive hand on Emmett's thigh and beginning to work his way upwards. "I think this investigation is going to go on for a long time; the FBI isn't going to stop digging." He paused, loving the way his hand glided over the downy softness of the intimate skin beneath his fingers. Thus, his smile and his tone of voice became slightly distracted. "They're a bit like bloodhounds on the scent of their pray. They've realized that this corruption runs deeper than they expected and involves a lot more layers and more people. But I do think that they've uncovered everything about Brian's attackers. I can't even make a guess how many people it took to do the job, or how hard they had to work to reach a point where Brian would be able to come home. Safely."

Emmett sat up abruptly, turning to look directly into Drew's face. "Oh, my God! You are a genius."

"I know," Drew answered, taking advantage of the adjustment of the lithe body braced against him to shift their positions and match swelling to swelling. "But what, exactly, do you . . ."

Emmett leapt to his feet. "We have to do something. We have to celebrate - and recognize all these people, and show them how much we thank them for all they've done. And . . . " His smile was suddenly neon bright, as he literally danced across the room, "we don't have much time, because . . . we need to coordinate this. It'll be huge. We'll do it at Babylon, of course. I mean where else is there to honor the heroes who made it possible, and . . . Oh, my God! I can see it all now. It'll take a massive effort to pull it off, but . . . I think we can do it. I really think we can do it, and it's all because of your idea, you big, wonderful, sexy beast."

Drew grinned. "I like the sound of that, but . . ." his voice dropped low and took on a seductive tone. "But do you really have to do it right this minute? Don't we have another matter - of some urgency - to take care of first?"

Emmett's smile was brilliant, as his mind juggled a dozen ideas at once - and one other thought that might - just might - be within the realm of possibility. However, it would keep; it would all keep, for a little while.

"But, but . . . time is short, Honey," he answered with a coy demeanor that was classic Emmett Honeycutt.

Drew inhaled deeply. "Well, you little cock-tease, time may be short, but something else sure as hell isn't."

Emmett spun once more, hands waving wildly as he laughed, before tearing off his shirt, shucking his trousers, and proceeding to address the urgency, right there on the massive recliner that was just the right size to accommodate two writhing, lustful, sweat-drenched, naked bodies.

Celebration or no celebration, they both knew where their priorities lay.

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


"Wakey, wakey, Stud Muffin." Justin's voice was annoyingly bright and cheerful, and Brian - after groping for the phone with one eye only partially open - had to suppress an urge to tell his young lover to go fuck himself.

"It's the middle of the fucking night," he managed to mumble.

"No, it's not."

"Well, it is . . . here!"

"Brian," Justin replied with a snicker, "you're on the eastern seaboard, two hundred miles away - at most. If it's nine o'clock here, it's nine o'clock there."

Brian had to bite down on his lip to avoid blurting out the truth of the matter; it was, after all, only seven A.M. here, an hour he ordinarily slept through. Of course, he frequently slept through nine A.M.as well, and Justin should know that, so he felt well within his rights to snarl a bit.

"How goes the grilling? Are they resorting to ugly tricks? Waterboarding? Electrodes attached to the testicles?"

"Are you asking - or fantasizing? Anyway, actually they're just boring me to death."

"Really?" The bright, cheerful voice suddenly dropped an octave and took on a note of erotic interest. "I could bore you, you know, as in . . . boring into you, over and over and over, and drilling right down into your tight ass, until my dick feels like it's lodged in your throat. What are you wearing?"

Despite genuine intentions to discourage this line of thought, Brian couldn't help laughing. "And you accuse me of having a one-track mind."

"You do, but I'm turning the tables here. For once, you don't get to visualize me lying on my back with my legs wrapped around your shoulders while you plunge that big, beautiful cock into me so hard that I'm bruised for a month and walk funny for a week. You don't get to picture it sinking into me, wet and thick and full of blood and making me beg for more. For once . . ." his breathing caught a bit, and Brian didn't need any further hints to figure out what he was doing. "For once," he resumed, slightly breathless, "you have to imagine that it's you under me, you opening up for my dick to shove its way into you. Come on, Brian. Touch yourself. Close your eyes and run your fingers around that beautiful tight little hole, and pretend it's me, nudging and pushing and fighting to get inside. Can you do that? Can you feel me?"

Brian drew a deep, rough breath. "I can always feel you," he whispered, as his hand seemed to move of its own accord, obeying orders to achieve a temporary resolution for his discomfort while longing for the big, beautiful real thing. Brian sometimes wondered if his friends and acquaintances would be surprised to learn that little Justin had a dick that was big enough to qualify him as a porn star. It had not surprised Brian though; he had expected it. The kind of nerve the kid had displayed just did not allow for the possibility of under-endowment.

"Where do you feel me?"

Brian smiled. "I think I'm in need of a rim job - followed by a blow job - followed by . . ."

"No way, Stud. Because I . . . " There was a rhythmic sound, and Brian closed his eyes to better visualize what Justin was doing . . ."I just need to fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you."

"Come on, Sunshine," Brian laughed, surprised by how close he was to his own release just from the breathless voice in his ear and a few subtle strokes of his own hand. "Come for me. Come now."

"Ooohh, shit!" For a moment, there was only a low moan, followed by gasped breath.

"Damn, I'm good," observed Brian, sighing with his own completion and loving the non-verbal sound effects of Justin's explosive decompression.

"You're a dick!"

"That too. Was it good for you?"

Justin laughed. "A really, really big dick."

"No argument from me."

"Wish you were here." That was just a breath of sound, barely audible.

"Me too. It won't be long. I promise."

"Yeah, well, you better mean that. Otherwise I might just have to fly down there, and fuck you raw . . . on the mall, I think. By the reflecting pool. Hell of a view from the Washington Monument."

"We'd make history."

"Yeah. Hey, you ever hear of a housing development called the Overlook?"

"No. But I'd hazard a guess that the developers are not Stephen King fans."

"Huh?"

Brian's snicker was very soft - barely a sound at all. "Never mind. Sounds like old money to me."

"Well, I don't know about the 'old' part. Unless they're bulldozing older properties to make way for new construction. But you're sure as hell right about the money part. My mom's going to pick me up in a few minutes and drive me out there. She says there's a piece of land that sits on a hillside overlooking a broad curve in the river that's just breathtaking. The perfect spot for a country manor."

Brian laughed, but the sound died on his lips as he looked up to find Chris McClaren watching him with speculative eyes. "Country manor, huh? Do you really think I'm the 'country manor' type?"

"I think you're any type you want to be," Justin replied firmly. "Now, I gotta go. My project waits for no man - or twink. You be sure to get a decent breakfast before you go face the inquisition. And get back here - soon. I don't really enjoy fucking my own hand. Much better to fuck yours."

"Don't let your mother catch you saying that."

"She's used to it. Nothing shocks her any more. But she will be here just any moment, so I guess I need to go wipe the cum off my belly before she walks in, so . . ."

"So be a good boy, and don't upset your mother. Go find your Xanadu."

"Ours," Justin corrected automatically.

"What?"

An impatient sigh. "Not my Xanadu. Ours."

Brian closed his eyes, but still felt the weight of McClaren's gaze on his face as he replied. "Yeah. Our Xanadu. Where fairy tales can come true if you're young at heart."

Justin chuckled. "Yeah. Where you can throw me across your shoulder and carry me off into the sunset. I'll call you later."

Brian did not answer. He rubbed his eyes with a weary hand as Justin disconnected.

"Why are you doing this?" McClaren's voice was glacial. "He's flying now, Brian, so high that he can't even see the ground. Do you know what it's going to do to him when he falls?"

Brian sighed and turned to look toward the window where the morning was pale and pearled with mist. "If he's high enough, he'll never hit the ground. He'll catch himself in time to rise again. And the 'project', as he calls it, will give him something to focus on."

"Something to build his hopes on. Isn't that what you mean?" The FBI agent's eyes were aglitter with icy disdain. "You never cease to amaze me, you know. But this time . . . this time you're really blowing my mind. I would never have believed that you could be . . . so Goddamned stupid!"

Brian did not bother to answer, did not even resent McClaren for the fury in his eyes. He knew it was something he'd earned. But he also knew that he was doing what he had to do, that he was protecting the most precious thing in his life.

Everything else was just . . . minor details.

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

Appropriately - as titular commander of this particular small army - Alexandra Corey lead the way into Brian's room, her expression hard and composed, revealing nothing. In fact, thought Brian, as he half listened to the over-the-top rambling of the voice on the phone, maybe a little too composed - the kind of composure one summoned up when facing an unpleasant duty.

Behind her, Liam Quinn looked exactly as he always looked - detached, confident, unintimidated - and gorgeous. Not that Brian was specifically looking, of course, but - oh, shit! He might as well admit the truth, to himself, at least. He would always be looking at someone as delectable as his new lawyer.

At the attorney's side, Cynthia was looking very . . . Cynthia: controlled, determined - and deeply bothered by something she was obviously not free to bring up on her own, while Matt Keller was framed in the doorway, deep in conversation with Dr. Griffin.

Brian frowned, knowing that he was being unreasonable but still not happy with the fact that Keller, as his primary physician, had the right to expect to have his questions answered, without having to resort to threats or coercion. He had the right - but that didn't mean that Brian had to like it.

The constant buzz from his phone continued unabated in his ear.

"All right, Emmett," Brian said finally, speaking forcefully enough to break into the deluge of colorful verbiage that Emmett had launched with Brian's initial "Hello". One part of Brian's brain was yelling at him to reject Emmett's grandiose scheme out of hand; no review, no vague consideration, no possibility of parole. Just a resounding "No". But he didn't say it. He was playing with fire, and he knew it, but some small part of him was intrigued by his friend's enthusiastic proposal for the creation of a stunning pyrotechnic display; one part wanted to participate, while another part - quieter but just as determined - whispered that it could provide a memory that he might be able to live on as long as he needed to live on it - or forever, whichever came first. "You work it out, and keep me posted. But remember one thing, Princess. Brian Kinney doesn't do sleaze, so it's classy or it's dead."

"You really have a way of inspiring a man's best efforts," Emmett replied dryly, with just the barest thread of uncertainty in his voice.

When he hung up, it took a few minutes for him to regain his composure and convince himself that he wasn't really intimidated by the infamous Mr. Kinney; he wasn't really worried about Brian's reaction if he - Emmett - let things get a little out-of-hand, a little over the top.

Of course, he wasn't. He had envisioned lots of spangles and strawberry pink glitter and dyed-to-match feathers and go-go boys in hot pink Speed-Os and . . .

Okay. Time to rethink. Classy, huh? Classy - as in Breakfast at Tiffany's classy, or Phantom of the Opera classy or An Affair to Remember classy or . . . His smile was finally genuine. He knew then that he would have to avoid the clichés and concentrate on adapting the classics to Kinney-level elegance - black tie and all.

He could do that. He was Emmett Honeycutt, for God's sake - Pittsburgh's premiere party-planning ingénue on the rise. But he had to do it now - immediately - or not at all. In the vernacular of his Deep South origins, time was definitely a-wastin'.

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


In all, there were nine people in the room, including medical staff. Turnage had turned up last, Brenda Herring in tow, having flown in on his own plane and been forced to navigate through customary airport protocols. Even owners of private jets were not immune to regulations instigated by the Homeland Security office. 

FBI jets, on the other hand, were free to come and go with impunity, which explained the early arrival of Corey and company.

Since it was Dr. Griffin's clinic, it would have been logical to assume that he would have the floor to open up this discussion. But he didn't, because he knew - as everyone in the room knew - that there were several things that needed saying, things that had nothing to do with Brian's medical condition, but everything to do with the rest of his life.

It was Alexandra Corey who stepped up and took a moment to compose herself while examining the expression on Brian's face. Brian, who was looking back at her with an almost unnatural serenity, was the only person in the room who noticed that she was the one who looked away first.

He knows She wasn't sure how she knew that - but she did.

Should she just say it, or . . .

"You're missing one - aren't you?"

So much for taking control of the conversation. "Yes. We are. How did you know?"

Brian shrugged. "I pay attention," he replied, which meant little - or everything. "In a nutshell . . . there were four. You've only identified three."

"So far." That was Chris McClaren, in a voice that tried not to admit that he was searching for straws. "And supposing that you were right. You were a little busy getting the shit kicked out of you, you know. So . . ."

"Bullshit! You know me better than that, McFed. I saw what I saw. And now, your impressive federal task force has made its big move, which means that you've gathered all the evidence you can find. There's nothing left to check out. You're stumped."

"Maybe," Corey said slowly, looking more closely now and wondering why she had not seen it before. The darkness in his eyes was striking - frightening. "But maybe not. There's still one more option available to us."

His smile was dripping sarcasm as he leaned forward and whispered directly in her ear. "Then you better hurry."

She stepped back involuntarily; the pure venom in his tone was almost more than she could bear, and she realized that she would definitely prefer to avoid finding herself on Brian Kinney's list of enemies.

"The bottom line here," she said finally, after a brief struggle to regulate her breathing, "is that we can't absolutely guarantee your safety, Brian. As long as this one final link in the chain remains hidden from us . . . you're still at risk."

Brian shook his head, still smiling. "Because the mystery man will think I can ID him." He looked up and exchanged glances with Chris McClaren. "But he'll learn different soon enough, won't he?"

It was Cynthia who stepped up then, unable to stand another moment of the negativity that was charging the room with particles dangerous enough to spark a conflagration. "Don't say that!" she snapped, reaching out to take his hand and willing him to look at her - only at her - and read the determination in her expression. She didn't yet know what was causing it, but she did sense that there was a threat that revolved around Brian - a threat that was too much for him to bear. But that couldn't be true, could it? It had to be a mistake. Surely, God couldn't be that cruel . . . could He? "You're going to be all right, Brian. You're going to be as good as new."

Brian reached up and touched her chin, and everyone in the room was amazed by the tenderness in his face - the very same face that, only moments before, had been filled with bitterness and resentment and something very like pure fury.

Brian sighed. "From your lips to God's ear, Tink. If wishing would make it so, we'd be home free." Then he leaned back and glanced over toward Andrew Griffin, who looked ready to take the floor. But not, Brian decided, just yet. First, he had a couple of things to say.

He looked around the room slowly, waiting until each person met his eyes before moving on to the next. 

"You all had your reasons for wanting to be here today, but I'm assuming you all realize that if I hadn't decided to allow it, you would have been shit out of luck. And before I turn the floor over to the good doctor, I want you to understand why you're here, and why you're going to swear to me - on your life - that what you hear today will stay in this room. You are not free to repeat it - to anyone, even if your tender little heart tells you that you just can't keep it to yourself. Bottom line - that's bullshit. You can, and you will, or you'll have me to deal with." His smile was slightly lopsided. "Some of you may think that's not much of a threat, but I suggest you take a look at the faces around you - the ones who know me well - so you can rethink that idea. You really, really do not want me as an enemy. That much I promise you. 

"And one more thing. I don't want your advice or your help in deciding what I do with the rest of my life. Again, that's my business - and mine alone. Whether you agree with my choices or not doesn't concern me. All you have to know is that I have my reasons, and your dramatic attempts to influence me are not going to change my mind. The only thing they might do is piss me off enough to decide that your voice is a squawk that I don't need to hear."

He smiled then, but there was no way anyone could ignore the icy glint in eyes gone cold and dark. "It's all yours, Doc."

Andrew Griffin wasn't accustomed to co-star status; ordinarily, he was center stage, with his audience rapt and thunderstruck over his brilliance and his dedication to his patients. That was obviously not going to happen in this setting, and he found himself suppressing an urge to smile over the realization that he had been soundly upstaged by a cocky, arrogant young upstart. There was, he thought ruefully, a first time for everything, but - if he wasn't mistaken - it would not be the last. He was pretty sure that having Kinney in his life was going to open new doorways and expose him to alternative views of life that he'd never experienced before.

The physician moved to stand at the foot of the patient's bed, and his gaze was focused on the young man who was proving to be one of the most challenging patients he'd ever treated. He would do this Brian's way, but he would make certain that he retained some measure of control. "You understand, Mr. Kinney, that I am allowing this group to be present for the discussion of your condition only because you've specifically stated that you want it like this. But if - at any given moment - you have second thoughts, you must speak up. And I'll have the room cleared immediately. Even Drs. Turnage and Keller understand that your right to privacy supercedes everything else. Therefore, please be absolutely sure this is what you want, and tell me now if you've changed your mind."

Brian shook his head. "I think we've already covered the issues that I don't want to discuss publicly, but if I feel like you're venturing into forbidden territory, I'll let you know."

The ophthalmologist was quiet for a moment, wondering if he was the only one who noticed that Brian was no longer focused on the room or anyone in it; instead, he was gazing out into the brilliance of the morning, where the dawn mist had faded and the light was sharp and fine and almost glittering against the mountaintops - a vision in three dimensions and maybe more. Real; almosttoo real. 

What is it he sees? What is it that he's afraid to look away from, for fear that it'll be gone when he looks back, that he'll never get to see it again?

Griffin wondered, but couldn't quite define what he saw in those eyes that no longer harbored glints of emerald or topaz. So he took a deep breath, and paused to look down at the screen of his PDA. "First of all, please understand that everything I'm going to tell you is preliminary. We have some of the test results back; others will require a few days. Still others - those that had to be sent off for processing - might take a week or more. But I feel that we do have enough information to draw some conclusions.

Brian's eyes were once more fixed on his face, and the physician almost choked on the words that he desperately did not want to say.

"I'm going blind." There was nothing of uncertainty or denial in the statement.

"Yes."

"How long?" Brian deliberately ignored the gasp of breath from Cynthia and the flicker of dismay that bloomed in Liam Quinn's eyes.

"A few weeks, at most. At least . . . a matter of days."

Brian was silent momentarily, not really stunned but attempting to adapt. "Completely?" he asked finally.

"Yes. You might retain a slight ability to detect light and shadow, but not much more than that."

It was Cynthia who spoke up at that moment, swallowing her fear and struggling to put on a brave face. "And what can you do about it? That's what this is about, isn't it? That's why he's here. So . . ."

Griffin sighed. "I can't promise anything - yet. The test results that we're waiting for will tell me more, but - in the end - all I can do is give you my best guess. Yes, I think I can repair the damage; I think I can restore your vision. But even that is provisional; it depends a lot on how much you're willing to trust me, how patient you can be, and - to be completely honest - a certain amount of plain, old-fashioned luck. Thus, when all is said and done, all I can really promise you is that I will fix it - if it can be fixed - but there are no guarantees."

Brian did not look surprised. He simply sat for a moment, looking down, drawing deep, steady breaths.

Then he looked up, and there was a deadly resolve in his eyes - so cold and so determined that even Cynthia had to fight not to flinch away. When he smiled, somehow it was even worse.

"So . . . that's why you're all here."

He turned first to Alexandra Corey and Chris McClaren, who had moved to stand at her side. "If I can't see him, I obviously can't identify him, so, if there's to be even the smallest chance of my being able to point a finger at the final member of our infamous quartet, it's going to have to be soon - as in within the next week or two, at most. So you better get all your ducks in a row and make sure you're ready to take advantage of any opportunity that happens to arise so you can put together a line-up of Pittsburgh's rich and famous. In truth, I'm not sure - even now - if I could recognize him, but I'm willing to give it a try, but you have to do your part to make sure the circumstances are as ideal as possible. In other words, an 'accidental' encounter in a dark alley won't cut it. I won't lie and tell you that it wouldn't feel good to make sure he pays for what he did, but I can assure you that I'm not going to lose any sleep over it if it doesn't work out. What's done is done, and there's no going back to fix it. So . . . just do what you need to do. If it works, fine. If not . . . well, that sucks but life does sometimes, doesn't it?"

Both Corey and McClaren nodded, and neither was particularly eager to meet his eyes, but that was probably for the best. Especially for McClaren, who wasn't sure that he could stand to look into that growing darkness and notice all that had gone missing.

Then it was Cynthia's turn. "I think we need to be alone," she said softly. "Just the two of us, to discuss what you want me to do."

He smiled and took her hand. "You think?"

She took a deep breath and had to work to ignore the tears welling in her eyes. "I don't think; I know. Because we're probably going to have a hell of a fight, and I wouldn't want to scare the children."

He lifted her hand and touched his lips to it. "Yeah. We probably are."

"I won't like it," she warned him. "I'm warning you. I won't."

"I know, but you'll do it anyway." Then he glanced over toward Liam Quinn. "But I'm afraid it can't be just the two of us. There are legal preparations to make, and we'll need help." 

He looked up then and allowed his gaze to sweep around the room. "I have things to do - private things - and I need to have a conversation with my assistant and my attorney in order to get everything in order." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "As for the rest of you," he said finally, "I'm assuming that you doctor-types want to shoot the shit about all the fascinating symptoms and prognosis for my slow but sure disintegration, and the incredible treatments that Dr. Griffin has developed, so feel free. If I understand correctly, I've got one more day of enduring tests here, so the next day, I plan to go home. Matt, you can go back with me, providing Dr. Turnage has no objection to us hitching a ride on his golden chariot."

"I don't recall volunteering to see you home," said Turnage mildly.

"But you will." Keller was grinning, knowing that the plastic surgeon would not refuse. Generally, when it came to Brian Kinney, people didn't.

Matt Keller, who had been silent up to this point, his green eyes shadowed - maybe even haunted - stepped forward then, carefully skirting Cynthia who had established herself at her boss's side and obvious had no intention of moving. He gave her a quick little hug, before turning aside and leaning close enough to his old friend to speak privately. "Brian," he said, his voice betraying his misgivings, "has he explained the risks? Do you understand what's at stake?"

Brian's smile was the sweet, loving one that only a very few people had ever been privileged to see, as he lifted his free hand to brush a stray curl back from the physician's forehead. "I do, but I'm grateful to you for asking. If it lets me see again . . ." The smile became a typical Kinney leer. "Well enough to appreciate your sweet little ass, then it's worth it."

Keller leaned even closer, so close that his lips brushed against Brian's ear. "I love you, you know. Even when I hate you enough to want to beat the shit out of you, I still love you."

Brian's eyes widened for a moment - sufficiently to allow him to notice some of the faces of the people who could not resist staring at the lovely portrait formed by two particularly beautiful young men - and he turned to whisper his response. "Me too, Doc. And - if you're looking for something to cheer you up - the sweet curve of your ass is providing a mouthwatering display for a certain hot ambulance-chaser, if the bulge in his pants is an accurate indicator."

Keller laughed, momentarily burying his face in the dark softness of Brian's throat. "Asshole!" he muttered.

"Right back at you."

"But . . . I'm serious about the risks. You understand that it could . . . that you're risking more than just your vision. It might . . ."

Brian's voice was rock steady. "If it does, then you know what to do."

Keller sighed, but said nothing, but Brian was not going to let it go at that. "You do know - don't you?"

It was not really a question, and Keller knew that there was only one answer he could give, but still could barely get the words out. "I do. I know."

Abruptly, to everyone's surprise - including, possibly, his own - Brian extended one arm and dragged the doctor into a strong hug, dropping a kiss on his forehead. "Thank you," he whispered. "At least, that's one thing I don't have to worry about because I know you'll do it."

"For you," Keller muttered, obviously not happy about it but determined nevertheless.

"For me."

"I'll hate you for it," the physician observed, almost idly.

"I know."

Neither would ever bring it up again because they understood that everything had already been said.

The entire medical team made its exit then, with Turnage still grumbling and Brenda Herring flashing the patient a brilliant smile and a subtle thumbs up.

Brian waited until they were gone, before turning to level an expectant gaze at Chris MacClaren and Alexandra Corey. "The two of you need to go with them."

"Brian, I . . . " MacClaren started, obviously ready to argue.

"Forget it, Chris," Brian replied sharply. "This is one battle you're not going to win. No matter what you think, I still have a private life, and there are parts of it that the FBI has no right to meddle in."

In the end, the FBI team departed, but not with good grace. Corey looked grim, her outrage at being evicted from the room barely contained, but the look in McClaren's eyes was worse, somehow - sharp enough to kill. There was, however, something more there, not quite concealed beneath the fury. Brian saw it and knew what it was, and found that he didn't want to know, didn't want to understand that - somewhere along the path that had brought them all to this point - he had gained the ability to hurt the man who was primarily responsible for safeguarding his life. That was a burden he didn't want.

Someday - when he had nothing better to do - he would compile a list of all the things that he knew - and didn't want to know.

He sighed then, and shook off any lingering remnants of regret. He had other things to do and needed to focus his attention elsewhere.

Liam Quinn was leaning against the wall by the entry, his gaze directed toward the hallway where Griffin, Turnage, and Keller were standing in a group, deep in discussion.

"Nice view, huh?" There was a definite hint of laughter within the clipped tone of the question, but if Brian expected the attorney to be embarrassed at being caught out, he was doomed to disappointment. Quinn simply smiled - a rather lovely effect - and moved closer to the bed to give his client his undivided attention.

Brian, also smiling, waited until Quinn was close enough to look directly into his eyes, and he was content to note that the man did not flinch away from the darkness pooling there. Good. None of this was likely to be pleasant, and the last thing he needed was an attorney so caught up in drifts of compassion that he couldn't function efficiently. "As you certainly know, I already have a will, and I've taken steps to protect the people that are most important to me in the event of my death. But this . . ." He swept one hand around in a broad circle, indicating wider issues and matters. "This is . . . unexpected, and I have to do whatever is necessary to make sure that I don't leave . . . gaps, for lack of a better term. Gaps that would make it possible for someone else to take advantage of my mistake and interfere with my wishes, simply because I happen to be . . . out of reach for a while." He paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath. "I've never tried to hide my relationship with my family, Mr. Quinn, but it's not something I've spent a lot of time thinking about either. It's . . . unique, to put it mildly."

"Don't worry about them," Quinn volunteered. "I'm sure they'll do as you . . ."

Brian laughed. "No, they won't. Not if they can find a way around it. They're not the 'black sheep' of the family, you know. That particular honor is reserved for me. They're more like piranha - capable of anything - any ugly, treacherous act of desperation that would let them find a way to take advantage of the situation and take what they believe they're entitled to, because there's no way that God in His wisdom should have allowed a good-for-nothing faggot like me to do so well in life, while they're left to wallow in obscurity - unnoticed, uncompensated, and unappreciated. And never mind that they made no effort to educate themselves and build a better life; that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters - to them - is that the sinner got rich and they didn't. So you're here, Mr. Quinn, to make sure all the i's are dotted and t's crossed, so there are no loopholes for anyone to take advantage of. Your job is to protect my son, and my . . . and anyone else I might designate. You got that?"

Quinn nodded. "You have my word, Mr. Kinney. I'll get right on it, although you do realize, I'm sure . . ." He paused and looked up to meet the gaze of Cynthia Whitney. "You do realize that it'll be necessary to work out the terms with the principles . . ." Cynthia's smile was quicksilver and slightly smug, and the attorney realized that she was already leagues ahead of him. "In addition, I have a few things to discuss with you, regarding how you want me to proceed on certain other matters - matters of a slightly more . . . peripheral nature, shall we say?"

Brian did not - quite - sigh. He was pretty sure he knew exactly which 'peripheral matters' required his attention, and he found that he wasn't looking forward to them. Settling things with Melanie, especially on Michael's behalf, was not something he would regret - but understanding what it might do to his son and his son's mother - that was something else again. Still, he knew there was no alternative, so he would do what he must. As usual.

There was also a looming question regarding his financial advisor, but that he wasn't quite ready to address. That would require more thinking than he'd had time to give it, but there was still time for him to ponder what he should do.

Meanwhile . . . he suppressed a sigh and looked up to meet crystal blue eyes staring down a him.

Throughout the discussion Cynthia had been watching the expressions on his face, noting the subtle indicators of distress that no one else would have noticed - mostly - although she was pretty sure that Chris McClaren had seen more than Brian had meant him to see before being banished from the room. Still, she saw the weariness when he spoke about his family and wondered if he would ever be completely free of the burden they'd imposed on him when he was still very young. She saw the slight wince when Quinn brought up those 'other matters' and knew that he would do what he had to in order to protect the people he loved, but not without sharing their pain and regretting that he had to be a part of it. She stepped a bit closer and leaned forward to drop a kiss on the hand that still held hers. She knew she was not going to enjoy the conversation that was yet to come, but she also knew that he was dead right about one thing. Whether she liked it or not, she would do as he asked. She owed him that; hell, she owed him a lot more than that.

And perhaps the time had come to begin the process of payback. Of course, he maintained - frequently - that she had already done more than enough to cancel out any debt she might have owed, but she knew better. Her daughter lived - because of Brian Kinney. She, herself, had a good, rich, full life - because of Brian Kinney. And she believed in herself - because of Brian Kinney.

When he turned to her, she spotted the tiny hint of apology in his eyes - and moved quickly to head it off.

"If you apologize for what you're going to say to me, I'm going to punch you hard enough to undo some of Turnage's miraculous work." There was not a single note of uncertainty in her tone. "I'm pretty sure I've already figured it out, and yes, just in case you're wondering, I do think you're wrong." She drew a deep, shaky breath. "But none of that matters. The only thing that does matter is that it's what you want. Even if you're wrong - and you are - it's still your decision to make. I'll back you up 100%. And I'm slightly pissed off that you even thought you had to ask."

His smile was achingly tender. "I didn't. Not really. Except . . . this goes a lot farther than you might have imagined, Tink. Think about it. What happens when . . . " His speech stumbled then, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could go on. "What happens if I can no longer see the work of my staff? What happens when I can't judge the quality of their efforts, or determine if what they're saying in the ads they're creating is what I want said? What happens then?"

She took a deep breath. "Then you listen to what I tell you; then you let me be your eyes. Because - if you don't know anything else, you need to know this, Brian. I will never, never tell you anything but the truth. So . . . you just tell me what you want - tonight or next week or next year. You tell me what the message is that you want to send out, and I will watch the work and paint it for you, in words you can virtually see. Understand?"

He didn't answer quickly. "And what if I no longer know? What if I lose the ability to understand, to make decisions? To guide anyone? What happens then?"

At that moment, she felt a huge knot of ice form around her heart, as she re-examined the shadow in his eyes and realized that he was talking about something heretofore unmentioned - a possibility that he knew about, but she didn't. Instinct told her that he would not answer any question she might raise - not now anyway - so it all boiled down to one basic issue. How much did she trust him, and how much would she endure on his behalf? She took a deep breath, bracing herself against whatever was yet to come. "Then you ride it out, for as long as you need to, and you allow me to act on your behalf. Until you're ready to do it again yourself."

He snickered quietly. "You really believe that'll happen? You really believe . . ."

"I believe in you." She could not suppress the tears that formed in her eyes, and, in the end, she didn't even try. "I have always believed in you, and I will never, never stop. You understand me?"

"Even when . . . " He paused, searching for the right words. "Even when I destroy the people that deserve so much more? Even then?"

"Even then." She did not hesitate. "I may cry for them; I may even hate what you do to them. But they're not you, and you're the one who earned my loyalty a long, long time ago. It's you . . . and it's always going to be you."

Brian's eyes were suspiciously bright - so bright that he knew it was time to defuse an emotional moment. "You know you're the only woman who has ever been able to make me wish - just for a moment - that I could go straight."

The two of them erupted in bright laughter.

"Wow!" said a soft voice nearby, and both of them started slightly, having forgotten that Liam Quinn was still in the room. "That's quite a testimonial, Mr. Kinney. You might want to just hand over half your company, to hang on to that kind of loyalty."

"He's already done way more than that," she replied coolly, turning to face the attorney and meeting his gaze squarely.

"Yes. I know."

It was Brian's turn to lift his eyes to examine the attorney's expression. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said," Quinn replied, obviously unperturbed by the steely tone of Brian's voice. "I know what you did for Ms. Whitney, just as I know what you've done for other people in your life. You've actually done a remarkable job of hiding yourself from people who think they know you well, who actually should know you well, but it won't work on me. Maybe because I'm not emotionally invested in you. Or maybe it's just because I always do my homework, Brian, which means I never take on a client unless I know all about him. And I do mean all."

Brian turned back to exchange glances with Cynthia. "Now why does that make me nervous?'

Quinn laughed. "Because one of your purposes in life is to make sure that nobody knows you that well - and because you're borderline paranoid. But you'll just have to deal with it. In your case, there are at least two of us . . . who see right through you."

"Yeah?"

It was Cynthia who answered. "Yeah," she laughed, "so just . . . deal with it."

Brian spent a moment considering what he'd been told, before coming to an unavoidable conclusion. His only viable option . . . was to deal with it.

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

It was the kind of day that was the answer to real estate agents' prayers - bright and beautiful and providing the perfect setting to appreciate the potential merits of a building site.

Of course, Jennifer Taylor wasn't really interested in a sale for profit's sake. She was interested in a sale for family's sake.

She almost held her breath as Justin exited from the passenger seat of her SUV and walked out into the golden rays of morning sunlight, allowing her to spend a moment in contemplative appreciation. He was her son, and she was allowed, she thought, to observe that he was quite stunningly beautiful silhouetted against such a perfect setting.

"Well," she said with a small smile, "was I right, or was I right?"

Justin inhaled deeply, almost at a loss for words.

"Oh, you were sooooo right, Mom. It's . . . "

"Beautiful?" she prodded when he seemed at a loss for words. "Exquisite? Breathtaking? 
Perfect?"

"All of the above," he answered finally. "It's Brian."

And that, she knew, said it all. For Justin, there would forever be only one gauge of true perfection.

"Can you picture it? The house you want to build . . . here?"

Justin was tempted to close his eyes to pull up that vision, but, in the end, he didn't. It was silly to think he might miss something - some small but vital detail - if he dared to look away, but that was, nevertheless, the feeling that rushed through him.

The house would go here - where they were standing - in order to take advantage of a view that someone should have painted a long time ago - a painting entitled simply "Eden". It wasn't, of course, and it never would be - particularly if it became the site of the home of Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor; the Taylor-Kinneys would never be the type to preside over God's most perfect creation. But it would certainly look the part.

The land dropped toward the brilliant ribbon of the river in a series of soft stair-steps, bathed in the fresh green of new grass and strewn with wild bluebells and buttercups and daffodils. Each level was set off from the next by a low stone fence that wandered in random zig-zags down toward the water, ending in a jumble of stones splayed at the base of a weeping willow. The fence was dark with age and draped in a variety of healthy vines, heavy with bright new foliage, including the lush lavender and pristine white of wisteria erupting periodically on the fence, trailing off into the long grass and even climbing the trunks of the scattered group of stately elms that provided the framework for the left side of the landscape. To the right, a small stream danced in the sunlight as it leapt from level to level, spraying rainbow droplets into the air as it encountered stones scattered across the shallow bed of the brook. Beyond that, a shadowed woodland marched away toward the horizon.

Cumulus clouds towered overhead, and the air was rich with the earthy scents of springtime as birdsong rose from the edges of the forest, while a lone hawk soared upon an updraft, reaching for the sun.

It was perfect. 

Justin thought about the house he would design - the house he and Brian would build - and sensed that it would have to be completely unique; it would not be colonial or French provincial or Tudor or Empire or Georgian; it would be Brian and Justin, unlike any other, and the design would come to him - with time. It couldn't be rushed; he had to learn patience in order to . . .

"No, Baby. Nothing's wrong. I'll be with you soon. I promise."

Jennifer was standing behind her son in order to allow him to take in the full effect of the property; thus, she did not notice the small frown that touched his face.

"So what do you think?" she asked. "I know the price is pretty steep, but they might be willing to negotiate - a little. But if you think Brian would be interested, I can make a preliminary . . ."

"He needs to see it himself." 

Jennifer stepped forward to study the look in Justin's eyes. "What? You think he won't trust your judgment? Justin, you surely know that I'm not saying this because I want to close a sale, but because it's the bottom-line truth. Even at this price, it won't last long. You just don't come across places this beautiful very often. And Pittsburgh has more than its fair share of the rich and famous, who will try to snap . . ."

"I know," he interrupted quietly, "but he still needs to see it. He needs to understand what it will mean to us - what it can do for us. He needs . . ."

"Justin," she said slowly, "is something wrong? You and Brian . . . you're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, Mom. I'm not."

Jennifer nodded, and wanted to drop the subject - but couldn't. "Is he?"

Justin's smile was bittersweet. "Brian doesn't do second thoughts, Mom. Brian always knows what he wants and takes steps to get it."

Jennifer turned away abruptly, but not quite fast enough to prevent Justin from seeing a shadow of doubt form in her eyes, and he wanted to reach out and hug her and reassure her and let her know that everything was all right, but he didn't. He couldn't, because . . . he didn't quite know why.

"I wasn't sure I should mention it," she said slowly, "but it doesn't feel right to keep it from you."

"What are you talking about?"

She drew a deep breath. "Steven called me last night. He was . . . he didn't feel that it would be right to call you himself, but he's worried about you." She paused then, deliberately not meeting his gaze. "He really does love you very much, you know."

Justin was silent for a moment, allowing his eyes to sweep across the panorama laid out before them, and imagining . . . imagining a plethora of things, all good and sweet and beautiful. Except . . .

"No, Baby. Nothing's wrong. I'll be with you soon. I promise."

He and Brian had a beautiful life ahead of them; he knew that; he knew . . .

He tried very hard to ignore the tiny whisper in the back of his mind - the one that said, "You've been here before, standing in exactly the same place, and look where that took you in the end."

He couldn't quite suppress a sigh or resist the tiny tremor that touched him, as that memory resurfaced, and he heard it again - a bit louder this time.

"No, Baby. Nothing's wrong. I'll be with you soon. I promise."

Jennifer turned once more to look at her son and found that his eyes were suddenly very wide and very blue and filled with an emotion she could not identify. "Honey, what's the matter? What's . . ."

"He never calls me that. He never would call me that."

"What are you . . ."

"We need to go, Mom. I need to get back."

"Look, I'm sorry," she said hastily. "If I'd realized it would upset you, I never would have brought it up."

His smile was tentative but very tender. "It's not that, Mom. I do know that Steven loves me, and I'm still sorry that he was hurt so badly. But there's no going back. I love Brian - no matter what. And I will always love Brian. Now, I really need to go."

"Okay," she conceded, "but there's a lovely country inn just down the road, and you must be hungry, since you're always hungry. We could . . ."

"No. I need to go - now."

And that, apparently, was final. The conversation as they drove toward Pittsburgh was almost non-existent. It consisted of Jennifer asking for an explanation of what was going on in his head, and Justin ignoring her while he tried to raise Brian on his cell phone. Neither effort was successful.

And the words kept repeating in Justin's mind, louder and louder and finally generating a pounding headache.

"No, Baby. Nothing's wrong. I'll be with you soon. I promise."

Finally, weary of his mother's not-so-subtle questions and his own thoughts, he simply laid his head back and pretended to sleep, but Jennifer was not fooled. Understanding that he was frustrated and worried, she finally stopped pressing him for answers, but that didn't change the fact that she saw the single tear that escaped from the corner of his eye.

But surely, it was just jitters. Surely nothing else could go wrong. Surely they had endured enough trauma and outright tragedy to entitle them to at least one lucky break. Karma was supposed to work like that - wasn't it?

She tried not to think any more about Steven, or about the momentary flicker in Justin's eyes when she had mentioned having talked to him. Steven was a good guy, and he loved her son very much. In fact, he was almost perfect; he only had one major flaw.

He was not Brian Kinney.

And that was the only explanation that would ever matter to Justin.

She watched clouds gathering in the West as she drove toward the Pittsburgh and was slightly disheartened when the first drops of rain began to fall before they reached the city limits. It was discouraging how quickly a perfect day could turn dismal.

And if there was a metaphor therein that could be applied to the vagaries of life, she didn't want to think about it.

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



The crowd was huge, and the black-tie affair had been such a huge success that Emmett could hardly contain himself. He kept thinking that he should pinch himself to make sure that it was real, that he wasn't imagining things, because - in the beginning - he had hardly dared to hope that he could manage it all.

There was no denying that it had been a prodigious undertaking. He had not done it alone, of course. He'd had plenty of help, with his lovely Drewsie at the top of the list. Of course, Drew was accustomed to directing things, to being in charge of complex interactions devoted toward achieving a specific goal, and he had excelled in this effort, guiding the actions of the team and scoring beautifully at the end of the drive.

Emmett, of course, had been in charge of the more imaginative aspects of the enterprise - the décor, the menu, the presentation, and the program, and - in the end - Drew's practical efforts and Emmett's flare for the dramatic had blended together perfectly, and the result was all around them now.

An expanded crew of Babylon employees - from barmen to go-go boys - had done an incredible job of getting the entire population of Liberty Avenue and its environs to turn out for an awards ceremony that had been undreamt of until it was born in a flash of inspiration, in the gleam of bright green eyes. The residents of the area had turned out in droves, even though few among them had the slightest idea of what kind of awards might be presented or to whom such awards might go. But it didn't matter. It was a classic celebration in the bright, hot-blooded, high-spirited venue of Pittsburgh's hottest gay nightclub, so did it really matter why? It would, of course, in the end, but from its inception, it had met one very fundamental criterion: The booze was free and flowing. What else could one want?

Thus, the crowd had started the evening in a happy mood, and it had only gotten better as the hours passed and everyone came to understand the purpose of the night, and how they were contributing to it; to wit - one of their own had been attacked and almost killed, and that - even if one were not particularly fond of the victim himself - could not be tolerated or ignored. Instead, the people who had foiled that attack and rescued Brian Kinney from the clutches of the criminals must be recognized and thanked publicly. In addition, those who had followed up and aided in the investigation and apprehension of those responsible must also be rewarded for their courage and determination.

Discretion, of course, had to prevail. Thus, some of the heroes of the situation had to remain nameless, out of necessity and for their own safety. Others - such as those of FBI persuasion - would refuse such public recognition, as a requisite of their professional position. But members of Brian's security staff who had gone beyond the call to protect and defend their employer, ordinary individuals who had stepped up despite having no connection to law enforcement, and a few everyday citizens who had taken it upon themselves to provide assistance to the investigation had been surprised and extraordinarily pleased to be recognized and singled out for public reward.

Some had been honored in absentia - necessarily - such as Simon Redding and Trina Thomas and some of the local security staffers who had stood guard throughout the duration of Brian's treatment by Rick Turnage. Others had mounted the steps to the stage to accept their awards from Emmett's hands with an air of uncertainty, as if not entirely convinced they had done anything worthy of recognition. Among that number had been Henry Flagg, who seemed astonished to be honored by a group of people he would once have regarded with disdain if not outright contempt.

Foremost among the civilian recipients had been Ron Peterson and Nicholas Avolar, who were both greeted with standing ovations when Emmett finished his brief description of the actions that had earned the awards for them. Both had attended the ceremony alone; Peterson, because his wife of forty years had refused to accompany him; had refused to even discuss the possibility and might very possibly never forgive him for 'betraying his own kind'. But Lindsey had been proud to escort him into Babylon, her smile amply demonstrating the degree of her pride in his courage and his commitment to doing the right thing. Nicholas, who vowed he would never again allow anyone to patronize him by prefacing his name with the label "Young", was also alone, because his mother simply could not accept his role in bringing down the people who had ruled the lives of so many of her friends and relatives; nor was she even willing to confront the possibility that her son might not be the "man's man" that she had always believed him to be. Her attitude - her scorn - had made it very hard for the young man to believe that his actions had been heroic, but the acceptance and approval granted to him by the Liberty Avenue patrons seemed to be adequate compensation for her disdain.

Also among the award recipients were Sharon Briggs, Jared Hilliard, and Karl Horvath, the latter intensely embarrassed to be singled out for attention, while both Briggs and Hilliard seemed completely at ease within a familiar comfort zone. Lance Mathis, on the other hand, had refused to be included in the list of honorees, and could not be persuaded to change his mind. He had, he said firmly, only been doing the job he got paid to do. No heroics involved.

Emmett, of course, had disagreed, remembering all too well the events of that fateful night, and how Mathis's actions had been key to saving Brian's life. Nevertheless, Mathis was adamant, and Emmett had to accept his decision. He realized that he would have to be content with making sure that Brian knew the whole story and the breadth of Mathis's part in it.

The evening had gone perfectly. The place looked elegant, and the crowd reflected the setting perfectly. Emmett had restrained his more florid instincts, and limited decorations to urns filled with stargazer lilies, deep crimson roses and spikes of creamy foxglove amid deep green foliage, tables dressed in snowy white linen with centerpieces of hurricane lamp candles amid Boston ferns and white crabapple blossoms, and the miniature stage draped with ivory silk with garlands of spring flowers forming a valance. It was quite lovely and very elegant, since - as Emmett had reminded himself throughout his creation of the setting - Brian Kinney didn't do sleaze.

Since this was an important event for Pittsburgh, the clientele was almost equally divided between men and women - obviously an uncommon event for Babylon. But the women had taken advantage of an opportunity to show off their finest fashions, and there was plenty of Dolce & Gabbana, Vera Wang, Badgley Mischka, and Carolina Herrera in evidence. The men, not to be outdone, sported Armani and Calvin Klein, and the champagne that flowed was a lovely Grande siecle, being served in Lenox crystal flutes.

Emmett was in his element, and the fond gaze of the ex-quarterback sitting at the bar was a constant comfort to him - an assurance that he had done his job beautifully.

It was the shank of the evening, and the party was in full swing, the general air of laughter and celebration making Emmett feel that his efforts had been successful in almost every way.

Almost, for some among the crowd were not quite as pleased as the revelers around them. A few were even wondering what the fuck they were doing there, and making little effort to conceal their displeasure.

Michael, for example, had lost patience early on, nagging Emmett constantly and whining to be told what was really going on. Okay, so the people who had rescued Brian and helped to bring his attackers to justice had deserved to be recognized, but . . .why now? Everything was still so confusing, and he was still reeling from the information provided to him just this morning by the lawyer that Brian had hired on his behalf. According to Liam Quinn, all necessary actions had been taken to safeguard Michael's interests, and there was nothing more to worry about. Melanie's hands had been legally tied, so she would not be able to keep his daughter from him. Ben had been delighted at the news, and had even gone so far as to hug the young lawyer, much to Michael's displeasure. The man might be a legal barracuda, but he looked like a cover model for GQ, and Ben - for all his high-minded ideals - was not immune to sexual spontaneity.
Although Michael knew in his heart that Ben's intentions had been nothing but innocent, he was still bothered. Mostly, he admitted to himself, because everything seemed to bother him these days. Life had gotten far too complicated.

A second guest - here almost against his will, but knowing that to refuse to attend would not be in his best interests - had almost walked out the door any number of times. Ted was not a happy man, and every detail of this Emmett-generated extravaganza was a source of irritation for him. In addition, he had received a call earlier advising him that Blake was going to run late and might not be around at all to witness this tasteless example of Emmett's over exuberance. It did not improve his mood in the least when Cynthia walked in, her slender body swathed in a sleek Givenchy creation of bronze silk; she looked fantastic, but that did not change the fact that she had no place standing in the spotlight of a gay bar, even if she was nominally its chief operating officer for the duration of Brian's absence.

And then there was Melanie Marcus.

It was obvious from the expression on Emmett's face when he saw her in the crowd that she had not been invited. Yet here she was, and the expression in her eyes indicated that anyone who tried to evict her from the audience would be playing with fire. She strode to the bar and demanded repeated shots of Crown Royal which she consumed quickly, her eyes moving from face to face of the people around her, pausing sometimes as bright flames of anger flared in her eyes, before moving on to seek her next target. When she found herself locked in a gaze with Lindsey, the anger flared again but died quickly, and she looked away, obviously not comfortable with allowing her ex-partner to identify what lay behind her frozen expression.

Lindsey, for her part, simply returned her attention to the warm discussion between a scarlet-clad Debbie Novotny, Karl Horvath, and Lindsey's father, who was still somewhat overwhelmed by the elegance of the event.

This time, it was Lindsey who explained the ambiance; even though he might not be physically present, this event was being held under the auspices of Brian Kinney - who simply did not do sleaze.

Lindsey and Jennifer Taylor, both in black - Balenciaga and Alexander McQueen, respectively - were smiling as Ron tried to respond to the colorful conversation generated by Debbie with something besides amazement. 

And then there was Justin.

Ted observed that it seemed as if Emmett couldn't do anything these days without Justin hanging around, interfering, kibitzing, running his mouth and offering unwanted opinions. Only tonight - Ted was slightly gratified to realize that the blonde twink did not look particularly happy tonight.

In fact, he looked downright miserable. 

Emmett had completed his awards ceremony and returned to the bar to stand with his significant other, and then turned to search the crowd, spotting Justin easily in the little nook that he and Brian had staked out as their own after the Babylon remodeling. By this time, the blond was looking so miserable that Emmett left Drew standing alone at the bar, enjoying his favorite brand of scotch, and moved through the crowd, to stand over Justin and lean forward to whisper directly into his ear. Then, for some reason, he linked his arm with the blond's and pulled the younger man toward the spiral staircase that led up to the office suites. Once there, he placed Justin on the bottom step, and bade him to stay put. Justin - having spent most of the previous day and night trying - unsuccessfully - to reach Brian - was not in a mood for games or theatrics, but found that he had no energy for resistance, so he stood there, his expression closed and suspicious.

Emmett, still watching Justin to make sure he remained in place, moved up the stairs to the landing where he snagged a microphone from its stand, before turning to look down at the crowd.

That's when the world went completely black, eliciting a sharp gasp and a sprinkling of nervous titters from the crowd. But there was no real fear. This was Babylon, after all, where one was encouraged to expect the unexpected.

The darkness continued for a few seconds, and everyone fell silent. Then, in the thick hush, a vein of music began to play in the background as, high up near the ceiling, a single spot of light - golden in color - began to glow and slowly, slowly sink toward the crowds below.

Emmett's voice was very mellow, very gentle, as he spoke into the microphone.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the hour is at hand. The moment you've all been waiting for, even if you didn't know it."

The music grew louder then, as the golden ball of light sank lower, and, very softly, there were suddenly lyrics with the music.

A female voice - sultry, sexy, beautiful.

"Nobody does it better.
Makes me feel sad for the rest.
Nobody does it half as good as you,
Baby, you're the best."
 *

Emmett's voice floated above the music.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, Boys and Girls of all ages, may I present to you . . . the only and ever true king of Babylon - Brian Kinney."

The point of light expanded suddenly to form a halo around the figure standing at the top of the stairs, and there was no way anyone is the room could fail to recognize who was looking down at them.

Clad in an elegant Armani tux, perfectly groomed, perfectly posed, Brian Kinney remained still for a moment and let the music swell around him. Then he smiled - a small, smug smile, reflecting the certainty that nobody knew how to play a crowd like the legendary king of Liberty Avenue.

When he started to walk down the stairs, the crowd seemed to come alive and find its voice, and the place erupted into a roar of applause, mingled with shouts of "Bravo!" and appreciative whistles.

Emmett was waiting at the half-way point and was momentarily stunned when the guest of honor stepped toward him and wrapped him in an affectionate hug. Then Brian pulled back and regarded his old friend with a sardonic grin. "Carly Simon? Really? You welcome me home with Carly Simon?"

"Oh, shut up," Emmett muttered, inordinately pleased with Brian's show of affection, but a bit embarrassed by his emotional response to the gesture. "Just be glad I didn't choose 'You're So Vain'."

Brian erupted in bright laughter, and repeated the hug, but said no more.

Then he turned and looked down, and - in that magic moment - the crowd disappeared, and there were suddenly only two people in the universe. The spotlight that had, until that moment, dwelled only on Brian, suddenly expanded to illuminate the young face that was staring up at him, still almost unconvinced, almost afraid to believe.

Brian continued down the stairs, studying the eyes that were fixed on his face, knowing instinctively that he had to wait to allow Justin to make the final move; that this might be Brian's big moment, but it was Justin's decision that would determine what came next.

The song ended, and the crowd seemed to hold its breath as the two beautiful men - one very young and one no longer so young - stared at each other.

Then another song started, and some of the people standing close to the two principals would later sweat that they had sensed a spark of raw energy flare between the two, because they suddenly seemed to leap toward each other and become one, so wrapped up in each other that there was no way of telling where one ended and the other began.

Emmett had apparently edited the new song to start at a particularly appropriate moment, and the couple in the spotlight moved to the dance floor without ever breaking the deep kiss that connected them. The lyrics continued as they began to move together.

"When you touch me like this,
And when you hold me like that,
It was gone with the wind
But it's all coming back to me.
When you see me like
And when I see you like that,
Then we see what we want to see.
All coming back to me,
The flesh and the fantasies,
All coming back to me,
I can barely recall,
But it's all coming back to me now." **


The applause died down as everyone watched, spellbound, as the dancers seemed to occupy a world of their own.

Finally, Justin pulled away just enough to look up and meet dark eyes filled with warmth and desire. "Is it real?" asked the younger man. "Is it all behind us?"

Brian did not blink. "Yes. It's over."

The darkness of the room was a blessing, as it offered Justin no opportunity to notice any shadow that might have existed in those hazel eyes. He simply smiled - the smile that had long since stolen Brian's heart - and settled his face into the lovely softness of Brian's throat, where he could breathe the essence of the man he loved.

TBC

 

* "Nobody Does It Batter"  - Marvin Heimlich, Carol Bayer Sager

** "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" - Jim Steinman

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