The reaction was almost immediate. None of them deluded themselves by thinking it would be otherwise. Justin and Brian had watched on the small TV set bolted to the wall of Brian's room as Cynthia gave her statement to the press. Even with the grainy reception and the garbled sound coming from a speaker embedded in a handset, they could both easily see the commanding presence of the tall woman - the determination in her voice and the steel in her spine. When Cynthia spoke Brian's words, he could see the small smirk on her lips and the devilish look in her eyes. That she had thoroughly enjoyed it was not lost through bad reception.

Justin had immediately focused on Brian during that particular part of the statement, however. He was certain he had done the right thing in admitting to Brian Michael's culpability in this whole media mess, in not concealing the truth from his partner as if he had somehow lost his adulthood and right to basic honesty with a single diagnosis. But still... he had seen Brian's fight against the alters, had felt the shudders run through his body with the stress of the moment - and was still frightened that this whole thing would blow up in his face.   

Now as he sat in the cafeteria waiting for Emmett, Justin looked down at the call log information on his cell phone and his hand hesitated. Cynthia had not even completely cleared the podium yesterday when his cell phone began vibrating in his pocket. The first call had been from Debbie, as had the second. Now, his eyes sweeping over the long list of missed calls - twenty-three in all - he was sure he didn't want to hear any of the messages. He took a long breath and wrinkled up his nose as he pressed the button that would access his voicemail. Then he simply muted the sound, lay the phone on the table, and let the messages play silently, sending them off to that virtual storage unit before mentally tossing away the key. 

Maybe he would be able to listen later. Much later. Just not now. 

*******

Brian wanted to go home. He fucking needed to go home. To be somewhere familiar with his own furniture, his own clothes, his own fucking food. And his own bed - with Justin. His entire body ached with the need for that, for him. This wasn't even about the sex - it was about the freedom. He wanted to be fucking free again!

Free.

Fuck.

Brian stood before the small window looking over the back side of some generic hospital parking lot and rubbed the back of his neck, laughing to himself. Laughing at the thought of being free. When the fuck had he ever been free? In control of his own life? He had learned a lot over the course of the last couple of days. The diagnosis, what it was, what he could look forward to. The doctor certainly wasn't painting him any happily ever after pictures. And he was stone cold sober taking in this shit. Shit.

He had watched the videos - of him. Or not him. Jesus. Just thinking about the images on that computer screen, obviously images of him, crying and cowering and singing for Christ's sake! He knew those images weren't of him. Yet he knew they were. And the confusion just makes it so fucking much more fun, doesn't it!

He was fully aware right now. Just Brian Kinney. And he'd been Just Brian Kinney for the better part of two days. Apparently, by all accounts, that's a real record for the past two weeks. But in an hour he was going to go into that office, sit with that doctor and probably trigger a whole lifetime worth of work for himself as a fast change artist.

He was going to talk. Maybe.

About his childhood. Maybe.

About...

Brian was not a stupid man. He knew what the causes of this condition most likely were. Causes that Just Brian Kinney couldn't recall - didn't want to recall. And he realized, as he stood looking out at the generic parking lot and rubbing the back of his neck, that he was fucking scared. Scared of what he would find out. Scared that he already knew. Just Fucking Scared.

He really just wanted to go home.

But he was Just Fucking Scared of that, too.

*******

Cynthia laid the file back on the desk and looked up when Martin knocked twice on the door and then stepped inside. Why didn't the man just use the intercom when he wanted to speak with her? Lord!

"Yes, Martin?"

"Ms. Moore, there's a man here who is asking to see Brian Kinney. I told him that Mr. Kinney is away from the office, but he doesn't seem to want to leave. Do you want to speak with him?" The handsome young receptionist had the terrified look of a wild animal caught in a trap, and Cynthia had to wonder if it was because of the man outside or because of her. Jesus. She had been trying to channel the Brian Kinney vibe, but maybe she was succeeding just a little too well.

"It's okay, Martin. Send him in. Did he give you his name?" She knew the security guards had a master list of clients, guests and employees, and no one who wasn't on that list was to enter the building.

"Yes, ma'am. Kind of a strange name for a man. Connie Simpson." Martin turned to leave the office as he said the name. He missed the pallor that had settled on Cynthia's face, and the shock that accompanied it.  

"Martin," She called out. "Wait." She held her hand out toward the young man as if to pause his actions, as she collapsed into the oversized office chair. She sat still for a moment listening to the increase in her heartbeat, trying to understand just what the fuck was happening here. Christ! He was here. God, she had to get herself under control. "Wait. Uh... give me five minutes. Then show Simpson in."

"Yes, ma'am." Martin stared at her, concerned.

"Five minutes, Martin. Go."

"Yes, Ms. Moore."

 Before the door had even closed behind the young man, Cynthia dialed a number that had quickly becoming very familiar to her.

"Kaz? Cynthia. You need to get over here now... Connie Simpson is in our waiting area... No, Christ! I don't know how he got in, but I will damned sure find out! Just please, get over here, now."

Her hands were shaking as she placed the phone back on the desk, and she realized that she had not a damned clue how to handle looking into the face of Connie Simpson - how to deal with the man who apparently held such a horrific place in the life of Brian Kinney. But one thing she did know. She would do whatever it took to make sure he never hurt him again. As that thought passed through her mind, she heard the door open once again.

She looked up from her seat at Brian's desk and took in the man entering her office. The first thing that struck her was just how handsome he was. Thick black hair and dark eyes. He looked almost patrician in his bearing - straight and tall, elegantly dressed in a gray silk shirt and dark blue suit that was obviously tailored for him. Although he was obviously around sixty, he carried it well with his tanned, smooth skin. Yes, he was a handsome man. And she hated him on sight.

"Ms. Moore, it's good to meet you. I'm Connie Simpson." He held out an impeccably manicured hand in greeting. Cynthia did not rise to greet him as custom would have dictated. She simply stared at the man for a moment longer than was actually comfortable before turning her eyes away without acknowledging the hand he had proferred.

 "How can I help you, Mr. Simpson? I'm afraid you caught me at a rather busy time." Her tone was crisp and clipped. She wanted to let this bastard know that she was not glad to meet him. If he wanted to interpret that as her being bothered at being interrupted during her busy day, so be it. She certainly didn't want to lay all her cards out on the table at this point, but there was no need to become chummy with the man.

"Well, I'm not sure you can, Ms. Moore," he purred. Actually purred. Cynthia's stomach churned at the sound. "I'm looking for Brian. Mr. Kinney."

"If this is a business matter, Mr. Simpson, then I am the one you wish to speak with. Mr. Kinney is out of the office for an extended time and I am handling all accounts until his return." She met his gaze head on and cocked her head slightly. "Is this a business matter, Mr. Simpson?"

She could see the slight darkening of his eyes. This was not a man used to being ‘handled', and she would place money on the fact he could tell she was doing just that. He shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, uncomfortably. It was only a slight move, but Cynthia caught it. She had purposely not invited him to take a seat, and was inwardly smirking at his discomfort.

"No, actually. I had thought it could become a business matter. Simpson Steel was a client of Brian's - Mr. Kinney - while he was with the Ryder Agency. He and I are... old friends, shall we say, and I just wanted to touch base with him while I was in town." The implication was intentional. Thrown out there to put this woman in her place. He was watching her as closely as she was watching him. Looking for the small tells, the hints that she understood just what the situation was - he and Brian Kinney were more than friends and he intended to see him.

Cynthia laughed heartily. "Mr. Kinney is, shall we say, old friends with many men, Mr. Simpson. Unfortunately, you will have to rekindle your friendship at another time. Mr. Kinney is, as my employee and I have already mentioned, out of the office for an extended period. If you will leave your contact information, he will be made aware of your visit." She folded her hands on the desk in front of her and leaned into them, simply watching him. She watched his face, his hands. The small tic at the corner of his eye, the slight tap of his fingers on his crossed leg gave away his impatience. She noticed him reassessing the whole situation and, again, she smirked inwardly. He didn't like this one bit. Finally, he spoke as he reached for a pocket inside his suit coat.

"Certainly. Here's my card." He laid it on the desk, not quite reaching it to her, his fingers lingering just beyond her own. "However, perhaps we could expedite this matter. Why not just give me Brian's number? I would very much like to see him while I'm in Pittsburgh."

Cynthia smiled indulgently at the man. "Mr. Simpson." She began, her voice filled with insincere disapproval. "As I said, I will make Mr. Kinney aware of your visit. If he wishes to contact you, he shall do so in his own time. Now," she said as she finally rose from the chair and moved to open the door, "...if you will excuse me, I have business matters to attend to."

The dismissal was so obvious, so blatant that Connie Simpson was left with no way around it. He wasn't used to being dismissed and he sure as hell didn't like being dismissed by this lackey. Surely she knew the kind of money that a Simpson Steel account had the potential of bringing to Kinnetik, and no one in this business would treat a potential client so shabbily. But she had no intention of giving in and he could see that. Short of beating the information out of the woman, he would simply have to bide his time. If that meant staying in Pittsburgh until Brian returned, that's what he'd do.

As he stood to leave the office, he turned and stared darkly into Cynthia's eyes, making sure she saw the full intent of his words. "Make sure you tell Brian that I have a special ticket for him to a Kings game. Won't you?"

The smirk he wore on his face chilled Cynthia to the core.

*******

Brian sat silently in the chair thinking about anything other than what was about to happen. He ran his fingertips lightly over the fabric of his hospital issue attire, the harsh poly-blend meting out a portion of calm as it pricked the sensitive nerve endings. The sensations reminded him of the cover of Gus's car seat, coarse and rough. God, he thought, I miss him. He wondered if he'd grown another inch. Kids seemed to grow so damned fast. Does he know I'm sick? Does he know I miss him? Does he miss his dad?

He had purposely avoided thinking of any part of the family, of what they knew, how they would feel about his diagnosis, how they would react. He knew what Justin had told them - exactly what Brian would have wanted him to tell them. Nothing specific, just that he was sick. Made it sound like he had the fucking psychiatric flu. Shit. But they never knew how to leave well enough alone, and Justin had known that. He'd known they would push and blame and meddle until Brian's business wasn't Brian's business anymore. It was ‘the family's business'. Christ, they never knew when to fucking back off.

Yesterday's revelation of Michael's actions, however, had made it clear that the partial truth hadn't worked. The family had been ‘the family'. Even knowing the damage that word of Brian Kinney having a mental health crisis could - would - do to his reputation, his business.  Fucking Michael. Fuck Michael.

"How are you doing today, Brian?" Dr. McCarthy noticed the absent and pained look on her patient's face and worried that he was overly anxious about the session today. "Are you up for this today?"

Brian laughed at that. Was he up for this today? Well, fuck no he wasn't up for this today. "You're quite the comic, Doc. Seems you missed your calling."

"Seriously, Brian. You seemed quite distant and anxious when I came in." When he turned his head away to avoid eye contact, she sat down in the chair next to Brian, elbows resting on knees, and prompted him again. "Listen. I know you don't trust psychiatry and therapy, or hell, doctors in general. But, Brian... you saw the videos. You've listened to Justin and have seen how this has affected him. You feel it. You know the situation you are dealing with... This is not something you can handle on your own... You do know that, don't you?"

Brian's body sank back into the chair, his head resting between the back and the small wing that cropped out from it, his hands gripping the armrests. His body literally didn't know whether to tense or relax, and his head was buzzing with denials and negations and nonono. Just escape. Just fucking escape. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. He knew it was only a slight touch, but it felt like a block of cement to his frayed nerve endings. Like weighted sandpaper. And at the moment all he could do was pretend she wasn't there, that she wasn't touching him and talking to him and looking at him.

But she was.

"I know," he simply said.

"Tell me what you feel. Right now. This moment."

"I don't know." He whispered it into the safety of the chair.

"You know. Just feel. Tell me."

"This is... hard. I..." The pause was long. Interminable.

"Would you like me to call Justin in? Would that help you?"

"No! No." He didn't want Justin to hear... whatever it was he would say. He had seen enough, been through too much already. Not this, too.

"Okay. Just you and me. No one else is here." She knew she had to remain objective, clinical to a degree. But her heart broke a little more with every sigh, every battled thought that this beautiful and broken man endured. This was not just another case to her. Not anymore. As she had come to know Brian, meet some of his alters and recognize the protective force they wrapped him in, she knew she had met a most amazing being. He was the ultimate survivor with the gentlest of souls hidden safely beneath the fractured façade. And when he began speaking, she was riveted with the painful depth of his words.

"I'm so scared of what this is. Of who I am. I thought I knew me... it was me. But I ‘m them."

"They are you, Brian. They are parts of you that you've used to protect another, more sacred part. They are your shield and armor. And they helped you survive what you couldn't survive alone." She saw the tears course down his face, and noticed how they shone in the softened light filtering from the desk lamp.  

"What am I supposed to remember? He beat me and she didn't give a shit. What the fuck else am I supposed to remember?"

"You may not remember consciously. But the memories are there. Locked away so they can't hurt you as Brian. To heal, to integrate your selves into a whole, you will have to remember. And I wish I could save you from that... but I can't." Dr. McCarthy gripped Brian's arm a bit more tightly as she continued, her voice calm, quiet. "Justin told me about his amnesia, about the attack. You helped him heal, to overcome the panic that threatened to steal his freedom, his life. To heal, he had to remember the attack. It's very much the same with you. To heal, you have to remember what you are hiding."

At the reminder of the bashing, of blood on cement and pale, cool skin, of Justin's pain and courage and strength, Brian's body tensed. His face drew up in agony and a long, low cry flowed forth from his lungs as he had a flash of blood on tile and a cool gray body in his arms, and thoughts of red is the new gray and nonononono and... and it was almost there. The memory was almost his. And then it wasn't his...

"Please...please... don't..." the frightened whispered voice pleaded. "He doesn't know... he doesn't know... please."

"What doesn't Brian know?" She asked the unknown voice.

"He... I killed him. Don't let him know..." The last word trailed off into a haunting wail, begging her to protect Brian from the knowledge.

"What is your name? Can you tell me who you are?"

"Come here, Little Boy... you know what we want. Don't tell him...please..." Anxious hands clawed at hers and sad, foreign eyes begged her.

"Who did you kill, Little Boy? Can you tell me?"

"Patch... he was just a puppy!" Little Boy was now hysterical, caught up in his grief and pain. "He peed... don't tell him don't tell him... the kings... please!" A slight tremor ran through him and his body language changed from frantic to languid.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye..." The breathy sing-song voice was familiar to the doctor and she recognized it immediately.

"Trick?"

"Hey, chick. Now wasn't that a tasty dish to set before the kings?" he finished the nursery rhyme song. "Hmmmm?"

"Do you know Little Boy?"

"Some of us do. He told  you he killed the pup. Couldn't help it though." Trick wound a lock of hair around his finger absently. "The king made him. Him or the dog. Him or the dog," he sang. "I think he made the right decision. Don't you?"

"What did they do to him, Trick? The kings?"

"Love is like a stove, it burns you when it's hot. Love hurts, ooh, ooh, love hurts**" A coldness settled in Alice McCarthy at the words of the old song. This was no random choice of words, but a clear message from Trick. Dear god... love is like a stove...

"Trick, I need you to let Brian wake up now, okay?" God, please listen, Trick. "Let me speak with Brian."

There was no answer from Trick, but the body language changed and the eyes were again clear and focused.

"Went away again?" Brian asked.

"Yeah. But you're back now. How do you feel?" As she waited for Brian's answer, she wondered how to tell him what the last few minutes had revealed.