Kaz reached up and flicked the blinking, buzzing light fixture over his desk a couple of times with his knuckle, now swaying slightly on the suspension chains. Antique my ass. Fucking old piece of shit. He glanced between the notes of his second phone call with Pete and the ‘official' report he had sent from Chicago. Shit. There's a helluva lot of difference between the two, Kaz thought. He'd been a cop long enough to know that sometimes what really happened and what was reflected in an official report could be light years apart. He also knew there was only one reason for that kind of discrepancy.

"Seems your ass got in the way of protecting one of theirs, eh, Kinney?" the investigator said quietly to himself as he placed a copy of the documents in a folder. He reached into his pocket for the number he had been given earlier that morning and flipped open his phone.

"This is Krawczynski. I'd like to discuss a couple of things with you about Mr. Kinney. Tomorrow, if you have the time. You have my number." Kaz closed his phone, picked up his Corona and turned out the light. There was nothing else he could do until Taylor returned his call.

*******

Justin sat uncomfortably in one of the old arm chairs facing Dr. Patterson's large metal desk. There was nothing kind or comforting about the room - it was functional. And cold. Justin knew, just knew, that this cold was appropriate. That no amount of warmth would ease what he was going to hear. What he didn't want to hear.

"Mr. Taylor..."

"Justin. Please."

"Of course, Justin. I..." Martin Patterson stumbled, thinking he'd prepared himself for this difficult conversation. He looked at the young man sitting before him, at the hope and fear and even resignation in his eyes and knew there was no adequate preparation for this kind of blow. Just do it, Marty, he admonished himself inwardly.

"After we talked with Mr. Kinney's family today... To be honest, Justin, I was concerned that Mr. Kinney's condition was a bit out of my area of practice. I called in a colleague, Dr. Alice McCarthy to hopefully give us a little better insight." He motioned to an attractive older woman standing slightly behind Justin's chair, her hands clasped in front of her.

"I'm sorry," Justin admitted. "I didn't know anyone else was here."

Alice McCarthy approached and quietly took the seat beside Justin, held out her hand and clasped his. She could feel the anxiety in his grip, could see the confusion on his face. 

"I'm Dr. McCarthy and I'm glad to be able to speak with you, Justin."

"Sure. Look...just tell me. What's going on? What's happening with Brian?"

Dr. McCarthy worked to choose her words carefully. "Dr. Patterson asked me to do a preliminary observation of his patient, Mr. Kinney. I'm a psychiatrist, Justin, and I was merely called to introduce myself to your partner, speak with him briefly, and report on that meeting to Dr. Patterson. This was in no way a full psychiatric evaluation, nor was it meant to be."

"Psychiatric evaluation?" Justin sat back in his seat and let out an exhausted sigh. "Christ. I'll bet that went well. No offense, Dr. McCarthy, but Brian really hates anything even hinting at therapy or psychiatry."

"Has he had psychiatric treatment in the past?"

"No. Not that I know of, at least. There were... I tried. But he wasn't... exactly... receptive." Justin thought of all the times he had made small attempts to get Brian to open up to someone - even just to talk with him. The bashing. His childhood. The alcohol and drugs. The near sexual addiction. Jesus, the man was a walking psychiatric wet dream.

"Why did you think he needed to seek help?"

The young man closed his eyes and rested his head back on the chair. Shit! What could he tell her? What should he? Justin was well aware that Brian would interpret anything he told these doctors about him as a betrayal. But...this was different. A month ago... a week ago... hell, just yesterday he would have agreed with Brian. But the game had drastically changed.

"Brian's had a... difficult life. His childhood was pretty fucking bad from what I understand. I don't know specifics, just that his dad was a physically abusive asshole and his mother was an uber-religious ice queen who refused to stop the abuse and condemns him to hell for being queer. He broke off from his family when he was eighteen as much as possible. He didn't even come out to his parents until he was in his thirties. He was afraid to love his son because he thought he would turn into his father. Blames himself for everything that happens to anyone he loves.

"Bri drinks everything away, or takes drugs to feel or to numb. Uses sex to forget. You know, he's a legend - the Stud of Liberty Avenue." Justin paused slightly and gave a small grin. "He told me once he had personally redefined promiscuity. Everybody wants him and he works hard to maintain the myth. But, that's all it is, a myth. ‘Cause that's not who he is. He's not the asshole everybody believes him to be. I've seen him. I've lived with him. I've loved him for five years. There's a different person there. A funny, kind, gentle man. He's just so... afraid to let him out."

Justin took a ragged breath, and wiped at the tears he didn't know were there. How could he explain Brian Kinney to anyone? He wasn't sure he even knew him anymore.

Dr. McCarthy walked across the room to a water cooler and brought a cup back, handing it to Justin. She wanted a moment to process the information, both spoken and unspoken, that the young man had provided. Alcohol, drugs, promiscuous sex, afraid to love and be loved, abusive childhood, dysfunctional adulthood... Added to what she knew from Kinney's file and her observations today she at least had a working hypothesis with which to begin.

"When I observed your partner today, I saw an angry, confused man who didn't even recall what he was last wearing before arriving at the hospital. Who couldn't recall what happened in his room earlier today. He seemed to be struggling to merely hold on to some kind of reality. And Justin... this may be difficult to hear and understand... but I suspect that this isn't an entirely new phenomenon. From what you have told me, he has been trying to grasp a reality for some time.

"Mr. Kinney became quite upset - terrified actually - while I was in his room. I had to order sedation for him. You are his medical surrogate which authorizes you to make medical decisions in the event of Mr. Kinney's inability to do so on his own. At the moment, it is my professional opinion that he is unable to act in his own best interest. Although I still think a complete neurological workup is prudent, I would like your authorization to also have him undergo a complete psychiatric evaluation, as well. Do I have your permission?"

"Do whatever you have to do. I just want Brian back." He hesitated, pushing back the encroaching fear and asked bluntly, "Exactly what are you suspecting? I have the right to know."

Dr. McCarthy took a moment and a deep breath before deciding to be completely forthright with her patient's partner.

"There one compelling possibility based upon what I know at this point. It revolves around a type of dissociation. Dissociation is a function of our mind which allows us to remove ourselves from something we don't want to deal with. In the everyday, we all use it to some degree, such as daydreaming. We drive to a destination and then can't really remember the trip there, perhaps. But in response to extreme trauma, one can dissociate in a more permanent manner. It's a protective system constructed by the psyche to allow the person to simply bear the abuse or trauma." She stopped and made sure Justin was looking directly at her before she continued.

"Are you familiar with the term Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

Justin could feel the familiar bands of tension tighten around his chest, and he fought to hold off his immediate panic, to regulate his breathing. To even continue breathing at all. Inhale. Exhale.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

*******

Michael lay on his back staring up at the ceiling apparently focusing on a small water stain hovering above him.

"We need to redo that."

At the words, Michael blinked his eyes and looked over at his husband. "What?"

"The ceiling. Need to have it repainted, seal off that stain."

"Oh. Yeah. I think we still have some paint in the basement. Probably not enough, though. I'll check on it tomorrow?" He continued his staring.

Ben rolled to his side, facing Michael, propping himself on one strong arm. "He's home, Michael. He's in the safest place for him right now."

Michael sighed and folded his hands behind his head. He didn't completely agree with Ben and, of course, he knew that Ben knew that. Ben always seemed to know what Michael was thinking when it came to Brian. Yeah, Michael was glad Brian was ‘home' - finally. But he didn't buy that being in the hospital was the best thing for him. They didn't find anything physically wrong with him. No broken bones, no head injury that they could find. The doctor sat there and told them all that. Brian should be home. With his family.

"I want to kick his ass, Ben. How could he just leave like that? Act the way he did? I thought he was done with most of that shit he took from Anita or whothefuckever. We all know he was missing Justin, but if he needed us, why the fuck didn't he just tell us!"

"When did he ever tell anyone that he needed them?" Ben rolled back over on his back, picked up his glasses and book. "You're acting like he did this intentionally to you, Michael. You've always made excuses for him, but even you have to admit this is way outside his normal misbehavior."

Michael stayed quiet. He did know. He really did know. And he also knew that his anger and hurt wasn't really about anger and hurt. He was fucking scared. For Brian. For himself. Even for Justin, for chrissake. Brian was always there, even when he was being a jerk - Brian was always, well, Brian. And that person he saw in that hospital room wasn't Brian.

He had the odd thought that the world had just shifted an imperceptible bit on its axis.

*******

Carl Horvath tightened the belt on his robe as he made his way downstairs. He had known the moment Debbie got out of the bed and he knew, instinctively, that she wasn't going to be back in it for some time. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he could hear her in the kitchen. He could already smell the Pine Sol and knew she was doing her own version of pain management.

"Honey, come back to bed," he called even before he reached the kitchen. He knew she wasn't going to comply. That was his girl. When the world goes to hell around you, you clean or cook. He rounded the corner and saw her - on her hands and knees, purple vinyl gloves rolled to her elbows, scrubbing the old linoleum tiles with a vengeance.

"I have to clean this floor, Carl. It's filthy."

"Debbie. You just cleaned the floor yesterday."

"I fucking know when I need to clean a floor, Carl."

Carl walked slowly across the wet floor and poured them two glasses of milk. He sat them on the table and reached down, lightly touching Debbie's shoulder. "You and I both know that scrubbing the hell out of that floor isn't going to change what's happened. Come on, sit with me."

Debbie slapped the brush into the bucket of water at her side, and sat back on her haunches, her shoulders tight as she looked up at the man leaning over her. She was fucking pissed. At the floor. At the bucket. At Carl. At the goddamned world. And just as suddenly she wasn't and her shoulders shook and a low keen escaped. God! She hurt and she was scared and she was worried.

Carl pulled Debbie from the floor and guided her to the chair beside him, holding her hand in his.

"I know, honey. But he's alive."

"But who is he, Carl? Who the fuck is he?"

Watching this woman - this strong as hell, beautiful, crazy woman - fall apart beside him, Carl had never more in his life wished he had an answer.

*******

He could see the light beginning to filter through the separation in the god-ugly drapes over the window. He could smell the rough of the disinfectants and antiseptics around him. He could feel the pinch of an IV connection in his hand. He could taste the slight metallic tinge in his mouth from the bite he had given his tongue. And he could hear the soft purr of the man sleeping in the chair next to his bed.

Justin.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

Why the fuck was Justin here? He was supposed to be in fucking New York.

Yeah. It's still there.

 He knew he was in a hospital but he had no fucking idea why. Or where. Or for how long. It seemed that everything just wasthese days. No prelude. No follow through. Things just happened or appeared and he had the feeling that he was always arriving in the middle of his life lately. He couldn't remember getting here, but he was here. Wasn't he looking for something earlier? Wasn't he standing over there? Wasn't he leaving this place? Apparently, he didn't.  

Christ, he just wanted to be left alone.

So he could breathe. Or not.

"Fuck, I need a drink," he thought aloud. "I just fucking need my head to work."

"Hey," Justin said as he shifted awake.

"What the fuck am I doing here? And what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Now, there's the Brian Kinney I know and love." Brian. It was Brian. Thank God.

"Justin. What are you doing here?"

"I came home."

"So, you've achieved fame and fortune already? Conquered the art world in New York? How the hell long have I been here?"

Justin chuckled slightly and sighed heavily. He was not prepared to have this conversation with Brian.  "Yeah, you're Rip Van Kinney and I'm a huge fucking success."

"Jus," Brian's voice was strained. He knew Justin, knew when he was avoiding.

"Bri... you're in the hospital. I know you can tell that, if nothing else, from the lack of quality linen."

"Yeah, yeah. It's scratching my pampered ass. Now are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Brian noticed immediately how Justin averted his eyes, wouldn't look at him. Shit. It must be bad. He could feel his heart rate increase and his mouth dry out. Christ, he didn't want to do this again!

"The cancer? It's back?"

"God! No! Brian... you had some kind of... attack. I can't explain it, but you... Carl and I found you...We brought you here early yesterday."

"Attack? Fuck, I had a heart attack?"

"No!" Justin realized he had no fucking idea how to approach this with Brian. "Your heart's fine. There's no cancer... Shit, Brian. I'm going to get the doctor." Justin leaned over kissed Brian's forehead and walked out of the room.

The cold started in his stomach. An icy ball deep in his gut, growing until it filled every centimeter of his body. He was frozen. He knew. On some level he knew. A suggestion of plaid shirts and Bibles, of cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey... of time not really being time. And he just knew. Brian Fucking Kinney would never really exist again.