Brian watched the numbers on his alarm clock go from 7:57 to 7:58 and sighed in annoyance. He had been enjoying just lounging in bed, wrapped around the warm softness of his blond lover and watching the sky slowly brighten behind his large living room windows.

He'd never been one for lazy mornings, usually preferring to begin his day as soon as he was physically able, but waking up next to Justin, limbs tangled and breath mingling, made him want to stay in bed. 

Sighing again as one more minute ticked by, Brian reluctantly disentangled himself from Justin in order to turn off the alarm before it could go off and wake his young lover. The lad could definitely use more rest - he'd seemed to be constantly tired the past few weeks, what with the amount of pressure he'd been under at school, working multiple jobs and the traumatic injury on top of it all. He wasn't going to stop riding him about the drugs even if it was a trifle hypocritical; Brian needed to make sure Justin got the message loud and clear and never did something so stupid ever again. None of that meant he couldn't coddle the boy a little however.

Reaching the alarm clock just in time, Brian scowled at the numbers. He had to be at the police precinct in an hour to talk to Carl, which, taking the horrid weather into account, meant he had to leave the flat by half past eight at the latest. Brian heaved himself off the bed, watching fondly as Justin snuggled deeper into the warm spot he'd left behind. It was embarrassing how fucking adorable he found that.

Sniffing at his armpits, Brian determined that the shower he took the night before had been sufficient in cleaning him and that he could get away with just a spray of a deodorant. With one last regretful look at his bed, Brian padded into his bathroom to perform his morning ablutions. He took a piss, washed his face, brushed his teeth, applied eye drops and anti-wrinkle cream and then spent the next ten minutes fiddling with his hair. His tresses simply refused to lie where he directed them to and wouldn't submit until Brian basically drenched them in hairspray. On second thought, perhaps he shouldn't have skipped the shower.

Once he was washed and groomed to his satisfaction, Brian returned to the bedroom. Justin was still asleep in the middle of the bed, only the top of his blond head peeking out from beneath the duvet, and Brian had to forcibly suppress the desire to crawl back in next to him. Fucking cops and their need to drag him downtown through a fucking blizzard at stupid o'clock in the morning.

Glancing at the large living room window, Brian shivered in reaction to the ridiculous amount of the snow he could see flying past the glass pane. It was a good thing he had the forethought to arrange for a car service the previous afternoon. On the off chance that his jeep would be ready earlier than expected, he had rung the auto shop, but all he got for his trouble was a grouchy mechanic informing him that his car ‘would be ready at five o'clock tomorrow afternoon, just as we promised, sir' in the most aggravating tone a person could muster.

Doing his best to forget about the rude, unhelpful mechanic, Brian concentrated on choosing which tie would go best with the off-white - almost lilac - shirt he had picked to wear; he had only about ten minutes till the car was supposed to pick him up.

After a minute of careful consideration, he decided to pair the shirt with an Armani charcoal suit and what Justin had called an Aegean blue tie. His outfit was then completed with his black Zegna shoes and a slate grey Kiton winter coat.

To Brian's complete shock, the car arrived on time. Once he was fully clothed and put together, he barely had time to kiss a sleeping Justin's head and grab a green apple for breakfast before he had to hurry down the stairs to meet the driver. On the plus side, he should have more than sufficient time to get to the precinct by nine.

"Good morning, Mr Kinney," the driver greeted him, holding the car door open.

Brian nodded in acknowledgment and settled in. The car was comfortably warm - the heating clearly in working order - and the seats looked clean. 

"Cold weather we're having, isn't it?" the chauffeur commented as soon as he slid back in the driver's seat. "They said on the radio that the nor'easter that's moving in could be worse than expected. It might turn into some kinda polar vortex and bring an ice tsunami with it - whatever that is. You ever heard tell of such a thing?"

Brian made a noncommittal sound and bit into his apple to try and avoid an inane conversation. He might not like the sound of the incoming weather, but he didn't want to talk about it with someone who must not be native to the Pitts. They had cold weather every winter, for fuck's sake.

The chauffeur blathered on for the whole ride, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of responses coming from his passenger. Thankfully, Brian managed to tune out most of the weather litany, vacantly staring out the car window and thinking of the blond he'd left in bed. 

He wished he could've stayed a little longer and maybe woken his lover up in some inventive way. He imagined himself sliding down Justin's body, leaving wet kisses on the pale skin in his wake. The blond would hum in contentment but wouldn't wake up as Brian reached his prize, breathing a puff of hot air across the sensitive skin of Justin's dick.

Brian sighed wistfully, a sudden thought of Justin's injury overshadowing his libido. With the condition the blond was in, it was probably for the best that Brian hadn't had the time to offer his blowjob services.

"We're here, Mr Kinney, sir," the driver interrupted his fantasies.

Brian looked around a little dazedly, eyes catching on the brass letters on the side of the police building. Checking his Bvlgari watch, Brian noted it was two minutes to nine, which seemed like a really good time considering the conditions. 

He thanked the chauffeur sincerely when the man opened the car door for him and received a jovial grin in return.

"No problem, Mr Kinney; it was my pleasure. If you ever need a ride again, you know where to call."

Brian nodded, pulling out his wallet and handing over an appropriate tip. "I'll keep that in mind," he assured the man before hurrying towards the police station doors. His Zegnas were fashionable but they weren't all that well insulated, and Brian was in no mood to lose his toes to frostbite.

Once inside, he walked up to the teak front desk that stood in the middle of the entrance hall, a disinterested-looking strawberry blond in an ill-fitting uniform behind it. 

"Kinney, Brian," the adman announced when the copper raised his eyebrows at him askance. "I'm here to see Detective Horvath."

The man glanced at his computer monitor, a bored look in his eyes. "Yeah, go ahead." He waved him off, not even bothering to give him further instructions. Brian was glad he'd already been to Carl's office before and wasn't therefore in need of directions.

He walked up the main staircase at a brisk pace, aware of how quickly the seconds were ticking by - he didn't think a visit to the homicide department was the time and place to be fashionably late.

Once he finally reached Carl's office, he found the door open. Knocking on the door jamb to alert the detective, who was working at his desk, Brian walked in.

Carl looked up from the file he had been reading, eyeing Brian in surprise. "Well hell, it's nine already?" he said, checking his watch. "Well, I'll be damned."

Brian shrugged. "Feels too early, I agree."

Carl ran his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes. "You want some coffee?" he asked as Brian sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair across the detective's desk.

Glancing meaningfully at the empty workspace on the other side of the office, Brian nodded. "As long as it's not tar, sure."

Carl chuckled, picking up his empty coffee mug from its clearly marked place on the right-hand corner of the man's desk. "She's down in the penitentiary; you're safe," the detective said.

Brian raised his eyebrows teasingly. "Just visiting, hopefully?"

The older man sighed in weak amusement. "If I got a dollar for every time I heard that joke..." he trailed off meaningfully.

Chuckling, Brian raised his hand in a defensive gesture. "Okay, okay, I get it. No dumb jokes," he vowed. "Coffee would be really nice, thank you."

The detective nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitching, left to procure some coffee.

Less than ninety seconds later, the door started to swing open and Brian jerked upright. Was Horvath's partner out of the penitentiary earlier than expected? He sighed in relief when the door eased open a little further, Carl backing in with a full mug of coffee in each hand.

"The office around the corner has a coffee maker," the burly detective explained. "Space is at a premium, so Hank agreed to share with the machine. Man doesn't even like java, so it's good he doesn't spend much time there."

Astonished, Brian blurted, "A cop who doesn't like coffee?" That sounded sketchy.

"Yeah, don't know how he got on the force." The veteran copper shook his head in what Brian took to be dismay as he plunked one of the mugs down in front of him before carrying the other around to his side of the desk.

Brian eyed the thick brew dubiously. It might not be motor oil, but it didn't look far off from that state. This was going to require more than his usual spoonful or two of sweetener. Speaking of... Brian glanced discreetly at Carl's desk but didn't see any packets of sugar. There was no point in looking at the other detective's work area; she obviously didn't use any kind of sweetener.

"Um," Brian started uncertainly, for some reason a little embarrassed to ask for sugar.

"Oh, I almost forgot this." Carl withdrew a restaurant-size sugar dispenser and a spoon wrapped in a napkin from the pocket of his suit coat. "That enough for you, Kinney?" he jested.

"For this sludge? Maybe," Brian riposted. He shook a smidge more than his usual amount into the cup, stirred and took a cautious sip. Blech. He hastily added a couple more shakes from the dispenser, hoping it would make the murky brew palatable.

"Puts hair on your chest," deadpanned Carl.

Jesus. "I'm not a bear, Horvath." After another tentative swallow, Brian nudged the mug off to the side. A decent cup of joe would have to wait till he left the precinct.

"Huh?" Carl stared at him in confusion. "That some kind of ga- er," he floundered, finishing weakly, "in joke?"

"Mmm," Brian hummed unhelpfully. "There's a lot of woods around Pittsburgh."

"Right."

Brian grinned to himself at the baffled expression on Carl's face, feeling that he'd got a bit of revenge for the sugar joke. Then taking pity on the cop, whose face was much ruddier than usual, he changed the subject. "So what's the news about the burglary?" he asked. "You have a breakthrough?"

"Well," Carl started, rubbing contemplatively at the stubble on his chin.

Poor bastard, Brian mused sympathetically. Here he'd thought he had it bad - keeping a razor in his desk at work so he could whisk away the new growth a couple times a day - but the detective had it way worse. At least Brian'd never had stubble peeking through by nine in the morning.

"There's some new information that I can share with you as well as some new developments."

Brian hmmed in interest, hoping that would be enough to encourage the man to go on.

Carl flipped one hand from side to side. "I don't really understand all the specifics - I'm a cop, not an electrician - but from what I gathered, the burglars used a known weakness of the alarm model you have. Apparently, it has a backup battery to keep it working in case there is a power outage, but if the power outages are frequent or long, the battery gets drained. I think the CSU said it takes something around twelve hours of no power for the battery to die. Then, if you don't remember to change it, the alarm doesn't work when you lose power again."

Could it have been something that simple that left his place open to the burglars? Brian couldn't remember the last time he'd changed the battery; a little red light on the alarm blinked red when it was necessary.

"Is that what happened?" he inquired. "Was there a power outage?"

"No," Carl replied. "There were no reports of a power outage in your neighbourhood, and no one complained to your building super - my guys had a hard time getting hold of him by the way."

Brian snorted, remembering the hinky lock on the door to his building, which had yet to be fixed. "I'm surprised they reached him at all. The man might as well be invisible; that's how difficult it is to track him down."

"Supers," Carl grunted before returning to the topic at hand. "Our current working theory is that the burglars got access to the fuse box in your apartment building and turned off the power just for your floor. One of your neighbours mentioned that the clock on her microwave reset."

That kind of made sense, but- Frowning, Brian asked, "How could they have known that the battery in my alarm was dead though?"

The detective shook his head, looking more than a little frustrated. "Beats me. To be completely honest with you, we don't currently have any theories we can support with evidence. It's possible they just guessed - it's apparently a common enough occurrence - or they scouted your place beforehand. It could've been someone you had over at your loft - a worker, an acquaintance..." Carl paused before adding with a surprising amount of tact, "or... a different visitor." 

Brian sighed, a series of faces flashing before his eyes. Christ knew he'd had enough ‘visitors' traipsing through the loft. Using his fingers to smooth away the furrows he could feel forming on his forehead - the last thing he needed was for wrinkles to set in permanently - he succinctly summed up the situation with, "Fucking hell." He had no idea which of his visitors might've been involved.

Horvath cast a sympathetic glance his way before continuing, "What we don't know yet is how they got in. The main entrance is easy enough to breach; we did some tests and the door doesn't always latch securely."

No shit, mused Brian. They'd just been discussing his useless, good-for-nothing super and the equally useless lock on the entrance to his building. 

After a moment, the cop added, "The thieves could've also let themselves in as one of the other tenants was leaving or entering the building. However, the loft door is a different matter - the CSU didn't find any marks that would indicate a lockpick was used, but the only other possibilities are that the door was either left unlocked or the burglars somehow obtained a spare key."

Resisting the urge to squirm as he remembered how he'd treated Justin the day of the robbery, Brian stumbled a little over what he wanted to say. "I... um, actually no longer believe Justin left the door unlocked. I think he would admit he made a mistake if that was the case."

Since he suspected that not only was Justin coming to view the detective as a father but that Horvath also felt the same way about the lad, Brian was expecting a judgemental stare from the detective. It didn't come though, Carl simply observing in a mild tone, "That doesn't really matter as much as you might think, Brian."

Brian didn't agree with him - it mattered a lot - but he appreciated the sentiment.

"We have reason to suspect the group that hit your apartment was an experienced crew that's done this kind of thing many times before - they wouldn't have any problem getting through a locked door; it's just unusual that we haven't found any lockpick marks." 

That was all well and good, but it still didn't absolve him from the way he'd treated his lover, regardless of whether he'd been ready to acknowledge that was what Justin already was at the time. Shoving that aside - he could dwell on it more later - Brian considered how the thieves had got into his loft. If they hadn't tampered with the lock, they must've had a key. He handed out fucks, not keys, for Pete's sake. That led him to ask the obvious question, "But how would they get a key to my flat?"

Horvath pulled an old Altoids box out of his desk. The thing was half rusted and looked like it might disintegrate at any moment, making Brian wonder what it was in aid of. Surely the detective didn't intend to suck on a mint - one that had probably crystallised long ago - while drinking his joe.

When Horvath flipped up the lid, Brian at first thought the mints must've congealed into a giant lump, but then he realised the box had been filled with a plasticine-like substance.

Carl extracted a ring of keys from his pocket and held it up, eyebrows raised.

Brian nodded, curious to see what would happen next.

The policeman chose a key and pressed it into the ‘clay' inside the box while elaborating, "It's ridiculously easy to get a copy of someone's key. You take this thing to any locksmith and they make you a copy in a couple of minutes. You can even make it yourself if you know how to cast metal."

Brian felt a shiver travel down his spine at how easy it would be for someone to copy the key to his loft. He had a habit of tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, so all a trick would have to do was snatch them up while his back was turned, press the key he'd just used to open the door into the clay, and then visit the locksmith to have a duplicate made.

Brian had been known to stash various drugs on himself when he went to the clubs, so he was aware it wouldn't be at all difficult to secrete something like the Altoids box, filled with a similar substance, inside a jeans or jacket pocket.

What really creeped him out was the idea that someone would have to plan it out in advance. They'd have to be Brian's ‘type' to hook his interest in the first place and would have to be something special for him to take them home to the loft.

"Okay," Brian stated, side-eyeing the box which now contained a clear impression of Carl's key. "I hate knowing that."

"Just don't leave your keys unattended anywhere," Horvath recommended.

If what he'd surmised was correct, it was too fucking late, Brian mused sourly. "So this was definitely a professional job?" he asked, trying to glean more information.

Carl nodded. "We have good reason to believe that, yes. The burglars had to have cased your building beforehand; they potentially even carried out some surveillance since, according to you, it's not usual for the loft to be empty on a Saturday morning."

That had been true - before Justin. "Jesus," Brian muttered, his heartbeat picking up. "I'm really fucking glad Justin wasn't home."

"Hmm." Carl's face scrunched up into a weird expression.

"What? What's with the face?" Brian demanded.

"You remember I told you I had something important to tell you?"

Of course he did, Brian thought, getting a little irritated. "Yeah?"

Carl sighed, looking uncomfortable. "You probably already wondered why a homicide cop showed up to deal with a burglary call..." he remarked before trailing off.

Brian hadn't... not really. Sure, based on the miniscule lead the detective had let slip weeks ago - that the case involved more than just him - he'd done his best to research like crimes, and what little he'd found on the Internet was rather grim, but- His stomach sinking, Brian noted, "You said you were close by. "

"Yeah and you probably know that's bullshit," Horvath countered. 

There was something so convincing about the hard-bitten copper's no-nonsense air that it had kept him from seeing through the bullshit, Brian thought with a mental wince. Talk about gullible.

"I was called because the timing, the location and the MO of the burglary indicated that it was one of a string of burglaries that's been happening in the Central Business and Strip area."

"I still don't get why-" Fearing the worst, Brian abruptly stopped.

Speaking slowly and carefully, Carl elucidated, "During one of the burglaries, the victim came home early and interrupted the burglars. They murdered her."

"Fucking shit!" Brian burst out. "And you didn't think this was something I should know? Why didn't you tell me sooner? What if Justin had been home?"

The angry, rapid-fire questions didn't seem to ruffle the detective at all. He responded with equanimity, "We had no concrete evidence that your case was actually connected to the murder-"

Stuck on the idea that Justin could've been home when the burglars broke in, Brian cut him off. "You clearly knew enough since you've been working the case all this time. I should've fucking realised there was something dodgy going on - a fucking homicide detective investigating a burglary!" His body thrumming with anger, he had to fight back the urge to slam a fist down on Carl's desk. 

The detective calmly replied, "Look, I understand your frustration, Brian, but I had to be sure before telling you anything. You were never in any danger once the burglars left the loft - there's no evidence to suggest they ever return to the homes they previously hit."

His tone was so level and fucking reasonable that it grated on Brian like sandpaper. Livid, he half stood, shouting, "You can't fucking know that! What if they decided to make an exception?"

You'd have thought that would make a dent in Horvath's composure, but the cop just stared impassively at him. "Brian," he said in that same infuriatingly calm manner, "please understand that we assessed the risk and decided on an appropriate course of action."

Assessed the risk, his arse. His teeth clenched, he gritted out, "Well, why are you telling me now? What changed?"

The way Carl studied him for a couple of beats made Brian think that the man wasn't sure he could handle whatever he had to say next. Brian sure as fuck didn't want to leave without getting a full report, so he took a deep breath and sank back down onto the chair. He might not feel calm, but he could fake it, right?

Horvath continued to eye him for a couple more long moments before divulging, "We got a lab report on the fingerprint we found on your medicine cabinet."

The detective's tone might be even, but it had an ominous undercurrent, putting Brian even more on edge.

"It matched a fingerprint found in the house of the homicide victim," the cop finished.

"Fucking hell!" Brian yelled. Unable to hold still a second longer, he stood and paced over to the door before swivelling around and heading for the other side of the office. It only took a few long strides before he ran into the window, through which he could see fat flakes circling. Recognising the futility of trying to walk off his frustration in the small office, he sighed and rested his head against the cold pane.

"Listen, son, we're doing everything we can to catch these people," Horvath assured him in a soothing rumble.

The ‘son' didn't work on him the way it doubtless would on Justin; instead of soothing him, it just made Brian even more annoyed. He carped, "You're taking your sweet time. How many burglaries have there been so far?"

The detective's steely gaze and curt tone revealed that Brian had succeeded in nettling him a little after all. "Yours is only the second place that's been hit since Wen and I took over the case," he almost snapped, the warmth in his blue eyes turning frosty. "I assure you we're doing everything we can."

Brian was just thinking, Yeah, right, when Horvath went on, "I care about Justin too, you know? I don't even want to imagine what could've happened."

Now Brian felt like a bit of a heel. He shouldn't have been so accusatory; he knew the man cared about Justin. He also knew his lover wouldn't like him going off on Horvath, who was doubtless genuinely doing his best with the few clues available.

Calming down some, hoping the detective would recognise the apology in his words, he acknowledged, "Yeah, I know. I'm just a little... freaked out. I never imagined I'd be entangled in a homicide investigation - it doesn't seem real." 

It appeared Horvath did hear the subtext, both his graze and his tone becoming friendlier. "Yeah, I understand that. No one ever expects-"

He was interrupted by a ringing from his mobile. Both men looked at the phone, which was vibrating on Horvath's desk as it rang.

The display, Brian noted, said ‘Wen.' Better him than me, Brian couldn't help thinking. He'd rather not have to deal with the scary Asian woman this morning - or any time, for that matter.

Giving him an apologetic shrug, Carl accepted the call, asking "Yeah? Whatcha got?"

Listening with one ear to Carl's side of the conversation, Brian imagined how the woman would have responded to his earlier rudeness toward her partner and shuddered. Hell, they'd probably have to scrape him off the floor and carry him out in a body bag.

Carl's side of the call was uninformative, the man only uttering a series of short questions and statements. "Uh-huh... He tell you...? Uh-huh... Okay, got it... Yeah, that's great..." 

If Horvath's comments were on the terse side, Wen's were probably monosyllabic, he thought wryly.

"Wen? Good job..." were the last words to come out of the detective's mouth, Carl looking at the phone in bemusement before chuckling and putting the phone back down on his desk.

"What?" Brian asked, curious as to what had prompted that reaction.

Carl laughed again. "She hung up on me."

Jesus. How did the man stand having her as a partner?

No doubt in response to his appalled expression, Horvath informed him, "That was Wen's version of ‘thank you.' Or ‘shut up.' Probably both," he added after a moment, his tone fond.

Huh, that was weirdly relatable; he didn't like to be thanked either, although it wasn't so bad to have his abilities recognised by someone of equal skill. Even if they were the tiniest bit alike however, he could never work with Wen. Horvath was definitely made of a sterner material than Brian.

"So how's Justin doing?" Carl asked, rescuing Brian from thoughts of having to be around the intimidating Chinese detective every day. "I haven't had a chance to stop by to see the lad the last couple of days. It seems like if I'm not on a stakeout, I'm buried in paperwork." He cast a disgusted look at a teetering stack of files on the edge of his desk. "I tried to offload some of it onto Wen - she's good at ploughing through it - but that didn't work. It just sent her scurrying off to the pen to wrap up an outstanding case." He heaved a defeated sigh, giving the stack of files another sidelong look.

That was one of the reasons he was glad to have Theodore working for him, Brian thought. He hated paperwork, especially the financial stuff. He could do it, of course, but not nearly at the speed or with the same finesse as Ted.

Recalling how oddly his friend had been acting last night, Brian frowned but then shelved the matter. Theodore would doubtless be over his snit by tomorrow; if not, he'd get to the bottom of it then.

"Justin's doing a lot better," he related. "His temperature's almost back to normal, and he's more sore now than actually in pain, you know?"

Carl nodded, knocking back a slug of the tar in his cup. "That's good to hear. I've been kneed in the junk a time or two - made me want to curl up and die. Nothing like what the lad's been through though."

"Yeah," Brian agreed, his balls drawing up into his groin in a visceral reaction to some of his own memories. "Anyroad," he resumed, "Justin will see the urologist later this morning. He's jonesing for a clean bill of health, so we can finally have sex-"

He ground to a halt, strangely embarrassed to have brought that up. It must be a combination of his blue balls - Justin wasn't the only one jonesing - and Carl's age that had him off his stride, he decided after a moment. The older man's age hadn't stopped him from waving his favourite glass dildo in Horvath and his partner's faces back when, but he didn't know the detective at that point; now it was like talking about sex in front of his parents.

"Hmm," Carl hmmed, an amused twinkle in his eyes.

God, don't let him talk about how old people have sex too, Brian prayed.

Thankfully, Horvath only hmmed again before bringing his coffee mug to his lips and swallowing what must've been the last drops.

At the regretful look on the man's face, Brian nudged his cup toward Carl. "Here, have mine."

"That'll be a little too swee-" Carl started before changing what he'd been about to say. "Needs heating up," he claimed. "I'll take it next door in a sec."

There was no way he could possibly detect the smidgen of sugar, Brian thought with an internal roll of his eyes. But whatever; it wasn't like Brian would be the one with a hairy chest.

"Well, if there's nothing else, I should probably skeda- er, get out of here before your better half returns. I don't think I could take her glaring at me right now."

Carl chuckled. "I'll give her your regards."

"Speaking of... I don't suppose Wen's visit to the prison has anything to do with the robbery," Brian mused, hoping to winkle a little more information out of Horvath.

As expected, the copper didn't fall for his ploy. "Sorry," came the quick reply as Brian stood up. "I can't give you any details."

Brian wanted to reach around and massage his arse - the hard surface of the wooden chair had made his buttocks go numb - but he wasn't about to do that in front of Carl.

A couple seconds later, he was just about out the door when he remembered what the chauffeur had been blathering about on the way over here. Sticking his head back inside, he inquired, "By the way, you ever experienced an ice tsunami, Horvath?"

"A what?"

"There's apparently one on the way." Smiling smugly, Brian observed, "Looks like I was right about that snowstorm a couple days ago. It was probably a precursor for the polar vortex that's moving in."

Pulling the door shut, Brian whistled as he headed for the stairs. It had felt good to prove himself right. 

His good cheer waned though as he started speculating about which of the tricks he'd invited to the loft might've had the balls to make an impression of his key - right under his nose, for fuck's sake. The faces of so many men flickered through his mind that he had to grab hold of the bannister to steady himself on the way down the stairs to the ground floor. He'd better limit himself to the last six or so months, he reckoned, before quickly extending that to the last eight months. Ever since the blond boy had come barrelling back into his life at the end of the summer, he'd cut down on the invitations and tended to kick tricks out even more rapidly than before. In and out; fuck and done.

Besides, the burglars could've been planning the heist for a while, waiting patiently for the right opportunity- 

His brow furrowing, Brian realised there was another possibility. Maybe, rather than the burglary being planned - a trick targeting him for fuck knew how long - it was simply a crime of opportunity. Maybe one of the thieves regularly trolled Babylon for potential fucks - and places to burgle - and after Brian picked him up, got all excited when he saw the loft.

Or hell, it could have been someone he ordered online, just because they had a big cock. The last time... Brian's right foot came down hard on the tile floor of the lobby, and he had to take an awkward skipping step to regain his balance.

He barely noticed the smirk on the face of the cop behind the desk, too busy wondering whether the culprit could be George Goodfuck. Maybe he'd sent him after Justin not out of concern for the boy but because that would give him plenty of time to copy Brian's key. It should be easy enough to verify the man's whereabouts on November 4th - a date that was burned into his memory - he reckoned. He'd just give Mr Goodfuck's name to Horvath and let him know he could find the not-so-good fuck at Ript gym.

Brian deflated though, as he paced from one side of the spacious lobby to the other before turning on his heel and retracing his route. George suddenly seemed an unlikely prospect. The man owned and ran Ript with a couple of friends; the gym pulled in a lot of money, so it wasn't like Goodfuck would be hard up. He could have a gambling problem or a drug habit that drained his funds, Brian supposed, but then there'd almost certainly be chatter about it in the community if so - no one gossiped as much as a bevy of queens.

He'd still give George's name to Horvath, but since he didn't think it would pan out, he didn't bother to pull his cell out of his coat pocket to call him here and now. Instead, he continued on with his new line of speculation.

Regardless of where he'd met the trick - Babylon, online or even at the diner - he might not have been on the burglars' ‘itinerary' before the bloke entered his loft and then seized the chance to copy his key. That didn't seem quite as bad as being specifically targeted, although he'd bet that Liberty Avenue being rife with rumours about how posh his loft was would have made hooking up with him especially appealing. The thief could then verify that Brian's loft was worth a ‘visit.'

Brian was crossing the lobby for the fourth time when he cursed, realising he'd forgotten to call the car company to send someone to pick him up. He quickly rectified the matter, the dispatcher assuring him they'd have someone there as soon as they could, although given the crush of people calling in for rides, it could take thirty minutes or longer before someone got to him.

Pressing the ‘end call' button, Brian cursed again but then relaxed after pushing back the sleeve of his winter coat and taking a glance at his Bvlgari wristwatch. His meeting with Carl had only taken half an hour, so there was plenty of time, even if it took longer than estimated for a chauffeur to pick him up.

Stowing the mobile in his Kiton coat, Brian resumed his pacing, his thoughts turning back to the burglary. What if Justin had been there? he fretted. Fucking kid was too ballsy for his own good - he probably would have confronted the robbers and ended up knifed, bleeding to death on the floor. Just like that old woman he'd read about a few weeks ago.

A shiver rippled down Brian's spine as he pictured Justin splayed out on the Genova area rug, his face drained of all colour, red blossoming from a gaping hole in his chest.

That was never going to happen, Brian swore to himself. He wanted the building security upgraded, and he wasn't going to let the building manager weasel out of doing his job. Not again. He should at least be able to keep Justin safe at the loft.

Twenty-six minutes later found Brian at a standstill, peering through a large, arched window at the snow fluttering down on a deserted sidewalk and an almost equally deserted street. Christ, Brian thought, pivoting on his heel and moving to stand under the nearest vent - even the slight bit of heat from high overhead was better than nothing - the car couldn't get here soon enough for him. Vents in the police station lobby were pumping out heat, but the cavernous space wasn't warming up properly. He'd gone and jinxed himself; he should've known better than to mention that fucking ice storm.

If it weren't so fucking cold today, Brian would wait for the car service outdoors, but even with his warmest winter coat, it was too bitter to brave the icy air - a brisk wind making it even colder. In contrast to him, the strawberry blond bruiser at the front desk didn't look cold at all. He'd even removed his uniform jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

The super hadn't picked up the phone, as usual, meaning Brian couldn't light a fire under him from here, and he'd been getting nowhere trying to identify which of his tricks might also be a burglar, let alone a murderer. That had left Brian trying to suss out the rank of the copper at the front desk for the past twelve minutes. The man's main purpose seemed to be to direct traffic - sparse as it was - while also studying the computer screen in front of him and periodically punching at the keyboard with thick fingers.

As Brian watched, the copper picked up the desk phone and shouted into it that Jeffries better get a missing report to him stat. Someone - presumably Jeffries - could be heard yelling from down the hall somewhere that they'd be right right out with it.

The interaction confirmed for Brian that the guy had to be more than a regular plod. You didn't issue orders with that kind of ease if you weren't accustomed to it. Besides, the receding hairline and expanding waistline pegged the officer well into middle age, maybe even close to retirement, so he should've made his way up the ranks by now.

A sergeant maybe? Brian hazarded a guess. Not that he would've been able to tell from the insignia, even if the guy had his jacket on, but that seemed like a reasonable rank for the cop to hold.

When a tall guy bundled up in a long wool coat entered the lobby, Brian couldn't escape the blast of cold air, making him frown at the newcomer. The wintry conditions weren't the man's fault, but Brian was growing grumpier every time someone swung through the front doors. You'd think that if the PPD was going to put its homicide division inside a historic building, they'd have draught-proofed the whole thing and distributed the heat evenly. Instead, it was overheated and stuffy upstairs and like being in an igloo on the ground floor.

The tall bloke looked around, his brow furrowing, his gaze crossing Brian's.

Jesus. The man was fucking hot. Brian's height, chiselled features, a slender build that was probably layered with muscle and piercing hazel eyes. The salt and pepper hair just made him seem even hotter.

He was the kind of guy Brian would take home in a heartbeat - if he didn't give off totally straight vibes. Would have taken home with him, Brian silently conceded. As little as two weeks ago even. But that was before he acquired a partner. Now the blond twat was under his skin - and in his bed, where Brian wanted him permanently. 

Shit. This was gonna require another talk with Justin about their expectations of each other. If he blew Justin off and fucked around, Operation Twat Retrieval was going to crash and burn, which Brian definitely did not want to happen. He'd just have to hope that his partner didn't want ironclad monogamy; Brian wasn't sure he could do that.

While Brian was mulling over the potential relationship pitfall, tall, dark and handsome strode up to the desk. "James Carvalho," he grunted. "I'm looking for my brother."

Brian wondered vaguely if he went by Jim; this was a rare occasion when he wouldn't mind knowing someone's name, even if James wasn't destined to end up in his bed at the loft.

"Your brother?" The balding policeman raised his eyebrows at the visitor, a slight smirk conveying amusement. "We don't have anyone by that name working here."

The copper looked all too knowing to Brian, like this wasn't the first time something like this had happened.

Carvalho didn't appear all that surprised by the cop's answer. His frown deepening, he disclosed, "This is the address I was given after my brother Oliver called me; he's been arrested on trumped-up charges."

Shouldn't have said ‘trumped up' Brian thought; that was bound to get the bobby's back up. The boys in blue always closed ranks around their own. 

Sure enough, the maybe-sergeant's smile vanished, to be replaced by a cold stare. "This obviously isn't the lockup," he sneered as if doubting Carvalho's smarts. "You're in the wrong place, buddy."

Considering his scornful tone, the copper might as well have just said ‘dipshit.'

Brian could see James' fists curling inside his leather gloves; if this were a cartoon, there'd be steam coming out of his ears.

Other than the telltale fists, the visitor did a fairly good job of keeping his cool. "I know that now," he gritted out. "If I hadn't been misled-" Carvalho stopped and took a deep breath, likely realizing that being antagonistic to the ageing cop wouldn't get him anywhere. "If you'd be so kind-"

Christ, Brian was glad he didn't have to play nice with the asswipe of a police officer, who was back to smirking at the other man. He had to be a sergeant, Brian decided - not quite polished and professional enough for a higher rank and too sure of himself to be lower ranked.

"-as to give me the address for the jail where he's being held, I'll be on my way," Carvalho finished.

The copper yawned, his reluctance obvious as he made a half-hearted grab for the mouse attached to his computer. "What's the name again?"

"C-a-r-v-a-l-h-o," the visitor spelled out the last name, which Brian thought might be Portuguese. "First name Oliver. O-l-i-v-e-r."

The almost-certainly sergeant lethargically entered the name and then leaned back in his chair, evidently waiting for the computer to spit out the results.

You'd think a major division like homicide would have high-speed Internet, Brian thought in disgust. This was worse than at the loft, with Brian's provider constantly fobbing off his complaints as ‘weather-related interference.' Although that might be true of late, Brian allowed, casting a glance out the window at the snowflakes that were filtering down. Just yesterday, the latest reports indicated that the ‘snowstorm of the twenty-first century' could be bearing down on them. How the fuck it could earn that designation before the new century was a year old was anyone's guess.

Carvalho shifted from one foot to the other, visibly growing impatient and probably wondering if the sergeant was playing games with him. Brian suspected something of the sort himself, but then the thick-hewed cop grunted, "Fuckin' finally," evidently seeing no need to police his language.

"Solicitation," he then read out from the screen. "Men's room at Ross Park mall. Sounds like a real upstanding citizen, your brother."

Carvalho reiterated through clenched teeth, "The charges were trumped up."

The sergeant rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say."

Wasn't Vic's doctor over near the mall somewhere? Brian made a mental note to tell Vic to stay well away from Ross Park, just in case he thought of stopping there on the way back from a doctor's visit.

"What's he doing with a record then?" the bobby asked in a challenging tone, a nasty gleam in his eyes.

"Some record," Carvalho scoffed. "Ollie was pulled over because he had a taillight out. When he opened the glove compartment to grab the registration, the officer who stopped him saw a joint in the glove compartment."

"Ah, a druggie," the flatfoot commented knowingly.

James gritted out, "The joint wasn't his."

"That's what they all say," the copper reiterated.

"Where is my brother being held?" James pressed again, doubtless realising a tit for tat with the obdurate shamus was going to get him nowhere.

"The county jail, where else?" the sergeant rebutted, not supplying any further information.

"And where's that?" the visitor half growled.

The sergeant grinned, apparently pleased to have got a rise out of James. "Second Avenue. You need me to write that down for you?"

"No," James replied tersely.

Brian was surprised that he didn't ask the sergeant for the street number, but the reason for that soon became clear. James had something more urgent on his mind.

"I just need to get his meds to-" Carvalho stopped short of completing the sentence, doubtless regretting having volunteered that information.

"Meds for what?" the policeman demanded, his eyes narrowing.

Brian hoped Carvalho wouldn't say anything - he couldn't imagine why the desk sergeant should have that information - but his hope was immediately dashed.

His face pinched, James now looked truly sorry that he'd let that slip. Nevertheless, he stated in an even voice, "He's HIV positive. He's been really sick and has got to take his medications regularly. His life depends-"

"His life depends on the meds?" the desk sergeant interrupted. "What was he doing hanging out in the men's room then?"

Carvalho was evidently fed up. "Taking a piss," he answered curtly, turning on his heel and striding toward the exit.

"You one too?" the sergeant called after him.

Turning on his heel, Carvalho inquired, "One what?"

"A ho-mo-sex-u-al," the copper drew out the syllables, smirking at the other man.

Brian was impressed that James didn't show the least trace of being perturbed. The man merely looked coolly at the sergeant before turning back around and marching toward the door.

The policeman frowned, obviously disappointed not to have got to Carvalho again.

Brian grinned to himself, pleased to see the bigoted cop stymied. Then, as James drew level with him, Brian stepped forward to intercept him. Before he could reconsider, he blurted, "Hey, I know a good attorney."

James' eyes narrowed as he looked at him from hazel eyes that mirrored Brian's own.

Christ, could he have approached the man any more awkwardly? No wonder Carvalho was looking at him suspiciously. Brian was normally way more suave than this. 

"Uh," Brian stuttered, momentarily at a loss for what to say next. Gay men were ready to fall at his feet before he opened his mouth; it didn't really matter what he said when picking up tricks, and he was hardly prone to talking about lawyers. Since, sadly, his gaydar wasn't letting out the slightest of pings, Carvalho required a little more finesse.

James asked impatiently, "Why would you want to help me? We've never met."

"I, uh-" Fuck, Brian Kinney did not stutter. Taking a deep breath, Brian tried again. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Sergeant Helpful." That was certainly true; the copper had made no effort at all to keep it down.

Carvalho's lips curved into a slight smile.

Encouraged, Brian continued, "I have gay friends. One of them's a lawyer. She'll see that your brother gets a fair shake and isn't screwed by the system."

James relaxed, nodding at Brian. "In that case, I'd like to have that name and number. I don't know anyone here; I live in Philly."

The honk of a horn got Brian's attention as he reached for his wallet; his car had finally arrived. Feeling around inside one of the compartments, he asked James, "You want a ride? The jail's close to where I'm going; I could have the driver drop you off."

Carvalho shook his head. "Thanks, but I have my brother's jeep."

Well, that confirmed it, Brian mused, relishing the memory of driving a jeep right through the dealership window. Fags did go for jeeps. 

He toyed with clueing James in that he was driving a fagmobile but then decided against it. Liberty Avenue might as well enjoy ogling the guy; they didn't get enough of this kind of eye candy. Besides Brian anyroad.

His fingers finally closing around what he was searching for, he withdrew one of the cards from his wallet and handed it to Carvalho. 

"Melanie Marcus," James read out the name on the card before looking up at Brian. "Who should I say referred me?"

Talk about doing things backassward, Brian castigated himself. Then again, he'd first sized up the guy like he would a trick - and he didn't go around introducing himself to tricks. "Brian Kinney," he said, holding out a gloved hand for James to shake.

Carvalho gripped his hand firmly but without excessive force. "James Carvalho."

After making sure the two remaining cards were tucked away out of sight, Brian slipped his billfold back into his trousers. He never wanted the bulldyke to find out he was carrying around her business card, much less more than one. He'd deliberately forgotten the cards were in there since just thinking about the look of glee Mel would have in her eyes made him shudder. 

"Marcus is a fucking pit bull," he commented. "She never gives up." Most of the time, Brian thought that was an admirable trait, except when Mel went on one of her anti-Kinney tirades. Thankfully, those seemed to be less frequent of late, his exchanges with the alpha muncher now less acerbic and more lighthearted banter. 

"But then she's a bulldyke," he added with a shrug, figuring that would make it clear, even for a straight guy.

James nodded as if that did, indeed, make perfect sense. "Can you tell me how to get to the jail?" he asked as he preceded Brian out of the police station before stopping at the top of the stairs. "I've got a general idea of how to get around, so I should be okay as long as it's easy to find."

Brian considered as he carefully made his way down the stairs, his hand hovering over the railing. The new dusting of snow was making the stairs slippery, and he didn't want to land on his arse and crack his tailbone. That would royally fuck up his plans for the holidays - and Justin.

The interstate would be the fastest way to get to the jail, especially with the snarled traffic inside the city. James probably knew how to reach the freeway, but just in case, he double-checked. "You know how to get to the interstate from here?"

"376?" came the reply from behind him, Carvalho apparently also opting to stick near the railing on his way down. 

When the driver's door of the black town car that had just arrived opened, presumably so the chauffeur could go and open Brian's door for him, he motioned for the man to get back in the vehicle. No need for him to freeze too; Brian could open the door for himself.

Brian turned and nodded once he was safely on the sidewalk, although he still moved far more gingerly than usual as he made his way over to the Lincoln Town Car.

James confirmed, "Yeah, I can get there."

"Get on I-376 heading west," Brian instructed, "and you'll go right past the jail. Just keep your eyes peeled for the Second Avenue exit. It's right after that; you can't miss it."

"Thanks," Carvalho said, outstretching his hand and shaking Brian's again before turning to stride down the sidewalk.

Brian's hand was on the door to the car when James turned around, calling out, "Ms Marcus knows how to get in touch with you, right?"

"Yeah," Brian yelled back, a little surprised by the question. His gaydar wasn't off, was it? "She's got my number." 

It was only when Brian slid into the back seat that he realised it was the same chatty chauffeur who'd driven him to the precinct.

"Bet that's a nice lady who's got your number, huh?" the driver rambled, revealing he'd heard part of Brian's conversation with James. "Sounds like my..."

That beat the driver nattering on about the weather again, but calling Mel a nice lady? Brian almost burst out laughing, imagining the pursed-lip expression the bulldyke did so well. She'd hate that description, he was certain, making a mental note to share it with her sometime.

Justin was glad to finally see the sign for Allegheny General's urology department at the end of the long corridor. From the moment Brian had burst into the loft almost an hour ago, it was a mad rush to get here. Brian had accosted him in the kitchen, where the barely awake teen was eating a bowl of Special K at the bar. He'd taken the bowl from his hands, plunking it down in the sink and ignoring the milk splatters, before hustling him up the stairs to the bedroom. Bundling him into his clothes, Brian had mumbled something about an ‘ice tsunami,' whatever that was, and insisted that with the lousy weather they'd be lucky to make it to Justin's appointment on time.

The lad had been sceptical - sure, it was snowing when he looked out the window, but when wasn't it lately? - but it turned out Brian was right. The conditions were apparently just right to cover the pavement with a sheen of ice. Drivers kept losing control of their cars and sliding over to the curb.

They'd witnessed three fender benders on the way to the hospital but no major accidents. Unlike some of the other motorists, their chauffeur hadn't seemed in the least fazed by the conditions when Justin glanced at him through the partition. He'd easily manoeuvred the town car around the other vehicles on the road and took an alternate route when one of the streets was blocked.

Now, as they reached the entrance to the waiting room, there was less than five minutes to spare before his appointment. Justin looked around the crowded space, wondering where in the heck they were supposed to sit. It didn't look like there was a single seat free.

"There." Brian pointed toward a spot at the back of the room, and Justin followed him toward a small couch. One end was occupied by a round-featured woman with granny glasses perched on her nose, her hands moving rapidly to and fro, but the rest was free. Since he didn't mind sitting close to Brian, they should fit.

It was only as they neared the sofa that Justin realised she was knitting something - and that her knitting needles looked wickedly sharp. The teenager tried to manoeuvre Brian into the spot closest to the knitter but had no success, the brunet plunking himself down on the other end of the couch and drawing Justin down next to him. 

The sofa had appeared comfortable enough at first glance, but Justin quickly discovered it was weirdly slanted and that the cushioning became nonexistent the moment you sat down. He winced, the barely cushioned springs pressing against his still tender testicles.

He kept a wary eye on the knitting needles as he got as comfortable as he could. The way the pointy implements were flashing back and forth in the woman's hands was doubtless the only thing that had kept anyone from sitting next to her on the sofa. The large basket at her feet, from which she kept extruding pink and blue yarn, might've had something to do with it too.

The blond flinched and almost cried out for the knitter to watch it when one of the needles darted way too close to him but pressed his lips closed just in time. Unfortunately, a wimpy squeak emerged, Justin colouring up when Brian snorted.

The woman peered at him through her granny glasses, never missing a stitch, although Justin would've sworn that the movements of her hands became more exaggerated.

Deciding it would be best to ignore her, the blond lad turned his head away and edged a little closer to Brian.

An undetermined amount of time later - it seemed like he'd been there forever, but it was only thirty-eight minutes according to the wall clock - someone called out, "Taylor?"

Justin looked up from the medical history he was reviewing - he'd been handed a clipboard with a thick sheaf of papers when he checked in downstairs and was still making his way through all the fine print. You'd think they could've used a readable-size font, but apparently not.

"Justine Taylor?" the nurse queried the room.

Not again, Justin thought on a sigh. He couldn't count how many times people didn't look at his name closely enough and ended up feminising it.

"Justine?" Brian muttered, looking disgusted as he relieved Justin of the clipboard, stood and held out a hand.

At first a little irritated with his lover - he could get up on his own, thank you very much - Justin ended up grateful for the helping hand as he struggled to rise from the sofa. It hadn't taken long for his buns to go numb, never mind the increasingly painful pressure on his balls.

The best thing about finally being called to see the doctor was that he could get away from the mad knitter. Justin was almost certain that she'd purposely jabbed the needles at him more than once, all because he'd flinched the first time she did it.

"There's no ‘e' on the end of his name," Brian told the male nurse when they got close enough to read his name tag. "I'd think you'd get that, Danielle."

Justin giggled. Good thing the nurse's name lent itself to that kind of retort.

Daniel turned a blotchy red and stuttered out an apology as he led the way down the hall and into an examination room. "I- I'm so sorry. It's only half twelve, and I've already mislaid my glasses. I can barely see without them."

Way back in the ninth grade, Justin had thought he might need glasses. Thankfully, it had turned out to be his allergies that were throwing everything out of focus. He'd rather have allergies; he didn't think he'd look good with glasses.

"You done with that?" Daniel asked, motioning at the clipboard Brian was holding.

"Uh, kind of?" Justin offered. The fine print was a pain to read, so he'd mostly been skimming through it.

"Your allergies up to date?"

Those he had checked closely. "Uh, yeah. There's a fuckton of them," Justin revealed.

Brian concurred, "No shit. Most of this" - he gestured with the clipboard - "is probably a list of all the things you're allergic to."

The nurse laughed, evidently not offended by their language. "Once we're done," Daniel advised, "just make sure to initial at the highlighted spots. You can leave it at the front desk on your way out; they'll notate your records and can schedule a follow-up appointment, if-"

"Follow-up?" Justin broke in, his voice rising dramatically. He'd assumed this was the follow-up.

The nurse spoke in a soothing voice. "It's only if Dr Baitler thinks it's necessary."

Shit. Justin hadn't even considered that he might need to come here yet again; two visits to Allegheny in such a short time were already two too many. The possible need for a third visit had him fretting all over again that there might be something majorly wrong, despite feeling better now.

Brian didn't offer any false reassurances, but the squeeze he gave Justin's hand helped the teen steady himself.

"Have a seat" - Daniel waved at a lime green plastic chair - "and relax your arm."

Thankfully, the surface of the chair wasn't any harder or more uncomfortable than the torture device masquerading as a couch in the waiting room.

"So what happened?" Daniel asked as he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Justin's upper arm. 

"Huh?" Justin replied, distracted by the way the cuff was cutting off his circulation.

Brian quipped, "Danielle wants to know why you're here."

His lover wasn't going to let Daniel's slip of the tongue go, Justin mused. Brian was doubtless horrified by the mere idea of being with a Justine.

"Oh, erm, it's not in my file?"

Daniel gave him a sheepish smile. "Um, I haven't had a chance to look at it..." He trailed off for a second before adding, "Besides, we usually can't get our patients to shut up about whatever's going on with them. They're total Chatty Cathys."

Nonplussed, Justin stared at the nurse, barely noticing that the blood pressure cuff was finally easing its tight grip. Surely the men who came here weren't eager to talk about problems getting it up. If that was even something they'd see a urologist for; he only had a general idea of what a urologist did.

Daniel jotted down something on Justin's chart. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me why-"

"Uh, no," Justin hastily interrupted. "It's, uh, I might have-" His voice trailed off, his fear that there could be a major problem - he might never be able to get it up - overwhelming him.

"Help a nurse out?" Daniel pleaded, putting the blood pressure cuff back on its hook. "I can't read your chart without my eyeglasses."

Oh. Now he got why Daniel wanted him to rehash things, even though he'd rather not.

"I, uh, rammed hard into the sharp corner of a table," he condensed his explanation into one sentence. "With my- you know."

The nurse raised his eyebrows in a clear request for more information.

"Erm, I didn't think anything was really wrong, so I, uh, took some painkillers at first and didn't get it looked at right away."

Justin quailed at the disapproving expression on Daniel's face.

"I take it you've realised that wasn't the best idea," Daniel commented dryly, sticking a thermometer in Justin's ear.

Brian scoffed, causing the blond lad to cringe mentally. How long was it gonna be before he wasn't being lectured and reminded about his stupidity every time he turned around?

"99.2," the nurse announced when he removed the thermometer from Justin's ear.

Almost down to his normal range, Justin mused. It was even a touch lower than last night. That had to mean he was getting better, right?

"How about his blood pressure?" Brian questioned. "You didn't bother to tell us that."

"Oh, sorry!" Daniel apologised. "Squinting at everything has me off my stride." Narrowing his eyes at what he'd written down, he read, "128 over 80. That's a little high," he commented, "but it's probably just because you're anxious about being here. It's perfectly normal to have that drive up your blood pressure."

Brian hmmed, making Justin wonder if there was something wrong. He had no idea what the reading had been at the ER, the last time his blood pressure was measured, and was tempted to just shrug it off. He'd learned his lesson though, so maybe he should ask the urologist about it - if Brian didn't beat him to it.

While Justin was fretting about his blood pressure, Daniel had clipped a pulse oximeter to his index finger and removed it when it let out a soft beep. "102," he noted, jotting the number down. 

When Justin frowned - that sounded kinda fast - Daniel added, "Don't worry. Being here makes everyone's heart beat faster. It's probably just nerves."

Brian hmming again didn't do much for said nerves.

"So what did you ta-" the nurse started to ask, only to be interrupted by someone knocking on the door and opening it a crack. Frowning, Daniel stepped over to the door and had a short, hushed conversation with the interloper.

Turning to Justin, he issued another apology. "I'm sorry. I'm needed out front, but I should be back shortly, well before Dr Baitler is ready for you. You can finish going over your medical history in the meantime. Okay?"

"Sure." Justin shrugged. 

"Oh, and go ahead and change into the gown on the exam table," Daniel instructed. Forestalling a question from Justin - it was probably what everyone asked - he added, "You don't need to get up there yet; you can just sit in one of the chairs for now."

Once Daniel had left, Justin scrunched up his nose at the johnny; the gowns were always too skimpy and-

"C'mon," Brian encouraged him, going so far as to kneel down to untie Justin's trainers.

The protest on Justin's lips - he could untie his own sneakers for fuck's sake - died when he saw how Brian was peering up at him from under absurdly long eyelashes, his eyes glinting wickedly.

"You look good in a johnny," Brian teased as he reached up and grabbed hold of Justin's old, well-worn cargo pants and tighty-whities, careful not to jostle his balls as he guided both garments down his legs. "It shows off your ass-ets."

The blond lad giggled, Brian's familiar sexual banter distracting him from worrying about the upcoming exam and reassuring him like nothing else could.

Brian stood and whisked Justin's T-shirt over his head before folding the clothes and setting them atop his sneakers. "I meant it," Brian husked into his ear as he tied the gown, giving Justin's derriere a quick pat to emphasise what ‘assets' he meant.

Justin giggled again, no longer minding quite so much that his arse was hanging out of the johnny. 

"Mhmm," Brian hummed, patting his rear again.

Reminded of his lover's weird hmming a couple minutes earlier, Justin looked over his shoulder at Brian. "Why did you keep saying ‘hmm'?" he demanded, his anxiety starting to ratchet back up. "Were my BP and heart rate abnormal or something?"

The brunet lifted an eyebrow and hmmed again. Justin was ready to strangle him when he realised Brian looked a little... embarrassed?

"Uh, no." Brian rubbed at the back of his neck as he handed Justin the form-laden clipboard, gesturing for Justin to sit in the chair closest to the exam bed. "I'm sure Daniel's right. The readings were just elevated because you're anxious, like in the ER. It's... normal," he concluded after pausing for a beat.

Even if he was no longer quite as anxious, Justin was still puzzled. Right as he asked, "Even for you?" there was a perfunctory knock, the door opening right after.

A man waltzed in, stretching out a hand for Justin and then Brian to shake. "Dr. Anthony Baitler," he introduced himself in a booming voice. "I'm able to see you early-"

Justin bit his tongue to keep from asking what ‘on time' was if forty minutes past his scheduled appointment was early.

"-because I had to send my previous patient off to visit Darth."

The teenager blanched and he shrank back in his chair.

"How'd you like Darth, young man?" Dr Baitler inquired, his tone bland, as if he were asking about something humdrum and innocuous. "I saw in your file that you and he had some one-on-one time last week."

Justin could feel his eyes bugging out as he stared at the doctor, utterly nonplussed. He almost blurted out how much he fucking hated Darth, but then he noticed the mischievous twinkle in Baitler's brown eyes. Gathering his wits, he deadpanned, "Yeah, Darth got awfully up close and personal."

Baitler burst out laughing. "Good for you, lad. Good for you," he wheezed as he wound down. "Not everybody can take my sense of humour - or Darth - in stride."

Justin smiled, a little proud of himself.

The doctor glanced at his chart, muttering, "Good, good. Your temperature's down. Blood pressure's a little high, but that's probably nerves," he echoed what the nurse had said before patting the exam table. "Now, young man, why don't you get up here, and I'll have a look at you."

Stepping onto the footrest, Justin hitched a hip over the edge of the exam table and then squirmed back a little, wincing as he did so. It didn't really hurt, just exacerbated the lingering soreness in his testicles, but the padded surface was cold, the thin, disposable sheet of paper not doing anything to warm it up.

He felt a hand under his elbow, steadying him and glanced up to see Brian standing next to the exam bed. "Darth?" Brian mouthed at him.

Justin blinked at Brian, confused for a second, but then he realised he'd never told his lover about Darth's even more menacing reincarnation. "Later," he mouthed back.

"Lie back and put your feet in the stirrups," Baitler issued more instructions.

What stirrups? Justin wondered, only to have the urologist slide metal stirrups out from underneath the table and extend them from the corners.

"That's it. Just scoot down a tad."

Ugh. Justin hated being exposed like this. He glanced over at Brian, who waggled his eyebrows at him and mouthed, "Hot."

Huh. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

Baitler gently moved Justin's penis out of the way to examine his testicles. "Do you play sports?" he asked.

"Huh?" Justin replied, thrown by the question.

In a mild tone, the doctor observed, "If you do, you know that the pain from a sharp blow to your gonads should subside within fifteen minutes. If not, you should see a doctor immediately, especially if you're feeling nauseous, dizzy or your head hurts. You experienced all of those, according to the notes in your file."

Justin nodded in acknowledgement, wishing he could sink through the floor, a desire he'd been experiencing every time he had to think about what had happened and how stupid he was.

"Mr Taylor?" Baitler prompted, undoubtedly wanting more of an acknowledgement than a nod.

Justin sighed, his frustration with himself almost overwhelming him. "I took some dodgy drugs to help with the pain," he revealed. "That was a really dumb idea. But-" 

His eyebrows shooting up, Baitler chastised, "But nothing. You had a serious injury, Mr Taylor. There's no reason good enough to endanger your health."

"Exactly," Brian bit out.

As he palpated Justin's scrotum, Baitler asked, "How long has it been since you were injured?" 

Justin had to stop and think for a moment, the days since Hobbs pushed him into the table blurring together in his mind.

"Six days," Brian informed the doctor. "It'll be a week tomorrow."

"Well." The doctor rolled his stool back from the exam table and smiled at Justin. "You have been extremely lucky, young man. The MRI showed a small tear in the tunica vaginalis, but it was really tiny. I can see that the colour has improved and there don't appear to be any complications. Your testes seem to be healing well."

"Vaginalis?" Brian interceded, sounding appalled.

Great. Justin could only imagine what Brian must be thinking.

"Mr Kinney," Baitler almost tut-tutted, "the tunica vaginalis" - he emphasised the correct pronunciation - "has nothing to do with the female reproductive system. It is simply the Latin term for the pouch of serous membrane covering the testis and derived from the peritoneum."

"Huh," Brian said intelligently.

The med-speak didn't mean much to Justin either, but he'd cottoned on to the doctor's message just fine. At least, he thought he had. "I'm gonna be okay?" he asked for verification.

Dr Baitler patted him on the knee. "Like I just said, you're a very lucky young man, Mr Taylor. You're going to be just fine."

If he hadn't already been lying flat on the exam table, Justin would've collapsed onto it, relief flooding through him.

"Does that mean I can-" clashed with Baitler directing, "You can sit up now, and get off the exam table if you'd like."

It was a bit of a struggle to sit up, which the teenager put down to his awkward position on the exam table, his gonads basically hanging off the edge and his feet at an odd angle in the stirrups. Even propping himself up on his elbows didn't help much. This must be how a beached whale felt, he reckoned.

"Try taking your feet out of the stirrups first," Brian recommended dryly.

Face flaming - that should have been obvious - Justin freed one foot and then the other. A palm against his back, Brian guided him into an upright position before helping him clamber off the exam table. 

Justin sighed, glad his junk was no longer dangling in midair or resting against the exam bed. 

"Now what was it you wanted to know?" Baitler asked, looking up from the file in which he'd been making notes.

Given how the urologist's eyes were twinkling, Justin would have bet that he'd observed his ungainly efforts, although he didn't say anything.

"If I'm okay, does that mean I can, erm, resume normal activities?"

Dr Baitler responded with a question, "Would those activities include working?"

That wasn't what Justin'd had in mind, but if he could work, surely he could have sex. He nodded, smiling hopefully at the doctor.

"What kind of work?"

If Brian weren't here, he'd be tempted to skip mentioning the diner, but that wouldn't fly with his lover right next to him. "Um, besides doing artwork for Brian's advertising agency, I'm a waiter at a diner."

"I don't see any problem with your artistic endeavours, but I'd recommend waiting before resuming your other job. That can be pretty strenuous work from what I recall; I waited tables in college."

Justin nodded reluctantly, acknowledging the point the doctor was making.

"If you wait till after Christmas" - Baitler unknowingly echoed Debbie's wishes - "you should be able to work again. It shouldn't hurt anymore if you accidently jostle your junk during rush hour then."

Justin nodded more vigorously, the notion of his still sore testicles bumping against anything as he navigated his way around the crowded diner not sounding appealing.

"Erm," he tried again, gesturing at his crotch. "What about sex?"

Baitler gave him a knowing look. "Have you felt like having sex? More to the point, have you had an erection since the injury?"

"Um, I-" Justin stammered. "I just want to be able to give a blowjob," he blurted, his face crimsoning.

"Mr Taylor," the urologist chided, "surely there's no rush for that? Wouldn't your partner want to reciprocate?"

"Yes," Brian interceded, "he would."

Discouraged, Justin let his shoulders slump. Since when did Brian turn down blowjobs left and right? "Do I have to wait till after Christmas for that too?"

"Not necessarily. Just wait until the soreness is gone - and until you can maintain an erection. Sex should be fun-"

"But, nothing's happening," Justin interrupted, glancing down despondently.

"You're still healing, young man," Baitler reminded him. "Be patient and you'll be back in action before you know it."

Yeah, right. If that were the case, he'd already be ‘back in action.'

Baitler stood up, appearing ready to move on to his next patient, but then, his brow furrowing in thought, he looked at Justin. "You said something about dodgy drugs. Did you take those to deal with the pain?"

Justin winced at yet another reminder. "Yeah."

"What kind of drugs? Was a needle involved?"

"No," Justin replied, shuddering mentally. He wasn't afraid of needles, but the thought of injecting drugs that Sven dispensed grossed him out. "Just some pills and, uh, some kind of powder."

"Hmm. Did you use a straw to inhale the powder?"

"Uh, yeah. It was in the baggie." A clammy sweat breaking out across his body, Justin worried about where Baitler might be going with all the questions. "Why?"

"Did you know if anyone else used the straw?"

Dabbing with the ‘sleeve' of his johnny at the bead of sweat that rolled down his face, Justin answered uncertainly, "Uh, I don't think so?"

"To be on the safe side, I want you to get an HIV test."

Justin thought he was going to faint. He might be positive? He'd been feeling the tiniest bit of optimism - the worst was behind him and he'd supposedly be ready to have sex sometime soon - but now...

Tears pricking at his eyelids, he struggled to recall the moment he accepted the baggie from Sven and then pulled out the straw. "Wait!" he yelled, startling Baitler, who took a step back. "The straw was in a wrapper. I remember taking it off." Euphoria washing over him, he thanked God that the straw had been wrapped. He was sure he wouldn't have thought twice about inhaling through that damned straw even if it didn't have a wrapper. 

Then another concern hit him. Justin swayed, only Brian's arm, which was now around his waist, keeping him upright. What if Sven or someone else had, like, put a pill in their mouth and then removed it, tossing it back in the baggie? "The, uh, pills weren't packaged though; they were loose in a Ziploc. What if someone got saliva on them or something?"

Baitler chuckled, which made Justin colour up. He must've said something dumb.

The urologist quickly got himself under control and smiled sympathetically at him. "I apologise, Mr Taylor. I shouldn't have laughed. It's perfectly normal to worry that HIV might be transmitted because someone positive handled the pills. I can assure that's not the case, however. If an HIV-positive person with sores or bleeding in their mouth passed pills directly from their mouth to yours, there would be a very slight possibility that you could contract HIV. But from pills that were emptied from a blister pack into a baggie?" He shook his head. "It's simply not possible.

"Even from a straw that had been used previously," the urologist continued, "the chance of HIV transmission would be very small, but it is possible that if it contained traces of blood-"

Justin broke in, too anxious to wait till Baitler finished his monologue. "I don't need an HIV test then?"

Dr Baitler replied with a question, "When was your last test?"

The teen clamped his lips together, not wanting to admit he'd never had one. He knew better, but it seemed like so little time had passed since he got together with Brian that he'd forgotten all about it.

Stepping in smoothly, Brian assured the urologist, "We're planning to get tested within a week."

Justin darted a glance at his lover, wondering whether Brian really did have plans for them to get tested. He couldn't tell from the brunet's expression, but he didn't doubt that if he hadn't had plans before he did now.

"Good." Baitler nodded in approval. "Regular testing comes with being gay or having an active sex life."

The doctor's use of ‘active' was quite clever, Justin noted admiringly. It was judgement-free, leaving it up to the listener to determine what active meant.

"You don't need to worry unnecessarily though, Mr Taylor." Baitler outstretched his hand and gave Justin's a firm pump before patting the back of his hand reassuringly. "The test is meant to provide you with peace of mind, and in case of an STD, to reduce the risk of transmission."

Justin wished Baitler had never mentioned the risk of HIV in the first place, but he supposed that wouldn't have been very professional - or thorough. Essaying a tepid smile, he extracted his hand from the doctor's and summoned the presence of mind to ask, "Will I need to come back here?"

"No, you're good to go. Just be sure to finish the course of antibiotics that" - he picked up Justin's file and peered at it - "Dr Singh prescribed." He smiled at Justin. "You were lucky to get Singh; he really knows his stuff."

Baitler then turned to Brian and held out his hand. "Mr Kinney."

Brian had been less than cordial since Baitler dropped the HIV bombshell, but he did shake the urologist's hand, albeit with evident reluctance.

The urologist didn't seem offended, merely commenting, "I'll let you get dressed now, so you can be on your way."

Wanting to be absolutely certain, Justin double-checked, "Um, I don't have to refrain from sex, right? Once I can, er, that is-"

Baitler what he'd said before. "Just wait until your body signals that it's ready, and you'll be fine."

"Don't worry," Brian stated firmly, not bothering to lower his voice, "we'll be doing a sixty-nine in no time, Sunshine."

Horrified more by the blatant innuendo than by his partner's earlier rudeness, Justin's WASPy manners kicked in, and he dug a pointy elbow into Brian's side.

Lips twitching, Baitler inquired, "Was that it?"

Certain his face must be the same bright red as a vine-ripened tomato, all Justin could manage was a squeaky, "Yeah."

Baitler swung the door open but then paused. "I have another question for you, young man."

Justin felt his stomach sink, tears again threatening. Was there some other STD he could have? Not that he could imagine anything worse than being positive... and ending up with AIDS. Unable to utter a word, he gave a jerky nod of assent.

"That diner where you work - do they have good hamburgers?"

It took a second for Justin to make sense of the unexpected question. "Um, yeah," he hesitantly replied after a few seconds.

Brian snorted but didn't say anything to contradict Justin.

"What's the name of the place?" Bailter pressed for more information. "I might stop by sometime; I enjoy a good burger."

Even though he knew Baitler had only been doing his job, Justin wasn't sure he'd be ready to see the person who'd scared the living daylights out of him anytime soon. Then again, he doubted the urologist was likely to show up in the gay district.

"The Liberty Diner," he hesitantly divulged. He didn't supply a location; Baitler could look it up in the phone book if he was actually interested.

"Maybe I'll see you there," came Baitler's parting words as he finally exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Unable to hold back tears of relief any longer, Justin buried his face in his hands.

"Hey." Brian gathered Justin in his arms and rocked him back and forth. One hand was plastered against his back, holding Justin tightly to him, the teen's face pressed into the crook of his neck. The fingers of Brian's other hand caressed the short hairs at the crown of his head. 

"You're okay," he murmured in a choked voice, his breath ghosting across the tip of Justin's ear. "You're- You're not sick. You're okay."

The way Brian repeated himself and the hitch in his voice clued Justin in that his partner must've been almost as freaked out as he was. Making a determined effort to collect himself, he rubbed his nose against Brian's shirt and took a half step back, sniffling. Getting an eyeful of the mess he'd left on Brian's shirt, he abashedly muttered, "Soz." Thank fuck he hadn't snotted all over Brian's Aegean blue silk tie, which he must've pushed aside as he burrowed into his lover.

"You're not the one who should apologise." Brian glared at the door to the exam room. "That jackass could've been more sensitive in his delivery."

"Sensitive?" the blond lad echoed, astounded. Brian was, like, the king of insensitivity.

"There was no reason to scare the wits out of u- that is, you," Brian growled.

He'd been about to say ‘us,' Justin was certain, which confirmed that Brian had been just as scared as he was. It brought home again, just how badly things could have turned out. He shuddered. "God, Bri, what if that straw hadn't been wrapped?"

Brian scoffed, as if it was no big deal, but Justin didn't miss the fine tremor that ran through his body. "What?" Brian snarked. "You think Sven would've pulled it out of someone's nose, stuffed it in the baggie, and then offered it to you? In the middle of the break room where anyone could walk in?"

That was an absurd enough scenario to make Justin smile.

"Besides, even though Sven would have trouble pouring piss out of a boot even if the instructions were printed on the heel-"

This time Justin outright giggled. He remembered Ms Gallagher sharing that example of LBJ's wit with his American Government glass and sending everyone into hysterics.

"-he's not fuckin' dumb enough to reuse straws. He'd be taking the chance that it could be traced back to him if anyone tested positive."

"But he's always high," Justin objected, not entirely convinced. "His grey matter is totally compromised."

Brian countered, "That still doesn't make him dumb enough to piss off his supplier. That kid's at the bottom rung of the ladder. Whoever's feeding the drugs to him will have drummed it into Swede-boy that he'd better not ever lead the law to him. I bet he's plenty smart enough not to do that."

"I guess." Justin dashed away a stray tear with his knuckles. 

"Jesus Christ, Twat."

The fondly indulgent ‘twat' did more to make Justin feel better than anything else could.

Brian glanced down at the mess on his shirt. Apparently unbothered, he went so far as to smile at the tears and snot. "Let's get you dressed, okay?" he suggested.

"Okay."

"So," Brian addressed a fully clothed Justin a few minutes later, "you like bad boys?" 

Confused, Justin blinked at his partner. "What?"

"Sounds like you and Vader have a thing," Brian deadpanned.

It took a second for Justin to realise he must be talking about Darth. With a shudder, he revealed, "Darth is what the radiologist calls her horror of an MRI machine. Besides," he admitted, "if I were into a Star Wars character, it'd be Han Solo."

"Ah." A hand on Justin's back as he ushered him out of the room, Brian smirked. "My counterpart."

The Lincoln town car had just rolled to a stop on Liberty Avenue, and looking out the window where more fat flakes were drifting down, Justin wished he didn't have to leave the warmth of the vehicle. He wasn't all that keen on leaving his lover's side either, the HIV scare still preying on his mind.

He didn't have a choice though if he wanted to go Christmas shopping.

"You want to come with me instead?" Brian invited him, his fingers ghosting over the skin at the nape of Justin's neck and stirring the fine blond hair.

Justin giggled. Like he could afford the kind of shopping Brian would have in mind. Besides that, Brian would doubtless get really impatient with him poking through stuff as he looked for just the right gifts, and he definitely didn't want his lover looking over his shoulder while he searched out something special for him.

"No thanks," he murmured. He hesitated for a moment, glancing through the partition at the driver, before leaning in to kiss Brian. A kiss, even a steamy one, would be nothing to the eyeful the chauffeur was already getting - the coat one bloke was wearing flapping open to display assless chaps as he passed the Lincoln.

"C'mere," Brian rasped, tugging him closer.

Right then, Brian's phone started making a weird noise in his coat pocket. Justin thought it was some kind of a specialised ringtone - maybe a song, although he couldn't tell which one, the cell letting out a note and then cutting out before doing the same thing again.

Brian grumbled, "Whoever it is had better have a good excuse - like my new offices have flooded or something," as he fished his mobile out of his coat.

Drama queen, Justin fondly thought.

Not bothering to look at the display, Brian flipped up the cover and barked, "Yeah?" into the cell. "What?"

"Fucking piece of shit," came the next remark as Brian lowered the cell phone and shook it before holding it up to his ear again. He scowled, uttering another, "Yeah," and then held the phone out.

"Cockblocked by a dyke," he sighed.

Justin blinked at his lover. Was he meant to take the phone?

"It's the Wicked Witch of the East," Brian informed him, pushing the mobile at Justin. "Smelly Melly," he clarified when Justin merely looked at him uncertainly.

"Brian," the teenager chided, finally accepting the phone.

Smirking at him, Brian mumbled unrepentantly, "Smelly dyke witch."

It was all Justin could do not to giggle into the phone. The connection was really staticky, so Melanie had to repeat herself a few times before the lad understood that the POAs were ready - and that if he could swing by JKL now, they could be notarised now.

Justin turned beseeching eyes on his lover. "Could you drop me off at Mel's office? Erm, I think it's somewhere near here," he added hesitantly.

"You sure you want to beard the witch in her den?" Brian teasingly inquired as he leaned forward and tapped on the partition. When the divider was lowered a couple beats later, he instructed, "Change of plans. Our next stop is Strawberry Way."

He pressed a couple keys on his mobile before scowling and muttering, "Shit." Stashing the phone in his coat, he added for the chauffeur's benefit, "It's a couple blocks in from Liberty Avenue. I'll point out the building once we're closer."

The driver took it in stride. "No problem, Mr Kinney. We'll be there in a jiffy."

"Good," he acknowledged before turning to Justin. "So why are you visiting the bulldyke?"

Justin beamed at Brian, announcing, "My POAs are ready to be notarised. Um, that is if you're still willing..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling a bit uncertain. Maybe he should have double-checked first?

Brian raised an eyebrow, managing to convey ‘don't be a twat' without actually uttering the words. "'Bout time," he grunted, glancing out the window. "Now we won't have to go through a bunch of BS-"

The brunet broke off, his eyes going wide before he burst out laughing.

Justin glanced around but didn't see anything unusual. "What is it?" he asked. "What's so funny?"

This time Brian's look conveyed that he was short of more than a few brain cells.

"What?" Justin snapped defensively.

His laughter winding down, Brian gave him the benefit of the doubt. "You must have been looking the other way. There's a new eatery on the corner."

Justin still didn't get it. "Yeah?"

Brian snickered, waggling his eyebrows. "Wiener World. Right on our favourite bulldyke's doorstep."

The teenager's eyes rounded and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Wanna bet Mel eats there every day? Wieners and," Brian whispered, "ice," before resuming in a normal tone, "cream."

"Uh, sir?" the chauffeur broke into their hilarity. "I can't go any further."

"Shit," muttered Brian, his amusement cut short as he looked around. "I know Strawberry Way's not a through street. We should've taken Sixth or Seventh Avenue and then gone along Grant."

"I can turn around-"

Brian glanced at Justin. "You okay to walk a block?"

Justin nodded.

"No. Just stop here," Brian ordered. 

The driver smoothly pulled over.

Justin leaned over Brian and peered out the window at the ‘do not enter' sign. They were really close to home, he realised. If the Wiener World hadn't thrown him off - it had been an empty storefront the last time he walked past it - he would've instantly known where he was. Strawberry Way was the quickest route between the diner and Debbie's house. He'd just never paid attention to the street name and didn't connect it with the street he traipsed down all the time.

Strawberry Way narrowed so much here that the Lincoln wouldn't have been able to get through even if the pedestrian-only zone wasn't blocked to traffic. Not without scraping up against the fire hydrant or the mailbox on the corner anyway. Never mind the vehicle would have to plough down several bollards and heavy planters with snow-covered shrubbery.

Puzzled, he asked, "What're we doing here? I thought we were going to Mel's law firm."

"What? You think I'm taking you to Deb's instead?"

Hardly, but- Justin shrugged in lieu of an answer.

"It's down there," Brian said, pointing toward the far end of the pedestrian zone.

Justin's eyebrows shot up. Mel's workplace was this close to Debbie's house?

"When you come to the ‘jackal' sign, you'll know you've come to the right place."

Justin again had to stifle a laugh. Placing his free hand on the door handle, Justin depressed it before cautiously lifting his other hand away from his mouth. His lips pressed tightly together, he pecked Brian on the lips and scooted out of the car as fast as he could, narrowly evading his lover's attempt to reel him back in for a more thorough kiss.

The look of outrage on Brian's face as he shut the door was almost as funny as the Wiener World thing, the teen thought, fighting off the hilarity that could leave him stranded in the middle of the street. With a quick wave of his hand, he made his way carefully along the slick pavement until he reached a two-storey Victorian - a sign on the side of the building informing visitors they'd reached Jacobs, Knox and Lopez, Attorneys at Law, the initials JKL written larger than the rest of the letters to make them stand out. 

Suppressing a snicker - Brian's ‘jackal' comment now seemed even funnier - Justin decided he liked the look of the law firm. The repurposed house seemed friendlier and more welcoming than a modern, multi-storey office building would. Making his way up a couple steps, he pushed open the door to the law offices.

Inside the building, he faced a staircase directly ahead of him, with a hallway to the right of the staircase leading deeper into the building. He hesitated for a moment before noticing the open door to his right, next to which was a sign inviting visitors to come in.

He stepped into the small lobby, which contained a sitting area and a waist-height counter. A few metres beyond the counter, a divider taller than he was kept Justin from seeing anything else. The lad wondered whether he should ring the bell or knock on the counter or just call out a greeting - surely, there had to be someone nearby.

He was saved from making a decision by a friendly-looking woman coming around from behind the divider. Her wild, corkscrew dark blonde curls reminded him of Deb - if his mum was, like, a couple decades younger and didn't wear a wig.

"Hello. Welcome to Jacobs, Knox and Lopez," the woman greeted him with a smile. "How can I help you?"

"Um, I'm here to see Melanie Marcus?" Justin replied, the rise in his voice making it sound more like a question than a statement. 

Way to sound like a simpleton, he chastised himself when the woman's smile grew.

Naturally enough, her next question was, "Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh, kinda?" Dammit, he'd done it again. Steadying himself - there was no reason to be nervous - he elaborated, "Mel- uh, Ms Marcus called to say that the powers of attorney she drew up for me are ready and that I could get them notarised if I came by right away."

"Ah," the woman said knowingly. "You must be Justin Taylor."

Mel must've told her to expect him. Unnecessary but nice. "Yeah," Justin confirmed.

The blonde introduced herself, "I'm Kelly James, law clerk cum receptionist and the notary public for the firm."

Geesh. She had one of those names. Good thing Kelly was a female, or he'd likely be stuck trying to remember which one was her first name. At least it was clear now as to why Melanie had apprised the woman of his arrival. 

Kelly smiled wryly. "The senior partners think it's good practice for us law clerks - the newbies anyroad - to spend time at the front desk greeting the clients." 

Justin, who wasn't entirely sure what a law clerk did - were they legal secretaries? paralegals? - supposed that wasn't a bad idea. It must be the legal equivalent of learning from the ground up. His brow furrowed however, his mind going off on a tangent as he wondered if he'd end up playing receptionist at Kinnetik. He raised his hand to his mouth and nervously nibbled at his thumbnail before catching himself and hastily lowering his hand.

Ugh. He hadn't chewed on his nails since he was, like, in kindergarten. Blushing, he hoped the legal clerk hadn't noticed the childish manoeuvre.

Kelly headed for the partition that must separate her desk from the waiting area. "Let me just call Ms Marcus so she can bring down the POAs." She shrugged apologetically. "I'd normally take you up to her office and we'd sign there, but neither of my colleagues is here. I've got to cover the desk in case anyone comes in."

Justin nodded absently as he continued to mull over his future duties at Kinnetik. Wait, he was freelancing, not working at the office. He wouldn't need to greet people, he realised, relieved. He hardly had the right wardrobe, his St James uniform the only thing that approximated a suit. That would go over really well with clients, he thought in amusement.

His interest now piqued, Justin tried to figure out what kind of staffing an advertising agency would need. He knew there were artists - duh - and financial staff and some kind of clerical support, but what was needed beyond that? 

From the way Brian had spoken of her, Cynthia was way more than a secretary, but she'd be the one to take on the receptionist duties, right? Or maybe they'd hire someone.

Maybe he should just talk about it with Brian, he thought as he heard a tapping of heels coming down the hall.

Mel bustled into the office, greeting him with a hug. "Justin, baby," she murmured.

Justin hid a wince as Melanie stepped back but kept her hands on his shoulders. He didn't usually mind being called baby, but it was embarrassing around someone he didn't know - like the law clerk who'd just poked her head back around the divider.

The blond lad had to look up to meet Mel's eyes, what he guesstimated to be three-inch heels making the legal beagle taller than he was.

Melanie studied his face before judging, "You look a little better. Still tired though. Are you feeling better, swee-"

To his surprise, the butch lawyer, broke off mid-word, just as he'd been thinking that ‘sweetie' wasn't quite as bad as ‘baby.' Sometimes being cute and blond was a pain.

Her own face screwed up as if in pain, Mel shrugged in apology. "Linds. Gus," she offered by way of an explanation. 

Imagining all the ‘lambskins' and ‘precious' and ‘sugar plums' that must be flying around at the girls' house, Justin commiserated with his brunette friend. He'd probably be infected too if he were subjected to those sickeningly sweet endearments all the time.

"Are you okay, Sunshine?" she tried again. "Erm-"

You'd think being called Sunshine wouldn't be any better, but he really didn't mind what was originally his mum's nickname for him spreading further. He smiled at Mel to show he hadn't taken offence and imparted an "Um, yeah," thinking how he'd just got the all-clear from the urologist. But that brought the HIV scare to the forefront of his mind and the teen blanched, his voice petering out.

"Justin?" Melanie prompted, a concerned frown creasing her brow.

"Sorry." Justin chuckled, scrambling for a way to explain his distraction. "I've just been having the worst time coming up with the right Christmas gift for Brian." That had the benefit of being the truth. What did you get the guy who had everything, especially when you were on a tight budget? Never mind that he'd probably be using the money that Brian just handed over as an advance on his pay.

"Hmm, I can see where that would be a challenge." Melanie nodded in agreement. "You want me to call Linds and see if she's got any ideas? All I can come up with is a fancy bottle of bourbon." She smirked, another idea obviously dawning on her. "Or you could stop at the Promised Land. I heard they've just got a new shipment in - you know, dil-"

Catching sight of the law clerk, who was leaning across the counter, avidly listening in, Justin hastily interrupted before Mel could get the full word out. "That's okay. I, uh, just thought of something." He hadn't - other than to stop at Second Hand Job - but Mel didn't need to know that. He wasn't interested in consulting with Linds; it was important to the lad to come up with something on his own.

"Ehm, my POAs?" he finished lamely.

No more than fifteen minutes later, Justin was carefully making his way down Strawberry Way toward Liberty Avenue when he saw the gigantic banner for ‘Wiener World' up on the corner. He started snickering, tears coming to his eyes as he got closer. The banner, which appeared to wrap around the corner of the building above the plate glass windows, also advertised - exactly as Brian had said - ice cream. There were, in fact, multiple smaller banners for ice cream - written in white lettering on a red background - both above the supersized wiener banner and sticking out from next to the windows.

Still grinning, Justin reached the corner in short order and paused, trying to determine the quickest route to reach Second Hand Job. He hoped to do a good part of his Christmas shopping at the consignment store and maybe pick up a couple more things for himself.

The gaybourhood was more or less on a grid, with the streets angling off from Liberty Avenue, so if he turned right at this corner, onto Smithfield Street, and then left onto Seventh Avenue, that should bring him to Marvella's shop. 

Reaching behind him, Justin attempted to shift his rucksack into a more comfortable position without causing it to slide down. It was a bit chancy, using his ratty backpack - it was literally hanging on by a thread - but it wasn't like he had a lot of options. With a bit of luck, he'd find a replacement at Second Hand Job.

Mel had been so appalled when she saw his book bag that she suggested he leave his finalised POAs with her for safekeeping. Blushing furiously, he'd agreed; the legal documents would likely get crumpled in his bag even if it was in good condition.

Thank fuck no one else had commented on his satchel, like, for instance, Brian. That would be way more mortifying than having someone at, say, the urologist's take notice of the backpack's state of disrepair. 

With a cautious tug at the straps so the rucksack would ride just a little higher, Justin started off down Smithfield. He'd barely taken a step however, when the door to Wiener World opened and the exiting customer walked right into him.

"Oh crap, sorry," the freckle-faced man apologised, juggling the tray he was carrying.

He looked a bit frantic that the sausages he was carrying might fall to the ground, Justin thought. A second later, he could understand why, the aroma from the frankfurters making him salivate, his stomach rumbling in accord.

The tray now firmly balanced in both hands, the man chuckled. "Smell good, don't they?"

"Yeah," Justin agreed, licking his lips and casting a glance inside the shop. The tables in front of the window were all occupied, but maybe he could squeeze in somewhere? His stomach seconded the notion, the sustenance provided by this morning's Special K long since gone. He could splurge and get a couple of bangers; that way, he wouldn't be so ravenous when he finally made it to the Liberty Diner.

The customer who'd bumped into him followed his gaze. "Not the cheapest, but far and away the best wieners in town," he enthusiastically endorsed the sausages. "Biggest too." Already trotting toward a car parked across the street, he finished up, "I'm glad they relocated from the South Shore; it's easier for me to get to. I'd better get going though, before these wieners get cold."

Glancing at the prices that were posted on a board behind the counter, Justin winced. He'd best pass on the sausages if he wanted to deposit part of the money Brian had given him as an advance at the bank.

He'd been warmed by Brian's assertion that he didn't leave the door to the loft unlocked or forget to set the alarm - as was borne out by the ongoing police investigation. He still felt responsible for the burglary though. If he'd been there, it wouldn't have happened.

Brian had looked at him strangely when he said something to that effect, but Justin didn't think much of it, too busy trying to figure out how to ask about his first Kinnetik pay cheque without sounding desperate. He'd mentally kicked himself for not withholding enough from his final Babylon pay cheque; if he'd calculated better, he wouldn't need to ask Brian for a handout. In the end, he'd just blurted out something about wanting to know how often he would be paid for his freelance work.

Brian, in response, had grunted a soft, "Huh," seeming almost embarrassed.

Justin had worried briefly that he shouldn't have asked. Brian was ferrying him all over the place, helping him deal with the results of his stupidity from taking illegal drugs. He shouldn't have been pressing him for a paycheck for what couldn't amount to more than a few hours of work.

But then Brian had offered to write him a cheque as soon as they got back to the loft, explaining it could be an advance on his pay.

Despite his embarrassment about essentially ‘begging' for money - it didn't feel like he'd done any real work yet - Justin had been ready to take him up on that, but then he remembered that he couldn't cash a cheque. Heck, he couldn't even deposit a cheque since the bank account was in Debbie's name, not his. Sighing, he'd explained his dilemma, which prompted Brian to pull out his wallet.

"Two hundred enough?" he'd asked, counting out that amount in twenties.

Justin's eyes had widened in disbelief - who carried that kind of cash on them? Brian apparently, since there'd been plenty more in his wallet, a couple of the bills he'd rifled past looking like C-notes rather than twenties.

He'd spluttered something about one hundred being enough - even fifty would probably do the trick - but Brian just scoffed at trying to shop on such a paltry sum.

Naturally, that had Justin rolling his eyes; he wasn't that much of a dunce. He'd just miscalculated was all.

When he'd explained that he did have some money but wasn't sure it would be enough, Brian made another rude scoffing noise. "What, fifty dollars?" he'd inquired in that maddeningly superior tone of his.

Abashed at how close the estimate was, Justin had become tongue-tied and gave up protesting.

A wicked gleam in his eyes, Brian had faked shoving the money under the waistband of his cargo pants before stuffing it into his peacoat instead.

Now, smiling ruefully, Justin determined to keep close track of what he was paid to make sure he wasn't overpaid for the number of hours worked. His hourly rate didn't divide neatly into two hundred dollars, so he'd just have to wait for his first pay statement and make sure to keep a tally so that everything evened out. What would make it easier was if he knew how many hours he'd actually worked so far.

The lad sighed. He was gonna have to tackle Brian so he knew how to track his hours. He had a strong suspicion that his lover cum boss was overcompensating him and would have to call a halt to that, stat.

The whole thing would otherwise be a farce and defeat his purpose of paying Brian back. Looking around to make sure there was no one nearby - there wasn't, Smithfield completely deserted once he'd left Wiener World behind - Justin extracted both his wallet and the cash that Brian had pushed at him. Then, slowing down, he counted out five of the twenties and stuck them in the back of his wallet. He'd deposit the banknotes at PNC at the earliest opportunity.

Justin was smiling as he rounded the corner onto Seventh Avenue and saw the brightly striped purple awning for Second Hand Job jutting out into the street, seemingly beckoning him closer. Even the fresh snowflakes swirling around him couldn't dampen his mood as he reached the consignment shop. Memories of snowball fights with Daphne and Molly assaulting him, he reckoned he didn't mind snow at all.

Ice was a different matter entirely though. His right foot sliding out from under him, the teenager had to splay a gloved hand against the nearest window to keep from falling. Scrunching up his nose, he glared at his sneakers. He really was in a desperate need of more footgear.

Maybe he could see if Marvella had a used pair of boots or winter shoes with some real tread that would fit him. They could even be from the kids' section again, as long as they weren't some horrid girly colour. If she had something that would work for him, he might have to ask Marvella to hold them for him until after he finished his Christmas shopping; he wanted to be sure first that he had enough money to pay-

As he was thinking about gifts, his eyes landed on the display right in front of him and any thoughts of a pair of boots scattered. The vitrine was eye-catchingly colourful, bright doll packages and shiny boxes peeking out from mounds of fake snow and golden tinsel. Justin wasn't particularly interested in the creepy-looking porcelain figure of a maiden. Or in the vintage cowgirl Barbie, who came complete with a cowboy hat, a lasso and a saddle. 

The blond leaned closer to inspect the box. A random, pink, hand-held mirror and a pair of silver high heels with little diamantés were apparently also included. What a weird choice for a cowgirl, Justin mused.

Tearing his eyes away from the cattle-roping doll, a pair of sparkly, high-heeled, ruby red shoes caught his attention. Em would like those, he thought, although he had no idea if they'd fit his flamboyant friend. Emmett had confided that he had trouble finding shoes in his larger-than-average size, but Justin didn't know what his shoe size was.

Finally, he turned his attention to the object that had initially caught his fancy. It was an old Perfex camera that sat innocuously next to the cowgirl Barbie. Justin examined it more closely. It seemed to be in really good shape. The metal gleamed and he couldn't see any nicks in either the metal or the black plastic. He searched his memory, trying to remember what the black plastic was called, finally hitting on ‘Bakelite.' Yeah, that was the term Brian had used, getting all huffy when Justin commented that it sounded like some kind of bakeware.

Actually, the Perfex looked kind of like the camera Brian used to have. Not that he was sure about the brand - it could've been a Leica or something else expensive - but it was an older model that Brian had acquired used and was really proud of.

He'd shown it to Justin shortly before the burglary - and even tried it out on him. The blond could feel a blush rising up his neck and covering his face as he recalled Brian cajoling him into a striptease and then using the Perfex to snap pictures.

Brian had said something about taking in the roll of film to get it developed - and giving someone a good eyeful - but Justin didn't know if his lover had the time to do that before the burglary happened. He hoped so, because the idea of that film getting into the wrong hands was seriously disturbing. Like, what if some teenage girl ended up with the camera and got the pictures developed? He might end up starring in her private spank bank.

Wincing at that mental image, Justin glared at the shop display. That would never happen, right? Whoever stole Brian's camera would surely have removed the film and tossed it before trying to pawn it.

A sudden noise came from behind Justin, startling him. Forgetting all about the striptease photos, he looked around for the source of the noise, wondering what had caused it. It had sounded like something ripping.

A beat later, his backpack suddenly sank down lower on his back, which had Justin scrambling for it in a panic. He managed to grab it at the bottom with both hands, just before the worn panel at the base gave way entirely. Through his gloves, Justin could feel what had to be the edge of one of his sketchbooks about to spill out onto the sidewalk. He didn't dare let go and possibly ruin one of his favourite drawings.

The bell above the door to Second Hand Job jingled merrily right then and Marvella poked her head out, greeting him with, "You need a hand, toots?"

"Uh, yeah," Justin acknowledged sheepishly. "My, uh, rucksack just gave way. You wouldn't have something I could replace it with, would you?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

Holding the door open so Justin could enter without letting go of his bookbag, Marvella tapped her index finger against her lips, her fuchsia glitter polish refracting the light from an errant ray of sun that was shining weakly through the cloud-covered sky, creating rainbows.

The blond lad blinked, seeing spots.

"I might have just the thing," Marvella informed him, her shoes click-clacking against the flooring. "I cleaned up at a couple of estate sales this past weekend. Let me just have a look in the back and see if I can find the bookbags. There were two or three of them in one of the lots I purchased, so I can even give you a choice."

Justin hoped there was something besides one for a little kid that had dolls or teddy bears on it, but he'd take just about anything at this point.

"Just man the counter, okay, sugar?" the shop owner requested. "I'll be back in a flash if anyone comes in."

She was off before Justin could protest, the lad glancing uneasily out the window. He could see some bundled-up pedestrians, but to his relief, none of them seemed intent on entering Second Hand Job. If anyone came in, he could at best recite the Liberty Diner menu to them. Or persuade them to go for a late lunch and then come back. He didn't think Marvella would be too ‘jolly' and ‘cheery' if he did that.

Resting his rucksack on the counter awkwardly, Justin extracted his arms from the straps. Geesh, that had been really close, he realised as he looked at the gaping hole at the bottom of the book bag. Nudging the raggedy backpack a little further onto the counter, he took off his gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his peacoat.

Almost too warm in the cosy, well-heated shop, Justin opened the top buttons and loosened the scarf around his neck, taking a tentative whiff of the silky fabric. He couldn't help pouting when he didn't smell the faintest trace of his lover. Maybe he could ask Brian to, like, wear it around the loft for a bit or something?

He was contemplating how to ask without sounding like a weirdo when someone meandered up to the window with the display that had caught Justin's attention. The lad held his breath, hoping they weren't after the camera, and let it out in a whoosh only when the window-shopper moved on.

His relief wasn't too long-lived though as the person - so wrapped up that Justin had no idea if it was a man or a woman - turned around and came back, peering through the window again. 

Positive they were eyeing the camera, Justin dithered about what to do. Marvella was his friend, so he should try to entice the shopper inside - he had no doubt that was exactly what the drag queen would do. With her gift of gab, she'd have them splashing out for the camera in no time, and probably a couple of other things besides.

But, even if he couldn't afford it, Justin wanted the first shot at the camera. From the titbits Brian had let drop, he really enjoyed taking pictures and was a pretty good amateur photographer. This camera wouldn't be exactly like the one Brian'd had before, but maybe it would make up - just a little bit - for having practically every single one of his personal possessions nicked.

Justin still hadn't decided what to do about the window shopper when Marvella bustled out of the back, a large placard under one arm and a cardboard box in her hands.

"Oh, another customer," she declared in a chipper voice when she saw the person peering in the window. Setting the placard on the floor near the cash register, she dumped the box next to his disintegrating backpack and veered toward the door.

Making up his mind, Justin stepped in front of her. "Erm, I, uh-"

"What is it, sweet cheeks?" Marvella smiled at him, not seeming in the least upset that he was keeping her from hooking a customer.

"Uh, the camera?"

Marvella raised her eyebrows, which she'd somehow tinted to match the purple in her wig - and on her fingernails. "Which one?" she wanted to know.

Justin coloured up; he hadn't even considered that she might have more than one.

"Um, the one in the window? The one that person wants?" Justin didn't dare glance out the window and have the shopper point at it, claiming it as theirs.

In a no-nonsense tone, Marvella stated, "They can have it - for the right price."

"Would you sell it to me?" Justin blurted desperately. "I mean, I'd probably have to buy it on an instalment plan or something, but I promise I'll pay it off."

"Hmm," Marvella hummed, leaving Justin in doubt as to whether she found his offer acceptable.

Scrambling for something that would make the idea palatable, Justin supposed he could always use the other hundred that was in his billfold - although it seemed rather tacky to use even more of the money Brian had just given him. It was bad enough to be using the first hundred, or the bulk of it anyroad, depending on whether Marvella would agree to a layaway plan of sorts.

With one long stride, Marvella reached the window display, looking through the glass at the interested customer.

The shopper lifted dark eyebrows - all Justin could see clearly - and motioned toward the door, clearly ready to come into the shop.

Marvella shook her head and mouthed, "Sold," as she picked up the camera, removing it from the display.

The customer shrugged, managing to show their disappointment, before nodding in understanding and moving away down Liberty Avenue.

Justin beamed at the bewigged woman. "You're gonna let me buy it?" he asked excitedly.

Marvella chuckled, giving him a fond glance as she carried the Perfex over to the register. Rather than the yes Justin had expected however, she said, "I've heard you're a wizard with a pencil, sugar."

The lad looked at her blankly, unsure of what that meant.

"Debbie raved about the sketch you did of her at the diner," Marvella elaborated. "She's planning to get it framed and hang it up near the door - with ‘manager' writ large underneath it."

It took Justin a minute to recall the quick drawing he'd done of Deb ages ago - barely even a day after she'd hired him, if he recalled correctly. Sure, he'd rolled it up and put a piece of string around it, but it was hardly some great work of art. Embarrassed to have what was just a hurried sketch praised like that, he quibbled, "Uh, that was just something I did, like, offhand. I can come up with something better for Debbie to put up at the diner."

"I bet Kinney would be of a different opinion," Marvella observed.

Justin's brow furrowed in confusion. How did she know about Brian?

Marvella opined, "Sometimes a rough draft is the best. Touching it up would just ruin it."

Now Justin was even more confused. From what Brian had said, he had to browbeat the artists at Ryder to get them to produce what he wanted. Granted, he hadn't done that to Justin yet, but it was early days - and he was pretty sure Brian would be a demanding perfectionist.

"C'mon," Marvella urged, shoving a notepad and pencil across the counter at him. "Draw me. Show me what you can do. It doesn't have to be anything fancy," she added. "Just something fun." With that command, she busied herself sorting through the box she'd set on the counter earlier.

Justin was puzzled as to why Marvella wanted him to sketch her - shouldn't they be discussing the price for the camera and a payment plan? - but since she was going to sell the Perfex to him, he wasn't going to argue about it. Besides, it would be a fun challenge to try and capture her vibrant personality on paper.

He could draw her like she was right now, but remembering the clashing, exuberant outfit she'd been wearing yesterday, Justin started sketching Marvella in her long fur coat with the fox' head, paws, and tail around the collar. He gave her a pair of fleecy, shaggy boots and took his time detailing her lime green wig - hair floating around her head in a wild, curly halo.

He wished he had his watercolour pencils with him to recreate the vivid hues in the outfit, but did his best to show the clashing colours and textures via shading and crosshatching. Since he didn't want to take too much time on the sketch - he had quite a bit of shopping to do - he resolved to draw her a real portrait later on. That would make a nice thank you for selling the camera to him at what he suspected would be a discounted price.

After adding one more curl corkscrewing off in a different direction from the others, Justin inspected the finished product and then pushed it across the counter shyly. "Here you go," he said, hoping Marvella wouldn't judge his artistic talent off such an unrefined sketch.

"Holy cow, toots! You're bang on with how I looked yesterday!" the drag queen exclaimed, her Aussie accent thicker than usual. She belted out a laugh. "Even the hair! I remember putting a little of DC's Brylcreem on that bloody wayward curl, and it still wouldn't stay in place."

Justin suddenly remembered the sketchbook he had with him, which contained some much better drawings of the colourful drag queen, and stuck a hand into his backpack via the hole in the bottom. There was no point unzipping the flap - the bag was done for.

His fingers closed around a wad of fabric, and he hastily pushed the T-shirt with his dirty underwear and socks out of the way. He'd stuffed the clothes that needed laundering into his pack last night, hoping to do a load at Debbie's today, and forgot about them till now. He could only hope they hadn't stunk up everything in the rucksack. 

He finally brushed up against the edge of the notepad and pulled it out carefully, not wanting to bring grotty clothes out with it. A discreet whiff assured him that the sketch pad didn't smell, so he passed the tablet across the counter to Marvella.

"Some of these are pretty good," he said. "I took more time with them. I can do more sketches of you - here in the shop, on Liberty Avenue, from a photo or whatever." He pointed at the sketch he'd just done. "That one doesn't really count. It-"

"Doesn't count?" Marvella screeched, shaking her index finger at him, the specks in the purple polish catching the light and shimmering.

No wonder she and Debbie got along so well, Justin thought in bemusement, swallowing back a laugh. They both wore wild wigs, prefered vivid colours, and they were both busybodies and know-it-alls - in the best possible way. Really, Deb was half a drag queen herself. She might not wear high heels and dresses, but yeah; she was basically Marvella's twin.

"It's fucking fantastic, doll!" Marvella declared. "Of course it counts. Not that I'd say no to a couple more sketches, mind. Speaking of" - she inclined her head at the camera she'd placed next to the till - "what do you say we work out a trade?"

Justin replied hesitantly, "Um, a trade?"

"Yeah, you do a drawing of me and DC together, and you can have the camera."

Justin wanted to scream, ‘Yes!' and stash the camera in his rucksack before Marvella changed her mind, but it would hardly be fair to take the Perfex in exchange for a measly drawing. The camera had to be expensive.

"I can't do that," he commented, forcing his eyes away from the Perfex. "I can't cheat you like that."

"Cheat me? Sweet cheeks," Marvella chided as she flipped through the sketch pad, stopping at a drawing of Brian with his arm slung around Ted's shoulders. The two men were grinning triumphantly at Debbie and Vic, the word ‘fucktard' displayed on the Scrabble board in front of them, and ‘Team Schminney' scrawled at the bottom of the sketch.

Marvella chuckled, and Justin had to laugh too. Brian's smile was so fucking smug. Justin had put off sleeping when he got home from his go-go gig the night of the Scrabble game, driven to capture how everyone had looked.

"It'd be me cheating you," she insisted, returning to the point she'd been making. Marvella placed a possessive hand on the hurried sketch Justin had made of her. "I'd give you fifty for this quickie."

She looked at Justin, her lips twitching, and both of them burst out laughing.

As their hilarity tapered off, she pointed a finger at the Team Schminney drawing. "Except for Deb, I only know these people by sight. And reputation, in Kinney's case," she added. "Even so, I'd pay you a C-note for the sketch. I bet anyone who knows the players would give you twice that."

Marvella had to be exaggerating. He'd spent less than fifteen minutes on the sketch of her, and he hadn't exactly laboured over the Scrabble one for hours. Fifty minutes tops, he guessed, unable to recall what time he'd stumbled to bed all those weeks ago.

"It's not worth that much," he insisted, his jaw jutting out stubbornly. "Neither of them," Justin hastily tacked on, lest Marvella think he agreed with her valuation of fifty dollars for the ‘quickie.'

Marvella countered, "I know what I'm talking about, young man. I've bought and resold plenty of art. I'm giving you a credit of fifty dollars for this sketch of me, and I'm going to price the drawing of me and DC at a hundred bucks. That's subject to change if I think it's worth more than that." She held up a cautionary hand when Justin opened his mouth to protest. "That's nonnegotiable, doll. You hear me?"

Justin wanted to ask what she'd do if the drawing wasn't as good as she expected, but recognising the warning in her normally warm brown eyes, he wisely kept his trap shut.

"Good." Marvella manifestly considered the matter to be settled. "If I bring you a couple photos of me and DC, do you think you could whip up a drawing for me to give him at Christmas?"

"Sure," Justin answered eagerly, determined to create the best drawing possible. "I've got some watercolour pencils that almost look like paint. I'll use them."

"Good," the drag queen repeated. "I'll get the photos to you tomorrow. Now which of these do you like best?" After lowering the cardboard box to the floor, she lifted out three backpacks and set them on the glass countertop.

It was a no-brainer, really, despite all three bags being in seemingly new condition. One of them was hot pink and decorated with butterflies. Another was a neutral, medium blue but not very functional - it had padded straps, but other than the main compartment, it only had a small zippered compartment on the front that didn't even have slots for pens and pencils. If it had a better design, Justin would opt for that one since it was all nylon and probably wouldn't cost much.

The third bag though was just about perfect. It was colourful - sort of an ink blot design in greens, blues and oranges - and might lead to more jeers of ‘fag' from Hobbs and his cronies, but Justin didn't care. It was the ideal backpack for a student - and an artist. He smoothed his fingers across the suede exterior - there were no blemishes, not even on the bottom - before opening the padded sleeve compartment at the back that was clearly meant for a laptop. He could always use it for his larger sketch pads since he didn't own a computer. Yet, he amended, remembering the laptop Brian had promised to order for him. Still, he doubted he'd want to take the laptop anywhere near St James and chance something happening to it.

The rest of the rucksack was equally well designed - a mesh holder on one side that would securely hold a water bottle, a roomy main compartment, compression straps on the sides, a thickly padded back panel, a couple of organiser compartments in the front and curved, ergonomic shoulder straps.

"Not much of a contest, huh?" Marvella asked with a laugh from where she was busy attaching a price tag to the bottom of a kitschy figurine she had pulled out of the box.

An expensive kitschy figurine Justin thought, blinking at the $120.00 that Marvella had jotted down.

"Um, how much is it?" Justin asked, prepared to shell out more than the fifty-dollar credit Marvella had given him.

"Twenty-five bucks," she replied, her voice a little muffled as she pulled out another tacky figurine.

"It's got to be worth more than that," the teenager remonstrated, running his thumb over the stitched-on label on the front of the bag. The JanSport backpack even smelled new; the only thing missing to confirm its newness was dangling tags with a price and care instructions.

"If you were in a department store or sporting goods shop, you might have to pay full price," Marvella allowed, "although if you were willing to wait a bit, you could still get it on sale - either for some kind of ‘holiday' or to make room for new stock. Here though, even if it still had the labels attached, I couldn't sell it at full price. Not when you can go to a regular store and get the latest design.

"These are a different story." She held up another ceramic piece - this one of a little boy playing a violin while a dog watched him. "These are collectibles."

Justin didn't think it looked like anything special, but he didn't have Marvella's expertise with dust catchers.

Marvella tsk-tsked, "Whoever appraised the estate I got these from failed to take into account that some of the rarest Hummels will fetch a pretty penny. I'll be able to mark them up for way more than what I paid. This one should fetch at least a few grand." 

"Huh," Justin grunted, taking a wary step back as Marvella stood up, the figurine cupped in one hand. He didn't want to chance jostling her while she was holding something that valuable. People were weird - paying that much for a figurine.

Chuckling, Marvella carefully placed the cutesy violinist inside the glass display case under the register. "You'd rather have the twenty-five dollar rucksack?" she teased.

Eyes flitting back to the colourful bookbag, Justin smiled. "It kinda looks like something I might paint," he revealed. "If, you know, I ever ran out of canvases and used a rucksack for an abstract painting."

Marvella smiled back at him. "Is that what you'd like to do? Paint abstracts?"

"I'd like to explore it," Justin admitted. "I mean, drawing pictures for friends and family is fun, but I'd like to get into painting more - and expressionism, especially abstracts."

"Who says you can't do it all? Draw and paint and do anything else that interests you?" Marvella asked, smiling as she glanced down at the picture of herself. "Don't go giving up portraits just yet though; you have a really good eye - and a gift for making people come to life."

"I won't be stopping anytime soon," Justin assured the shopkeep. "I've got lots of Christmas presents to get ready in the next few days." Thinking about what he'd just divulged, he requested, "Um, don't tell anyone about the abstract painting thing, okay?" he requested with an abashed smile. "You're the first person I've told."

He'd been meaning to talk to Brian about it but kept putting it off. It just sounded so grandiose - like he expected to become the next Warhol or Picasso or something.

Looking tickled pink to be his confidante, Marvella crossed her heart and promised, "I won't say a word, toots. Not even to DC - not till you give me the go-ahead."

Justin grinned at the drag queen.

"So, doll, you looking for anything besides a backpack?" Marvella asked, lifting up the placard she'd set down a while back. She turned it around and hung it from a handy hook on the wall behind the counter.

When she stepped back, likely to check that it was hanging straight, Justin froze. Most of the poster was a blur to him - except for a straw sticking out of a bottle.

"Sugar?" he dimly heard Marvella call out. "You okay?"

It wasn't until the drag queen reached across the counter and placed a warm hand on his arm that Justin's surroundings came back into focus, and he took in the rest of the poster. It was completely harmless, displaying two kids drinking Coke - one directly from the bottle and the other through a straw. ‘Tastes Coca-Cola good however you drink it!' read the legend at the bottom of the placard.

Mouth bone dry, all he could do was croak, "Uh."

Marvella bent down below the countertop and came up with a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, she handed it Justin. "Have a swallow, doll. It'll help."

His hands trembling, Justin dribbled water down his chin as he raised the bottle to his mouth. He swallowed slowly, once and then again, before lowering the bottle and using the sleeve of his coat to wipe the moisture off his chin. "Thanks," he said with a tepid but grateful smile for Marvella.

"I could make us some tea," the drag queen offered. "I was about to put on the kettle anyhow."

Justin was tempted - a cuppa did sound good - but he'd rather wait till he got to the diner and have something to eat as well as drink.

"Thanks," he reiterated, his gaze skittering away from the poster behind Marvella. "I'm, uh, headed for the diner, so I think I'll wait, you know?"

"Okay," she replied with an easy smile. "Next time."

Justin nodded in agreement.

"You want to tell me what had you going all pale-faced?" Marvella queried. "Maybe I can help. You don't have to worry," she added when he hesitated; "I won't repeat anything you tell me in confidence."

Justin had thought he was getting over the scare Dr Baitler had given him. Obviously not though - if something as innocuous as a straw in a poster had him reliving those awful, endless seconds while he waited for the urologist to tell him if he was in the clear. He planned to get tested regularly for HIV and other STDs in the future, if only for peace of mind. He knew it was a necessary precaution; you could never be one hundred percent protected if you were a sexually active gay man. He wasn't too worried though; the safe sex lectures in school, and subsequently from Brian, had paid off.

Where he hadn't been safe - and fuck knew that had been drummed into his head now - was with the drugs that Sven passed out like candy. He had been really lucky - he was okay - but the idea of getting HIV from an infected straw still freaked him out.

Speaking of which... "You ever heard of anyone getting HIV from a straw?" he blurted out.

Other than a slight lift of her eyebrows, Marvella took the question in stride. "Yeah, a friend of mine," she revealed after a moment. "But he was at a party, snorting with a bunch of other guys, passing hand-rolled straws around. Normally the fool would have known better, but he was too high to think clearly."

Justin shuddered. Thank fuck the straw in the baggie Sven gave him had been in a wrapper - and that he was still clearheaded enough at that point to remember the wrapper.

"Nothing like that's happened to you, has it, doll?" Marvella pressed, a furrow creasing her forehead.

"No, I'm okay," Justin indirectly answered. "Really," he emphasised when the crease across Marvella's forehead deepened.

Even though he must've raised a red flag with the way he'd stupidly spit out that question, Justin was reluctant to say more. Not only had his brush with HIV left him shaken, he hated having everyone know how dumb he was.

He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as Marvella studied him. "Erm, you still won't say anything, right?"

"Nothing to tell," the transplanted Aussie observed briskly. "There won't be anything to tell in the future either if you want someone to talk to." She patted his hand. "Okay?"

"Okay." Justin managed a pretty decent smile, Marvella's easy acceptance helping to restore his equilibrium. When her gaze flicked toward the poster, Justin wondered if it would be gone as soon as he left the shop. Maybe someone would purchase it before he stopped by again; he'd prefer that to having it taken down because of his freak-out.

"Now." Marvella rubbed her fingers together as if anticipating a windfall. "You in the market for anything else?"

The blond lad had to laugh. Given how Marvella had overvalued his drawings, there was no way her emporium was gonna make a profit off of him.

"You've got a spiffy new coat," she noted, walking around the counter and eyeing him up and down approvingly, just like yesterday at the bank. "So you won't be needing one of those."

Justin snuggled into the coat, feeling much better as he thought about how supportive his lover had been through his whole ordeal with the drugs. Brian might've taken him to task, but that just showed that he cared about Justin; otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered.

Dipping his nose into the scarf, he searched again for a trace of Brian's scent. He smiled when he found it.

Right as he inhaled deeply, wanting more than just a hint of his lover, Marvella suggested, "How about a pair of boots, doll? Those sneakers are in good condition, but they aren't going to keep your feet warm and dry - or give you any traction."

Geez, she must be clairvoyant or something. That was, like, the next thing on his shopping list. Other than Christmas presents.

"Do you have something that might fit me?" Justin asked hopefully.

Marvella double-checked, "Nine, right?"

You'd think he'd get over the embarrassment about his shoe size, Justin thought, but he could feel himself colouring up again. Having smaller than average feet was somehow worse than being height-challenged though. 

"Uh, yeah," he squeaked, immediately blushing more profusely. He sounded like he was all of thirteen, his voice just now breaking.

"Follow me."

The drag queen led the way to the children's section, Justin letting out a relieved breath when they bypassed the women's section. Even if they weren't an obnoxious colour and fit his feet, he wasn't sure he could make himself wear ladies' shoes. 

"Same woman I got your trainers from came in with more stuff last week. Said her boy's shooting up like a weed, and she can barely keep him clothed and shod from one month to the next." Marvella stopped in front of a display rack and plucked a pair of dark brown hiking boots from the top shelf. "I almost turned her away - kids' shoes aren't a hot ticket item for me - but then I thought of you." 

Justin instantly coveted the boots. Red laces, threaded through silver D-rings and around hooks, stood out against cognac brown leather.

"Try them on," Marvella urged, holding out the boots.

The drag queen proprietress didn't have to ask twice. Justin didn't take his eyes off the boots as he snatched them up and sat down on a handy stool. He wasn't even fazed that it was child height, his knees nearly coming up to his chin.

The boots were in really good condition, just like his trainers. Maybe even better; he didn't see a single scuff or any other sign of wear. Curious, he turned one boot and then the other over, finding no marks. Geesh, they were so pristine that the kid mustn't have worn them even once.

He quickly shucked his sneakers and set them aside before undoing the laces on the boots - they'd been neatly tied in bows - and slipping his feet into them. Just like the trainers, they were a perfect fit.

Justin stood up and walked around the area Marvella had designated for shoes, each section demarcated so customers could tell which ones were for men and women, with the boys' footwear to one side of the men's and the girls' adjacent to the women's.

The teenager paused at the full-length mirror between the men's and women's sections. Hitching up the right leg of his pants, he noticed how the leather came up above his ankle, which meant that unless the snow was really deep, it wouldn't overtop the boots and trickle in.

That was when he finally saw the stylised tree that was embossed on the outside of the boot, which he'd somehow overlooked before. Now he got why the boots were so comfortable; they were Timberlands, which always fit Justin really well.

He had to have them. It didn't matter if they ate up the rest of his credit and then some. He still had the money he'd set aside for Christmas shopping, and if he was careful, he should still be able to return some of the advance Brian had given him to his bank account.

The only thing that gave him pause was that Brian also had a pair of Timberlands, and the man was famously resistant to matching clothing with anyone. His lover's Timberlands were a different shade of brown though - more of a light golden brown - and Brian rarely wore them anyway, bitching constantly about them being unstylish when he did.

So there shouldn't be any reason for Brian to be out of sorts about them ‘matching like a couple of dykes marching down the aisle.' Besides - he smiled to himself - Brian should have thought about that before he went and got Justin a peacoat that was an almost exact duplicate of his own.

"I'll take them," he told Marvella, who was watching him with her fuchsia-painted lips curved in a smile. 

"The lug soles make you look taller," the proprietress observed as he neared her.

If he hadn't already been sold on the boots, that would have done it. 

Maybe he should check if the boy's mother had dropped off any other shoes for Marvella to sell? It was more than a little mortifying to be buying ‘hand-me-downs' from someone doubtless much younger than he was, but this opportunity would only come around once. The next time the kid outgrew his footgear, it would no longer fit Justin.

"Erm, did his mother drop off any other castoffs? Shoes," he clarified posthaste. He wasn't interested in whatever clothes some barely-out-of-his-tweens kid thought were cool.

"Hmm," Marvella hummed, nodding. She took two steps to the right and stopped in front of a vertical row of clear holders that had been pegged into the wall, each one displaying a single pair of shoes. She pointed at the second item from the top, a pair of black dress shoes that were a dead ringer for the ones Justin wore to school every day.

Unlike the hiking boots, these showed signs of wear - a couple of faint scuffs and creasing across the vamp. Thinking of Brian, it made him smile. His lover liked to vamp it up with his clothes and shoes.

Otherwise, the shoes looked well-cared for. As if they were polished regularly, unlike Justin's.

But... they were, like, the last thing he wanted. He didn't want to waste money on another pair of the detested uniform shoes. He'd start taking better care of the ones he had if it meant they'd last him through the spring semester.

"Uh, no." He shook his head. "I'll pass." He just hoped that Marvella hadn't also acquired those with him in mind.

"No worries," she immediately allayed his concern. "These'll sell. Parents are always looking to get shoes like these on the cheap. Bloody private school uniforms cost a mint."

Justin nodded. He could remember his mother complaining about the price tag whenever he went through a growth spurt.

"I've got something else you might like." Marvella moved back over to the rack that had held the hiking boots and took something from the lowest shelf.

She showed him a pair of wine-red, fleece-lined slippers. 

His first, fleeting thought was that the kid must like red, since the hue of the slippers was only a little darker than that of the laces on the boots. His second thought was that the slippers looked toasty warm, and that it would be nice to have something besides socks to keep his feet warm when was wandering around inside Debbie's house - or in the loft.

"They've got a couple of blemishes" - she ran the tip of a polished fingernail across a nearly invisible scuff - "but the colour hasn't faded." She then listed another attribute, "They've even got fold-down cuffs."

"Um." He dithered, tempted. He liked red - a lot - but he was a little worried that he'd get wisecracks about being a colour-blind elf, turned-down cuffs or not.

"Tell you what," Mavella proposed. "I'll throw them in with the boots. I was only going to charge a buck or two anyway."

"I guess I could try them on," Justin acceded. 

Marvella waved that off. "There's no need. If they don't fit right, just donate them to St Vincent de Paul. That's what I'll end up doing if you don't take them."

Justin shrugged in acquiescence. The red colour might make it difficult to sell the slippers. "Is it okay if I leave the boots on?" he wanted to know.

"Of course, doll." Picking up his sneakers, she declared, "I'll just put these in a bag, and you can stow them in your backpack."

"Ehm, how much are the boots?" Justin belatedly inquired. He'd meant to take a look at the sole of the other boot - that must be where Marvella had left a discreet price tag - but it would be more than a little awkward to do that now.

"Twelve dollars," the drag queen threw over her shoulder as she carried his trainers to the cash register.

Justin gasped, "Twelve?"

Marvella frowned as she wiped off his sneakers with a cloth. "You're right. That is a mite high. Let's make it te-"

"No!" Justin shrieked, his voice again visiting too high a register. Swiftly reining in his wayward voice, he spelled out his objection, "Twelve bucks isn't nearly enough. These Timberlands are, like, brand new!"

"I told the boy's mum she could do better on eBay." The drag queen shrugged, green curls swaying. "She didn't want the hassle and was willing to take a big loss."

It still felt like he was taking advantage somehow, so Justin remonstrated, "Then you should sell them on eBay."

"It's not worth my while, toots. Not for small-ticket items," Marvella patiently explained.

Justin got her point, but geez, they had totally different notions of what constituted ‘small ticket.'

When he said as much, Marvella burst out laughing.

"Not so different," she assured him, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye a couple minutes later. "I've just learnt to budget my time. Listing things on eBay - and responding to questions - takes time, as does packaging and shipping the items I sell. When I factor in the fees, it's not an efficient use of my time for anything under two hundred dollars.

"You've still got a thirteen-dollar credit," Marvella commented. "I can extend the credit if you want, since I reckon that drawing of me and DC is going to kick ass and be worth a lot more than a hundred bucks."

Justin started fretting about the nonexistent drawing. What if Marvella didn't like what he produced? Or what if she realised she was overvaluing his work-

Marvella made an all-too-accurate stab at what he was thinking. "I'm not valuing it at less than a hundred, toots. Nonnegotiable, remember?"

Justin nodded reluctantly. Once he had the photos, he'd just have to spend some extra time to be sure he came up with a good likeness of Marvella and her beau. He didn't want to do a slapdash job when she was always so generous with him.

"Alright," he acknowledged when he realised Marvella was waiting for an answer. "But no more credit till you get the sketch, okay? I'm good; I've got some money set aside for Christmas shopping."

Marvella spit in her palm and then held out her hand for him to shake.

Nonplussed, Justin stared at her for a second. He'd only ever done that with Daphne and not since they were, like, sophomores. Then again, this was serious business, so it made sense to do a spit-shake. 

After spitting into his right hand, Justin clasped Marvella's hand in his and gave a firm shake.

Marvella dusted her hands together. "Now we've got that out of the way, how about you tell me what else you're looking for."

Em would be over the moon for those sparkly red shoes, Justin thought for the second time, his gaze going to where they were perched in the display window, a bright red ribbon curling around them.

"Something else in the vitrine?" From her taller vantage, Marvella could easily see everything in the window. She guessed, "Cowgirl Barbie?"

Appalled, Justin shook his head. He didn't know anyone who played with Barbie dolls. Even if it was a Baseball Barbie instead, Molly'd still rather have a baseball bat, glove or ball.

"The-"

Before Marvella could give it another go - and think even for an instant that he might want the awful figurine - he blurted, "The shoes."

The drag queen laughed. "Not that I don't appreciate you taking hard-to-sell footwear off my hands, doll, but I'm afraid those are too big for you."

Justin could feel his face heating up. "They're not for me!" he exclaimed. 

Marvella arched an eyebrow.

"I was thinking of Emmett," Justin clarified. "He'd love them. I don't know what his size is though, just that he wears a really large shoe."

"Ah, your southern friend. I noticed he had a nice-size foot."

That seemed like a weird thing to notice about someone. Justin wouldn't have known Em's feet were larger than normal if he hadn't told him.

"I've got a big foot too," Marvella explained, "plus I'm a shoe queen."

Justin obligingly giggled when she paused. It was funny, and it made him think of another shoe queen - Brian.

"I'd say Mr Honeycutt and I are just about the same size." She held up one foot so it was almost at eye level for Justin, balancing on the other foot with nary the slightest wobble. 

Her foot looked almost twice the length of his, making Justin more than a little jelly. Then again, a foot that size would be patently absurd on his smaller body.

He also wished he could balance like that in heels - until he remembered he was never going to wear heels again after Christmas. 

Putting her foot back down, Marvella reached into the vitrine and removed the ruby red heels, the sequins and beads shining in the overhead light. She peered inside one shoe and then the other before finding what she was looking for. "Yep," she confirmed, "they're my size."

There wasn't much point asking what her size was when he didn't know Emmett's. It did make him feel like the chances were better that they'd fit his tall friend. He was puzzled by one thing though, since Marvella had just claimed to be a shoe queen. "You don't want them?"

"Honey, I've already got four pairs of absolutely darling, dressy red heels at home. DC refuses to build me another shoe rack until I branch out with other colours and styles." 

She heaved a dramatic sigh, which made Justin giggle and brought him back to his senses. Geesh, for a split second he'd wanted a pair of red heels for himself. This whole In the Navy spinoff was making him lose his mind.

"Are they a Christmas present, hon?"

"Yeah." Justin nodded. "I thought he'd get a charge out of wearing them for our performance of In the Gay-rage."

"They'll be just right for that," Marvella approved. "You might want to give them to him before we practise though. Each pair of heels feels a little different."

That was a good idea. If they didn't fit, Em could go with whatever shoes he brought to practise in. It would be disappointing though. A waste of money too.

"Um, how much are they?" he asked.

"Four fifty."

Justin spelled out, "Four dollars and fifty cents?"

Marvella chuckled and flipped the shoes over so he could see the price tag. "I wasn't entirely kidding about you clearing out hard-to-move shoes. Not only are these an odd size, but they've seen a lot of wear."

His brow started to furrow, but then Marvella assured him, "That doesn't mean they haven't got plenty of wear left. It's just, together with the large size, they aren't worth much. I only put them in the window because they're festively eye-catching and help to draw people inside. And I'm only charging this much because of the holidays; the only other time they'd fetch more than a couple of bucks would be Valentine's Day."

It made Justin feel a little better that she wasn't devaluing the shoes for him. It also wouldn't be much of a loss if the shoes didn't fit.

"I'll take them," he decided. "Um, I'm also looking for something special for my best friend. Maybe a pair of earrings?"

Putting a hand on Justin's shoulder, Marvella steered him to a spot near the cash register. 

You'd think he was blind or something, but he'd never noticed the carousels and jewellery towers with earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings and wristwatches. Even what looked like fancy hair clips. Probably because he'd always been focused on the necessities - trainers, gloves, boots and backpacks - before now.

"If you'd like, I can box the heels and gift wrap them while you browse," Marvella offered.

Justin was starting to flag a little, so he readily took the shopkeep up on her offer. The best thing about sticking to drawings was that he could just roll up the sketch, wrap a ribbon around it and call it good. He'd have to make more of an effort if he matted any of the sketches, but maybe he could find gift boxes they'd fit in. Tape them shut, slap on a ribbon and a tag and he'd be done. 

The blond lad was a little overwhelmed at first by all the jewellery. It was probably more than he'd find at Macy's - not that he knew since he raced through that section as quickly as he could if he made the mistake of entering Macy's through the front entrance. The biggest concern for him was the perfume counters, which were right next to the jewellery, with women madly spritzing scents on their wrists. It invariably sent him into a sneezing fit and had him scuttling past as fast as he could go.

Strangely, men's colognes didn't affect him the same way. Not that wandering past the men's colognes at Macy's was any kind of test. First of all, it was just one counter, not, like, ten. Secondly, he rarely saw a bloke testing one of the scents for men. They seemed to know what they wanted before they got to the store. Unless they were Brian; Justin could easily imagine his lover checking out the colognes before deciding what to purchase.

Whatever Brian splashed on, it always smelled good in combination with his natural odour and the Lucky Strikes he smoked.

It wasn't just Brian though; he liked the cologne Ted wore, and the varied scents Emmett used were also pleasant. That was super weird, now that Justin thought about it, since Em probably wore women's perfumes some of the time. It must be the concentration of so many perfumes in a small area at Macy's that-

"Need help, toots?" Marvella called out from the cash register, where she was doing something complicated with wrapping paper and ribbon.

"Uh-" Justin began a reply in the negative, halting when his voice came out muffled. He reddened when he realised that he'd buried his nose in the silky cashmere scarf, seeking more of Brian's odour.

Lifting his face from the soft white folds, he tried again. "Uh, no. I'm good."

"Just let me know if you're looking for a particular colour or design. I can find you something lickety-split."

"'Kay." Justin made himself focus on the variety of jewellery on display. The earrings seemed to be interspersed with everything else, so he took a moment to think about the earrings he'd seen Daphne wear and what colours might suit her best. Something vivid but not garish should go well with her skin and dark hair, he reckoned. Maybe an emerald green? Or even a lemon yellow or coral red - if he could find one of those colours in the right setting.

He skimmed past a pair of zigzag dangling earrings with pink, green and orange stripes - they looked like modern art gone wrong; generic dark blue studs - you wouldn't even be able to see those when Daph had her hair down; and a pair of plain silver hoops - a classic style but also boring. Then his eyes landed on three different sets of dangling earrings that all implemented coral red stones in their design.

All of them had filigree detailing, although the pair of large, bronze-toned hoops Justin had spotted had the most of the three. Justin liked the simple wires they hung from and the asymmetrical annulus shape of the earrings themselves - the inner circle was surrounded by delicate fretwork filling, which in turn gave way to the outer circle. Three small, coral red stones were evenly spaced along the bottom of the disc. His only concern was that they wouldn't be very visible against Daphne's hair, unless she had it pulled back.

The second pair he dismissed after another glance. They were silver, which he thought would show to advantage against Daphne's hair, and the elongated kite rhombus was pretty, with coral filling the centre of the triangle and a bit of tracery at the bottom, a round coral stone capping the spot where the post went into the ear. But... something was off. It was the way they were balanced, he decided after studying them for a few beats; he disliked the way the round stone at the top was wider than the pendant underneath.

The last pair grabbed his attention. Silver wires looped around and closed with a clasp that Justin guessed was meant to keep the earrings from coming loose and falling out. From the clasp hung a teardrop, coral red stone capped off by thick silver ornamental scrollwork. The silver was a little tarnished, but that just gave the earrings a vintage look.

Justin reached out a hand that trembled a little and lifted the card the earrings were attached to off the rack. He really wanted to get these for Daphne, but they were probably way more than he could afford.

Turning over the card, Justin got a bit of sticker shock. Forty-eight dollars was pricey and would normally be out of his range. But, he reminded himself, these were for his bestie, and he hadn't hadn't spent any of his shopping money yet.

"Oh, those are darling," Marvella commented, sidling up next to him. "I almost kept them for myself, but they really don't go with any of my wigs."

Justin blinked. That seemed like a strange consideration given some of the colours the drag queen combined.

"The stones are real coral," Marvella informed him, tapping the card and setting the teardrops swinging, "and the sterling is hypoallergenic. The leverback keeps them safe and secure too."

So that was what the clasp was called. Whatever. Justin performed a quick estimate of the sales tax in head and came up with roughly three dollars and forty cents. That increased the total cost of the earrings to more than fifty dollars, but it wasn't enough to dissuade him from getting the earrings. Besides, it wouldn't seem quite so pricey once he subtracted the eight dollars and fifty cents that remained of his credit.

"Ring them up," the teenager declared, marching over to the cash register with the earrings. 

He paused to think how he'd never had a coat this nice before as he fished his wallet out of the inner pocket. After extracting two twenties and a fiver, he set the bills down and nudged them across the glass countertop.

Marvella pushed the fiver back over to him, along with two quarters. "That's too much, sugar. Forty-eight bucks less the remaining eight fifty in credit."

Justin's brow furrowed. That couldn't be right. What had happened to the tax? Not just on the earrings, he realised, but on everything else he'd bought today, as well as the other times he'd visited the consignment shop. The Perfex camera didn't count, he presumed, since it was part of a trade, but what about everything else?

"The tax?" he asked, perplexed.

"It's tax-free Wednesday," Marvella claimed.

Justin looked at her disbelievingly. "Every time I've shopped here?"

The proprietress shrugged. "I have one or two tax-free days a week. If I pick up the tax, it really helps bring in the customers, especially leading up to Christmas."

It still seemed weird to Justin that whenever he came by, it was a tax-free day.

"There's a sign on the door and another one in the big display window" - Marvella gestured at the pane of glass Justin'd practically had his nose pressed against a little while ago - "so customers know their purchases will be tax free."

Now that she mentioned it, Justin did see a holder with a card - blank from this side - sticking up near the display he'd been eyeing. There was even a gold and red Christmas garland draped over it. He'd just been too focused on the camera and the other items in the vitrine to pay much attention to anything else.

"Which do you want?" Marvella spoke and Justin looked down to see that she had opened a drawer filled with small, velvet-covered jewellery boxes. She set a few of them - black, sapphire blue and green - down in front of him.

Justin didn't hesitate. "The black one." It would set off both the red and silver the best.

"Classic," Marvella stated her approval of his choice. Then, flipping the lip open, she took the earrings off the card and poked them through the foam insert that had flipped up inside the box. Holding up a tiny, fold-out brochure, she said, "This provides information on the coral and the sterling and tells your friend how to care for her new earrings."

Justin nodded.

Tucking the miniature brochure behind the earrings, Marvella turned the earring box around so he could see what they looked like in the gift box.

Daphne was gonna be bowled over by this gift, Justin thought, smiling happily.

"Um, you got any of those Christmas gift boxes that fold flat for storage?" he asked. "You know, the ones you don't have to wrap and that you can put, like, shirts in?"

"Sure." The drag queen reached under the counter and came up with what must've been twenty of the boxes - some decorated with Christmas trees, some with snowmen, and others a simple textured red or green. "How many?"

He should need only one, but you never knew - he might want to disguise another gift. "Three? How much are they?"

"These are barely a dime a dozen at the dollar store, toots. No charge." Marvella placed the boxes in a large plastic bag with the Second Hand Job logo - the storefront with the striped awning - emblazoned on it.

She must buy in bulk, or the boxes wouldn't be that cheap, Justin reckoned. Now that he had a large box to put the earrings in, he'd just have to find something heavy to stick inside, so Daph wouldn't be able to guess what she was getting. His calculus textbook would be perfect, but after tomorrow, he didn't know if he'd see Daphne again till the new year. He'd need the book to study ahead for the spring semester - he only had six or seven chapters to go through before he reached the end - and to start preparing for the calculus CLEP.

Marvella prodded his old rucksack with a purple fingernail. "You want me to toss this in the bin where your holey sneakers went?"

Justin eyed the backpack. It really was in a sad state, the hole at at the bottom stretching for a good twenty centimetres. "Yeah, I don't think it can be resurrected," he joked.

Chuckling, Marvella agreed, "Not even an act of God could manage that."

Justin drew the new JanSport backpack toward him, and started to transfer the contents of his old pack. The first thing was the bundle of dirty clothes, which he really didn't want contaminating the new pack, but he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"Why don't you put those in here?" Marvella held out a shopping bag into which she'd put his sneakers.

"Ta," Justin mumbled, his face flaming. The clothes were starting to smell a little ripe; no way could she have missed that.

Justin hastily stuffed the plastic bag into the bottom of his new pack and then looked around for what else needed to go into the main compartment. 

The box with Em's ruby red heels was beautifully wrapped, a stiff gold bow providing the finishing touch, so Justin worried about squashing it in the rucksack. Marvella solved the problem, sliding it into the plastic bag with the gift boxes, bow side up.

Sticking the slippers, which Marvella had wrapped in tissue paper, into the main compartment, Justin looked around but didn't see the Perfex. "The camera?" he asked.

Marvella nodded at a slate blue box with a knob on the top right next to the cash register. A roll of film, outlined in white, was partly unscrolled across the front, ‘perfex,' all in lowercase in the middle of the film. ‘35 mm.' was written at the top left with ‘Camera Corp. of America' printed at the bottom.

Lifting the lid with the knob, Justin discovered an instruction pamphlet. Beneath that was the camera, the ends encased in protective styrofoam moulding. "The owner kept the original packaging?" he asked, shocked. 

"Not exactly." Marvella grinned. "I might have swiped an old box DC had in the garage. Man's a pack rat - keeps boxes for things he no longer has."

That was smart. Even if it wasn't the box the Perfex originally came in, it increased the camera's value. He was really lucky Marvella was willing to trade the Perfex for a drawing of her and DC.

"I reckoned you might want to wrap that present yourself," Marvella commented, "but I've got a cardboard box to make the job a mite easier, if you'd like."

Justin nodded in thanks. He'd just been contemplating how to wrap the camera and not end up with it looking amateurish. It might work to bring the paper up to the knob and then cut it so that it stuck out artistically at different angles. If that was a flop, he'd use the cardboard box instead.

While Marvella slid the cardboard box into the plastic bag, Justin carefully placed the Perfex in the main compartment of his backpack. It was packed really well, so it wasn't like he'd damage it, but he didn't want to ding the corners of the box or anything.

The velveteen gift box went in next, nestling beside the camera, and then, last of all, Justin slid his sketchbook and pencil case into the padded section meant for a laptop.

His stomach growled as he zipped the compartments closed, again reminding him that the only thing he'd eaten before Brian whisked him off to Allegheny General was a few spoonfuls of cereal. "Um," he mumbled, "I'd better-"

"Feed the beast?" Marvella recommended, her brown eyes twinkling.

His stomach rumbled again by way of an answer.

His footing secure and his feet warmly cocooned in his new Timberlands, Justin trotted down Liberty Avenue, the sign for the Liberty Diner beckoning to him from a block and a half away. He'd just said farewell to Marvella a minute ago and was anxious to fill the hole in his stomach.

He was just veering around a clothes rack that stuck out onto the pavement when his attention was caught by the lettering on one of the T-shirts. It read: It's hard to stay humble when you can jump, stunt and tumble.

Chuckling, he thought it sounded like Sydney, and slowed to a stop to see what else was on the rack. The ‘I'm an intelligent, classy, well-educated woman who says Fuck a lot,' wasn't really Syd, but it might suit Melanie. The T-shirt was in a size large though, which was way too big for Mel; it would swim on her petite frame. 

He rifled through more of the tees, not finding anything interesting until he came across one that screamed Syd in a medium, which might even be the right size. The word ‘cheerleader' was printed in a large, jazzy purple font, with the phonetic pronunciation in lime green beneath it, and finally the definition, ‘an attitude with a bow,' in hot pink lettering.

Fortuitously, behind the one he was going to get for Syd, he found another of the ‘fuck' T-shirts, this time in extra small.

A short while later, Justin was done shopping for the day and refused to let anything further delay him from getting something to eat. Not only was he almost faint from hunger, he was starting to drag. He'd planned to stop at Woof & Tweet for something for Harley, but he just didn't have the energy. It would have to wait for a day or two.

After his most recent acquisitions, he also wanted a moment to recalculate how much money he needed to keep out and how much could go into his bank account. Besides the T-shirt for Syd, he'd bought the ‘fuck' one for Mel - he figured it would make her laugh and be a good thank you for her help with the POAs - but that meant he'd had to find something for Linds too. The shop had offered a discount if you bought three or more of the tees, but the unplanned purchase had still put a dent in his funds.

The bell above the door jingled welcomingly as Justin pushed inside the diner with his shoulder, awkwardly juggling the bag from Second Hand Job while keeping his latest purchase hidden behind his back. It was really good to finally escape the freezing outdoors, his nose and the tips of his ears feeling like chips of ice. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly as the smells of fresh coffee, bacon and French fries assaulted his nose. Justin smiled.

"Well hello, Sunshine!" Deb's piercing voice carried across the eatery, startling Justin's eyes back open. "My, don't you look like the Nanook of the North."

Justin pouted at the motherly woman. "I feel like it too," he complained. "Though without the whitewashing and the product placement."

Debbie gave him a questioning look but apparently decided to let it go, instead asking, "You hungry, Kiddo?"

"Starving," he confirmed, his stomach growling in agreement. "Can I please get a cheeseburger with fries? And a cup of coffee? And a lemon bar... no, two lemon bars?"

Debbie laughed happily. "Of course, honey. Grab a seat somewhere; I'll be right back."

"Wait!" Justin yelled.

The redhead swung back around, arching her eyebrows.

"Uh, these are for you." Justin whipped out the bouquet of tulips that he'd purchased and thrust them at his mum. When he'd seen the cheerful yellow flowers at the newsagent kitty-corner to the diner, he'd thought of Deb and couldn't resist the urge to get them for her.

"Sunshine!" the redhead screeched, her face wreathed in a happy smile. "You shouldn't have!" She buried her face in the bouquet.

Justin took a step back, his nose twitching. "I know they're not tiger lillies, but I thought maybe you'd like something to brighten up the diner? Or you could take them home," he tacked on. "Tulips have a low pollen count." His nose was only starting to run because it was warm in here, the lad tried to convince himself.

Debbie patted him on the cheek. "I'll put them over by the cash register. They'll remind me and Kiks that spring is coming." 

Justin grinned at the unknowing riff.

"I'll just put these in water and then I'll put your order in, okay?"

"Thanks, Mum," the blond said with a smile. He beelined it to a small table for two that stood not far from the counter and began taking off his outer layers. The diner was pretty warm and he was already starting to sweat. The last thing he needed was to get sick on top of everything else.

Once he settled into his chair, he pulled out a sketchpad and an HB pencil and set both on the Formica table. He had to wait till his fingers thawed a little bit more before he attempted to draw anything.

Barely two minutes later, a plate landed in front of him, the smell of the greasy food making him salivate.

"Here you go," Debbie sing-songed, setting down a cup of coffee as well.

Justin took a deep breath before thanking his mum heartily. "Thank you. This is the best thing I've seen all day," he claimed, feeling like he was barely exaggerating.

Debbie chuckled, shaking her head in fond amusement and putting her hands on her hips. This caused her vest to slide open more, revealing the T-shirt underneath. It was a muted mauve colour, which always looked flattering on the redhead, and it proclaimed in bold yellow lettering, ‘Drugs lead nowhere, however scenic the route.'

Justin narrowed his eyes at the woman's chest. This was hardly a coincidence.

"Um." He paused, unsure. "Nice shirt?"

Debbie snorted. "Had it made special," she boasted, pushing her bosom proudly forward. "Came this morning; too bad it wasn't ready when Smitty stopped by yesterday."

Justin gave her a strained smile. Seriously, like he needed the reminder to never do something so stupid again, he thought. 

Debbie tousled his hair. "Don't give me that look, ragazzo. I'm going to wear the fucking shit out of this."

Justin's smile turned more genuine.

"Now, tuck in." She nodded at his plate. "I'll be right back with the lemon bars."

A cheeseburger, a healthy portion of fries and half a coffee cup later, Justin was idly doodling on a new page in his sketchbook. With the worst of his hunger sated, he had thought he could spend some time sketching ideas for Emmett's Christmas gift, but he found himself to be fresh out of inspiration.

Sighing heavily, he took a frustrated bite out of one of the lemon squares Debbie had brought him and drew a couple of thick, angry lines through the sketch he had been working on. Stupid thing looked weird as fuck. 

"Aw," came an unknown voice from behind him. "Why did you do that?"

Startled, Justin turned to look over his shoulder, only to come eye to eye with a jean-clad crotch. Blinking in confusion, Justin forced himself to slide his gaze up. The guy was about Brian's age, very tall and slim, and had what looked like naturally ginger hair and goatee, a pair of metal-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose. He wasn't what you'd call conventionally attractive, but there was something interesting about him. 

"Huh?" His reaction wasn't the most intelligent, Justin admitted to himself.

The man nodded at his sketchbook. "Why would you ruin a perfectly good drawing? What a pity."

Justin frowned. "It wasn't good," he insisted. "The proportions were off."

The guy tilted his head, considering the sketch. "I don't know, man. Seems fine to me." He paused. "Then again, what do I know? I can only wish I had talent like that."

Justin snorted bitterly. What good was his talent if he couldn't use it when he needed to? He had been planning to give custom drawings to everyone for Christmas, but with the artist's block he was currently experiencing, he might have to look into shopping for some real presents after all. If he managed to find the time, that was. 

As if the man could hear his thoughts, he continued, "Listen, man, all I'm saying is that if I had your talent, I wouldn't have to spend money on Christmas gifts. I always end up buying shit people don't want or need anyway. It's just a waste of fucking money."

The blond artist squinted at the guy in suspicion but ultimately decided that the probability of him being a mind reader was fairly slim. "That was the idea," he admitted weakly. "But I can't seem to get it right."

The guy hmmed. "Maybe you're pushing too much?" he posited. "Sometimes you just need to relax; draw something you know you're good at."

Justin's immediate reaction was to bristle at the gall of the guy. Who the hell did he think he was to try and tell Justin how to do his art? He took a deep breath, ready to tell the man where exactly he could shove his well-meant advice, but before he could open his mouth, fresh oxygen reached his brain and Justin managed to control himself. It wouldn't do to argue with Debbie's customers - especially over something so insignificant and mundane. Suppressing the swell of irritation, he forced himself to think about what the guy had said.

Draw something he knew he was good at? Why? He didn't need any more practice drawing Brian's cock - though he imagined some people would be more than happy to receive a drawing of his lover's pride and joy for Christmas - so what was the point? Then again, now that he thought about it some more, he had a vague recollection of hearing similar advice in the past, so maybe there was something to it? 

The guy, probably taking Justin's long silence as a bad sign, shrugged in what looked like discomfort. "Well, like I said, don't mind me. It's not like I'm an artist or anything." And with those words, the redhead turned to leave.

Justin's arm shot out almost of its own volition, grabbing the edge of the man's jacket.

The guy turned back around, raising his eyebrows in question.

Justin quickly let go. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I just wanted to thank you for the advice. I didn't mean to be rude; I was just frustrated and got caught off guard."

The tall man gave him a quick smile. "No problem. I probably shouldn't have stuck my nose in your business. I know artists don't really like people looking at their work without permission - I should know; I live with one."

The blond grinned, giving the guy a brief glimpse of his signature sunshine smile. "Well, thank you. I'll try and take your advice."

Once the diner door closed behind the guy, the bell once again jingling, Justin turned back to his sketchbook. It wouldn't hurt to try and draw a couple naked Brians, would it? It wasn't like it was a hardship to sketch the lines of his lover's body. He might not need the practice, but Brian had been his favourite subject ever since he picked Justin up under the lamppost outside Babylon. Naked Brian in particular.

Without really thinking about it, Justin set pencil to paper and began sketching Brian as he'd looked in the loft kitchen: stripped down to his skin; water dripping from his hair and beading on his skin; arms outstretched to the side; his manhood proudly jutting out from a neatly trimmed thatch of curly brunet hair. 

Justin licked his lips and swallowed hard before glancing hopefully down at his groin. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. 

He heaved a heartfelt sigh. Fuck, the wait till they could do something again seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. At this rate, Justin would be lucky to get it up by the new year. His lover wouldn't give in either - he'd never met anyone as stubborn as Brian - so he had no choice but to wait.

He could at least draw Brian's dick in the meantime, Justin thought, feeling slightly consoled. It was better than nothing.

He lavished attention on Brian's engorged manhood, carefully getting the flared head, the slit and the length just right. "Coming and staying," he whispered to the finished sketch.

Now for the morning after. Justin flipped to a new page and began drawing the lean, muscled body against blue sheets that were pushed down just past his groin. The predatory light in his eyes was dimmed behind closed eyelids, his cock slack but still huge. 

The cock he'd worried wouldn't fit, Justin thought, his face warming. Thank fuck he hadn't blurted that out; the other things that had come out of his mouth were embarrassing enough.

Brian's nipples pebbled in the drawing, just like they had in the cool air of the loft, and Justin's pencil quickly delineated the sparse hairs of the treasure trail leading to the brunet's crotch.

He was in the process of getting the curve of Brian's cock just right - it always slanted slightly to the right - when a familiar voice called out, "Justin?"

Justin looked up, blanching when he realised it was his eight-year-old sister. He slammed the sketchbook closed, afraid she would see the porn he was drawing. He hadn't cared about anyone else seeing - half of Liberty Avenue knew what Brian looked like naked anyway - but he didn't want Molly seeing it.

Especially if Jennifer was around to pass judgement and lecture. He'd had enough of her reproachful looks after she had seen his sketches when she pried into his belongings back in September. Despite the lingering anger over the invasion of his privacy, Justin felt a surge of warmth toward his mother for following through and bringing Molly to see him. He looked towards the door, frowning in puzzlement when he didn't see any sign of Jennifer. Weird.

His thoughts scattered when Molly, a rucksack over her shoulders, launched herself at him. "I missed you, Justin," she whispered, sniffling noises coming from where she had her nose pressed into his T-shirt.

Until right then, his arms curling under her backpack to hold her tightly against him, Justin hadn't realised just how much he missed his little sister. Molly could be a royal pain in the arse, but he pined for her company. Besides, although she was only eight, she gave back as good as she got. He even kind of missed her being a bratty, know-it-all tattletale. "Missed you too, Mollusk," he replied, his voice husky.

He'd used the familiar nickname without thinking but now stiffened, worried that his sister would take offence. She'd taken a dislike to it after a couple of kids at school had taunted her about being a sea snail. He'd been working on convincing her that she was the cutest, most tomboyish sea snail ever - and had just about succeeded - but then Craig had kicked him out and he never got the chance to see if it had worked.

Molly's response to the nickname was just to hug him tighter, so maybe she did miss him calling her that.

He pretended not to notice when Molly wiped her eyes on his T-shirt before lifting her head. The little girl didn't like to openly show her emotions.

"Whatcha drawing, Jester?" she asked, styling Justin with her nickname for him. Unlike before he'd left home however, there was no taunting edge to the moniker. The slightly watery sheen in the girl's blue eyes was replaced with curiosity.

"Uh, a- uh, friend," Justin stammered in response. "No one you know, Mollusk."

"That's okay." Molly reached for the sketch pad. "You can tell me about them."

Freeing an arm from around Molly's waist, Justin placed it on top of his sketchbook and leaned his weight on it. He glanced toward the door again, wondering what was holding up their mother. He doubted Jennifer would approve of him showing Molly any of the drawings - like his gayness was gonna rub off on his sister or something.

"Jester?" Molly turned big blue eyes on him and Justin caved.

He didn't want Molly to be exposed to the X-rated sketches, but he didn't see a good reason to hide the family-friendly ones. "Why don't you sit down there" - he gestured at the empty chair across from him - "and I'll show you some of the pictures."

"Why can't I just look through your sketchbook?" Molly wanted to know.

Justin replied, "'Cause some of them are private."

"Okay," Molly acknowledged equably, shrugging off her backpack and dumping it on the floor next to the chair.

Justin opened the sketch pad to a drawing he'd forgotten about. It wasn't finished; first he'd been too upset about his conversation with Jennifer to concentrate properly, and then he'd been devastated at being kicked out of the loft. The blond teen squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, visualising locking the door and setting the alarm for the umpteenth time, only to come home to the door ajar, everything that wasn't bolted down gone.

He was ninety-nine point nine percent certain he'd locked up, but there was still a niggling sliver of doubt. Even with Brian now saying he believed him, Justin couldn't totally absolve himself of blame. He should've been there, he thought, also for the umpteenth time. Then the burglary wouldn't have happened.

Molly squeed, "Is that me?"

While he'd been staring blankly into space, his little sister had stood up and was peering at the drawing upside down.

Smiling at how excited she was, Justin turned the sketch pad around so his sister could see the drawing better.

 "Oh!" exclaimed the little girl. "That's Charlie and Alice. None of the photos Mom took are this good, Jester. The only one Charlie's in is all blurry."

"Would you like to take this?" Justin asked, electing not to tell her the drawing was just a draft. He couldn't finish it properly anyhow, not clearly remembering what Molly's little friends looked like.

"Heck, yeah!" Molly bounced a little as she sat back down.

Justin turned the sketch pad back around and took a peek at the next drawing, to be sure it wasn't pornographic, before carefully removing the drawing of Molly's eighth birthday party from the sketchbook.

He grinned when he realised the drawing underneath was from when he'd cleared out the attic with Vic and Deb. He'd used the photo of the three of them before they started cleaning - Vic with a feather duster, Justin with a broom and Debbie with a can of Pledge - and made them look like they did a couple hours later. They all had cobwebs in their hair; Vic had a smudge on his jeans from where Deb had accidentally ‘Pledged' him; and except for his blue eyes, Justin's face was a smudgy grey. He'd perched a spider busily tatting Irish lace on the scrunchie that held Debbie's red hair off her head in a topknot. In reality, the arachnid had just stopped to sit for a spell, but after exchanging lifted eyebrows with Vic, neither he nor Justin had mentioned it to the woman.

Molly giggled when he flipped the sketchbook back around to show the drawing to her. "You look good, Jester," she bantered; "better than usual."

"Brat," Justin retorted, a fond smile on his face.

"Who are-" Molly started, but before she could finish her question, Deb swept up to the table, juggling a plate full of lemon bars, a glass of juice and a jug of coffee.

"And who might you be, young lady?" Debbie inquired. She set everything down on the table, planted a fist on one hip and looked between the strawberry-blonde girl and Justin.

She had obviously guessed who Molly was - there was no way she could miss the resemblance - but Deb waited for the girl to chirp happily, "I'm Molly, Jester- er, Justin's sister."

Like Justin, Debbie looked toward the door for Jennifer. Finding no sign of the blonde woman, she frowned before smiling down at Molly. "You look just like Sunshine when you smile."

"Sunshine?" the girl said uncertainly, glancing over at her brother.

"This one." Debbie laid a hand on Justin's shoulder before reaching up to muss his hair - for the second time since he'd arrived.

"Jester doesn't like it when-" Molly started, breaking off when Justin didn't shy away from Deb.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't get a choice in my diner," Deb claimed, a possessive note in her voice as she ruffled Justin's hair again.

If the diner could be said to belong to anyone besides the actual owner, it was the motherly redhead, Justin reckoned. He had a feeling she was staking claim as much to him as to the diner though.

"Anyway," Deb finally got around to answering Molly's question, "I gave your brother that nickname the first time he set foot in here."

The eight-year-old still looked confused, until Debbie concluded, "He smiled and it just lit up the whole place. He's been Sunshine to me ever since."

Molly wanted to know, "So I'm Sunshine too?"

"Sure," the redheaded waitress readily agreed. "Sunshine Junior."

Molly beamed at Debbie, evidently more than happy with her new moniker. "Thanks, ma'am."

"Well, aren't you a polite, young miss," said Debbie, smiling down at the young girl.

His little sister was displaying way better manners than he had when he first met Debbie, Justin thought, wincing. He just hoped Molly - or way worse, Deb - would never find out what he'd said right after meeting her. He'd behaved like such a little shit. He was lucky Michael hadn't ratted him out and would just have to hope he never did.

Debbie looked out the door again, where people were hurrying by as more snowflakes came drifting down. Still no sign of Jennifer. 

"Where's your mum?" Debbie asked. "It's been a while since Jennifer visited the diner."

"Um." Molly looked down at the tabletop and clammed up.

Panic started to set in. "Molly?" 

His sister reluctantly looked up, her eyes skittering away from his.

"Mum brought you down here, right?"

"Not exactly," Molly mumbled.

"How'd you get here then?" Debbie asked, pulling over a chair from a neighbouring table and sitting down. She struck just the right note, sounding concerned but non-judgemental.

"I've, like, really missed Jester," Molly admitted.

Deb nodded in understanding. "Brothers are special."

"Mum's been promising for weeks that we'll go see Justin, but then it never happens," Molly went on. "She said for sure as soon as school was out for Christmas break, but then she changed her mind."

Debbie excused Jennifer, "Maybe she had something important to do, honey."

"I guess. Mum did say she was really short on time." Molly smiled proudly. "So I thought I'd help her out, you know, save her the time."

Justin prompted his sister to go on. "Yeah? How'd you do that?"

"I heard Mum talking about the Liberty Diner on the phone. I think someone was trying to find it?"

Justin was flummoxed for a moment, but then he wondered if it could've been Mr or Mrs Chanders, checking up on Daphne. Or maybe Jennifer had been complaining to Craig about where he was working.

Molly continued, "She said it was right in the heart of the ‘gaybourhood.' The eight-year-old said the unfamiliar word hesitantly. "The way Mum said it, it sounded kinda bad, but everyone I've talked to has been really nice."

"Gaybourhood is just another name for the Liberty Avenue neighbourhood," Debbie said matter-of-factly.

"That makes sense." Molly smiled at Debbie and her brother. "When I told the bus driver at the stop-"

Justin blinked. There was a bus stop close to their house, but that bus line wouldn't get Molly to Liberty Avenue. If it had taken him ten minutes to reach the 61A bus stop - in good weather - his sister, with her shorter legs, must've needed at least fifteen minutes. Thank fuck she hadn't slipped and broken something, or Jennifer would never let him see her again. 

"-that I wanted to go to the Liberty Diner in the gaybourhood, he said it was a long way to go by myself and that I should get my mum or dad to take me. I, uh, told him I missed my big brother." Molly directed a look at Justin that he read as partly accusatory and partly longing before resuming, "And that I hadn't seen him in, like, forever. That's when he shared that his bus would take me directly to Liberty Avenue. That part was great, but the trip took a really long time."

Debbie gasped, "You came all the way from Squirrel Hill North to Liberty Avenue by yourself? That must've taken you over an hour in this miserable weather."

"By myself!" Molly agreed, looking justifiably proud. "'Cept for the nice bus driver and then the nice lady," she acknowledged the help she'd got along the way.

Justin was stunned that his little sister'd had the guts to make the long journey be herself. Thank fuck she'd only run into ‘nice people.'

"Did you leave a note?" he demanded. Jennifer would be frantic in any case, but it might make her panic a little less if she knew where to start looking. Then again, if Molly had left a note, the phone over by the cash register would be ringing off the hook by now.

Molly squirmed in her chair. "Um, I meant to?"

"We've got to call home. Right now," Justin insisted when Molly's face set in a stubborn, uncooperative expression.

"But I just got here!" Molly yelled.

"It'll take your mum a while to get here," Debbie consoled the girl. "But Jennifer needs to know where you are; she must be going batsh- er, plumb crazy looking for you."

"Would you call Mum for me, Jester? Please?" Molly asked.

Justin couldn't blame her for wanting to postpone the tongue-lashing she was bound to get. He wasn't exactly looking forward to talking to Jennifer either, anticipating that she'd blame him for this happening. If he didn't insist he was gay... yadda yadda yadda.

He sighed, giving in to Molly's entreaty. "Yeah, okay."

"Thanks, Jester. You're the best." 

Tilting his head at the wall phone by the register, Justin silently asked Debbie if it was okay for him to use it.

The redhead nodded and swatted him with the dish towel she had over her shoulder as he slouched off at a slow walk. "Go on, Sunshine. I'll keep Molly company."

When Molly giggled, Justin figured she might as well enjoy herself while she could. Once Jennifer got here and was past the euphoria of Molly being safe and sound, his sister wouldn't be having much fun. She'd likely be grounded for the rest of Christmas hols.

Ten minutes later, his right ear blistered by a dressing-down from his mother, Justin slammed the phone down on the hook. Like he'd expected, she blamed him for leading Molly ‘astray' and introducing her to an ‘unhealthy, immoral lifestyle.'

It had taken all his self-control not to yell into the mouthpiece that she should get off the phone and get right down here, if she wanted to limit Molly's exposure to ‘you people.' He'd apparently graduated to belonging to one of the undesirable groups country clubbers referred to as ‘those people.'

He should be used to it by now, but his mother's rejection still hurt. Why couldn't she see that he was the same person he'd always been?

Blinking furiously, Justin fought back the tears that threatened to fall. He didn't want Molly to know how upset he was. 

"If you don't add a please to that request, princess, you're gonna get my size thirteen up your arse," Kiki's irate voice carried from the very back of the diner as Justin returned to the table.

His mood improving, Justin hid a grin while Molly's eyes rounded in wonder. She craned her head around, trying to catch sight of the speaker.

Debbie muttered, "I better go help Kiks before she gets really pissed and one of my customers ends up drinking out of a straw."

Startled by the visual that produced, Justin bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Shit- uh, shoot," Deb hastily modified her language when she noticed the fascinated look on Molly's face. "Just ignore me, okay, honey?"

His little sister nodded, but Justin knew that didn't mean anything. Molly was gonna remember what everyone had said and would probably relate it over dinner, when it would have the most shock value.

"Jen's gonna kill me," Deb muttered with an apologetic look at Justin as she got up and trotted off.

A loud "Goddammit" came from the booth where both Kiks and Debbie were now standing, Kiki with arms akimbo and Deb shaking a finger in some guy's face.

Sitting back down opposite his sister, Justin decided not to mention or apologise for all the bad language. The country club parents could really lose their cool at their kids' softball games, so it wasn't like this was the first time Molly had heard someone curse. Heck, some of the parents even got into it over Sunday brunch at the country club.

"Debbie's really nice," she told Justin, subsiding into her seat.

Another thing that wouldn't go over well with their mother, thought the lad. She didn't believe children should address adults by their first names, even if they were invited to do so. Knowing Jennifer, she might even fixate on that, rather than face the more serious issues - like why Molly had come here alone in the first place.

"I don't get why you're living with her though," Molly went on, frowning. "You should be with me, Mum and Dad, Jester."

Justin was still trying to figure out how to reply when Molly reached into her backpack and pulled something out.

"Until you come home, I thought you might want your Gus bear." She set the well-loved teddy bear down on the table and pushed it toward Justin.

"Nice bear," a leather daddy opined, flicking the bear on one ear as he passed by their table.

The teenager stared at the bear in consternation, a flush rising up his neck. He was sure he'd packed Gus away in a box and put it on the top shelf of his closet.

"Mum was gonna throw Gus out," Molly informed Justin.

His eyes shiny, Justin looked at his childhood friend. If the teddy bear had been where Justin left him, then his mother must be clearing out his old bedroom. It was like Jennifer was getting rid of him. Besides, even if she wanted to clear out his stuff, couldn't she, like, donate the stuffed animal to the Salvation Army? The Gus bear might be a little threadbare, but there was plenty of life left in it.

Maybe Gus would like to have Gus bear, Justin thought, that idea making him feel a little better. Picking up the teddy bear, he squeezed it into his backpack on top of the Perfex camera.

"I took this out of the trash too," Molly told him, digging an oblong box out of her rucksack and setting it on the table with a thud.

Another thing that had been in his closet, Justin realised. A box of keepsakes.

Removing the lid, Molly pointed at the newspaper clipping that sat on the top and giggled. "You look funny, Jester."

Oh God. ‘Funny' didn't even begin to describe it. He'd forgotten about the haircut he'd had in seventh grade. He'd thought he was hot shit at the time, but he looked awful, like a dweeb. Never mind the dumb list of his accomplishments beneath his photo. There hadn't been very many students in his junior high class, of which only around eight were in the Drama Club, so it wasn't like being the president of it was a major deal.

"You look like a total butt pie," Molly noted in a serious tone.

Or that, Justin thought wryly. He dug around in the box some more, unearthing a couple other bits and bobs he had kept. One of which was a videotape with B*Witched: C'est la Vie as well as some other music, although he had no idea what since B*Witched was the only one he'd jotted down.

"Oh, that's the stupid song about tree houses you used to listen to." Molly rolled her eyes. "It's for kids."

Justin chuckled, amused to remember how he once also didn't know the song was in fact about sex. He set the tape to the side with a fond smile and went to rifle through the box again.

While Justin was taking a trip down memory lane, Brian was sitting in the Lincoln, which was crawling down Liberty Avenue. 

No matter how bad the weather got or how hairy the holiday crowds, he was going Christmas shopping. Fucking finally, he had the funds to get whatever he wanted. He slapped the envelope containing a cheque for the full amount due him against one gloved hand and smirked as he recalled how thoroughly he'd cowed the Allstate arseholes.

After dropping Justin off at the ‘Wiener World Law Practice,' he'd had the chatty chauffeur take him to his insurance company. The clerk at the front desk had done his best to stonewall Brian, claiming that the manager had just left for lunch and that no one else could help him. The twit had even tried to get Brian to come back later, but since he suspected he'd just be met with another excuse about how the manager was unavailable, he insisted on waiting. 

He'd planted himself at the counter and didn't move. The clerk had muttered something about leaving a message for the manager, picked up the phone and held a hushed conversation.

When a man who turned out to be the manager had finally come out of an office at the back of the building, Brian hadn't minced words, skewering Allstate for being unreliable and unresponsive. The manager had grown progressively paler as Brian let him know that he'd be spreading the word about Allstate's shoddy practices and then threatening that he'd be taking his business elsewhere. He was going to do that anyway, but the insurance bloodsuckers didn't need to know that.

The chauffeur pulled over to the curb, double-parking in front of the PNC branch on Liberty Avenue - Brian's next stop.

"I'll drive around the block," the chauffeur said as Brian reached for the door handle. With a doleful look at the sky, he added, "Unless snowmageddon hits between now and then, I'll pick you up once you're done."

Brian refused to listen to the driver's increasingly dire predictions, lest it make them come true. "Meet me in front of CVS," he ordered, gesturing at the pharmacy which was just down the street. Then, waving a hand in dismissal, he slipped and slid his way across the pavement to the bank's front entrance. 

Welcome warmth enveloped Brian as he pushed open the door and entered the bank. He might've only needed to cross a short distance from the car, but it was enough to remind him of how cold it was outside. Now a little too warm, he hastened to unbutton his Vince Camuto peacoat.

He assessed the long line in front of him and sighed. Although there were tellers at all the windows, it looked like he was in for a wait.

A voice from his left drew his attention. "You didn't heed my advice, Mr Kinney?"

Brian pivoted to the side, his Zegna loafers sliding on the tile, and came face to face with the financial officer who'd offered sound, albeit unsolicited, advice about proper footgear a couple weeks ago.

The woman's eyes twinkled as she looked him over, giving his charcoal Armani suit a nod of approval. "You do look very nice though."

His irritation already subsiding, Brian returned her smile. "My Timberlands just don't look right with a suit," he commented, shrugging. He wouldn't normally explain, but since he'd been consulting Ms White about his finances for nearly a decade, he was willing to make an exception.

"Mmm," the white-haired woman hmmed. "As long as you don't break an ankle - or your coccyx. Just be careful, okay, young man?"

Brian nodded, strangely warmed by her concern.

Ms White peered at the growing line, a couple new arrivals now at the tail end of the queue, which stretched almost to the door. "Maybe I can help you?"

"I wouldn't mind jumping the queue," Brian admitted. "Can you process a deposit?"

"Hmm," she murmured, tapping a Mont Blanc pen against her cheek. "Let's see if I remember how to do that." Ms White winked. "Follow me."

Brian laughed, enjoying her dry sense of humour. He followed the financial manager into her office, where it only took her a few minutes to deposit the cheque.

"All done," she announced. "Now you should be able to buy a Christmas cactus."

Brian laughed again. "Thanks, Ms-"

"Katherine. Happy holidays, Mr-"

"Brian," he reminded her. "It hasn't changed since the last time."

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Good thing. Otherwise, it would've taken a lot longer to cash that cheque. Name changes require a lot of paperwork."

Brian couldn't quite hide a shudder at the thought of more paperwork. Ever since he'd decided to open his own advertising agency, it felt he'd been buried in reams of the stuff.

Ms White chuckled again as she stood up from behind her desk. "I'd better go see who else's day I can improve by inviting them to the head of the line." She held out her hand. "Merry Christmas, Brian."

"And to you, Katherine." Brian rose, gave her hand a firm shake, and left her office. Coat buttoned back up, he exited the bank and promptly slipped on a particularly slick patch of cement. Windmilling his arms, he regained his balance just in time to keep from taking a header onto the sidewalk. "Not my coccyx I should be worried about," he muttered. He sighed, giving in to necessity; he'd wear the bloody Timberland boots tomorrow. He'd just have to be extra careful this afternoon to make sure he got home in one piece.

Thankfully, the snowploughs had finally made it down Liberty Avenue, which made crossing the street easier than walking along the sidewalk. He had to step over the slushy piles along the kerb, but his long legs made that simple enough.

He stepped into the CVS and immediately undid the buttons on his peacoat again. Why the fuck couldn't businesses strike a balance between the cold outside and overheating them into a stroke?

As he made his way toward the film drop-off to turn in the roll with the photos of Justin's artwork - he still wished the watercolour drawing hadn't washed away when he showered - he passed by a cheap stereo system and sniffed disdainfully; the thing didn't even have a brand name. Brian didn't see the point of buying that kind of equipment; the sound wouldn't be very good, and it would probably break down after a week.

He was reminded however that he could now finalise his order for a new entertainment centre. He'd do that online tonight. It wouldn't take long since he'd already sussed out what he wanted: high end TV, DVD player, stereo components and speakers, plus a cabinet to hold all the items. He'd need to stock up on porn too - something for him and Justin when they wanted a little extra inspiration. Having the thieves swipe his carefully curated collection was almost worse than losing his designer clothes and furnishings.

Naturally, there was a line of people at the photo desk, although he was able to squeeze in next to an overweight heavy breather to fill out an envelope for the one-hour service. He immediately regretted the effort, the moist air the man was expelling through his mouth hitting Brian on the cheek. Neatly printing his contact information as quickly as he could, he suspended the envelope over the appropriate slot and barked at a harried-looking employee who was flitting to and fro, "Ready in an hour, right?"

"Costs more," the girl with the dyed green ombré hair said without looking over at him.

"Just so it's ready," Brian stated, not caring that he sounded threatening.

Green hair glanced up at him and her eyes widened. "It'll be ready, sir. I'll see to it myself."

"Good," grunted Brian, dropping the envelope in the slot. It would be more than an hour before he got back here, but he didn't tell the clerk that; otherwise, she might take her sweet time developing the photos.

Elbowing the gross heavy breather out of his way, he strode out of the drugstore and dragged in a breath of fresh air. He almost seared his lungs, the air was so glacial. He was also half frozen, a gust of wind choosing that moment to blow snowflakes in his face and through the opening in his coat. Sighting the limo, which was idling in front of the CVS, Brian lunged for the Lincoln, wrenched open the door and dove inside.

The time it took for the town car to reach his preferred mobile phone shop was just long for Brian to warm up again. "Wait here," he ordered as he got out.

He shut the door on the chauffeur's, "Yes, sir," and made his way into the store. Someone had their act together, he noted, approving the way the pavement had just been cleared, the cement not at all slippery.

Miraculously, there was a salesman who wasn't occupied with a customer when Brian stepped into the shop. Stalking over to the counter, he slapped his cell phone down on it. "The battery's dead," he commented for the clerk's edification. "I need it replaced right away."

The clerk shook his head as he picked up Brian's Nokia. "This model doesn't really hold a charge well, sir; we've had a lot of complaints."

"You don't say," Brian responded in a dry tone.

"I'd recommend investing in a new phone instead of replacing the battery," the shop assistant advised. "You'd be better off in the long run."

That wasn't a bad idea. He'd had his current, underperforming Nokia for a while; he was due for an upgrade. "I want something reliable that's also cutting edge," he told the clerk. "Show me what you have." The guy was young - probably no more than twenty - and had probably tried out every cool new gadget that came into the shop.

"There's a new Nokia that's-" the salesman started.

"No," Brian cut him off. It was time for a different brand.

The shop assistant led him over to a station where a number of cell phones were plugged in and passed one of them over to Brian. "If you'd like something smaller and even lighter weight than your old phone, the new Sony Ericsson might be right for you. It has a slim profile and fits nicely into a pocket without creating an unseemly bulge or dragging down a garment."

Brian took it in his hand and nodded. It really was lightweight.

"The two other mobiles you might want to consider are the newest ones from Siemens and Samsung. The big plus for the Siemens" - he tapped a finger against the phone - "is the flexible storage space. 360 kilobytes."

Brian raised an eyebrow. That was a big improvement over previous cell phones.

"You can transfer files between your computer and the phone with a serial cable that's included in the package," the clerk finished a brief description of the Siemens.

Picking up a third cell phone, he set it in front of Brian. "Then there's the latest Samsung. They're leading the market. This is the first PDA phone - a sort of handheld PC. The only" - he glanced around and lowered his voice - "drawback is the carrier. Sprint."

Brian, who'd been covetously reaching for the Samsung, sighed. Sprint's customer service had a bad reputation. Just a few months ago, Linds had got stuck with all sorts of hidden fees that Brian ended up paying on her behalf.

The clerk lifted his eyebrows and nodded in obvious commiseration.

Brian had second thoughts. Maybe he should stick with Nokia after all - just upgrade to the latest model. Nokia had the best customer service around, and before his current mobile, he'd never had any problems. "How's the battery on the new Nokia?" he asked.

"Better than what you have now, but not as good as the earlier models," the salesman assessed as he plucked a small phone from the display and slid it over to Brian. "They're losing battery strength as they add features."

The features, thought Brian sourly, were hardly anything to boast about. The new model looked almost exactly like his current one, which meant he couldn't do much of anything except make phone calls, play a couple of dumb games and send text messages.

"Do you know if anyone is developing a keypad that'll make it easier to text?" He hated the standard T9 telephone keypad; it took forever to send the simplest message.

"God." The shop assistant issued a heartfelt sigh. "I mean, there's all kinds of chatter about coming up with an alphanumeric keypad - something that slides out from under the cell or is integrated into the screen - but no one's there yet. It's probably going to be a good few years yet."

He reached for the Samsung which Brian had passed on because of the carrier. "This is a step in the right direction," he told Brian. "It's got an actual touchscreen - first one I've seen - and the keypad is easier to use than the push buttons on the other mobiles."

He handed it over to Brian who tried it out, enjoying the ease of tapping on the touchscreen to enter a number.

"You can even browse the web with it," the salesman concluded. "It's slow, but it works."

Despite the blue backlighting on the Samsung and its sleek shape - it made the other phones look clunky in comparison - Brian had still been leaning toward the Siemens and its greater storage space. However, the ability to connect to the Internet from his phone inclined him toward the Samsung. It would be incredibly convenient to access the web from his mobile when he was travelling, or when he was someplace he couldn't connect to the Internet. Like the diner.

"Go ahead and try it," the clerk suggested. "It's connected to the 'Net. Just press that button and then enter the URL."

Brian hesitated for a moment, unable to think what website to enter. Then, a wry tilt to his lips, he typed in ‘http://www.ryder-advertising.com'.

‘Connecting' blinked at him from the screen.

It took longer than it would have from his laptop, but the main page for Ryder's website eventually popped up. It looked weird on the cell phone screen, Brian thought, like it couldn't display correctly. He navigated to another page, which had the same issue.

He held the phone out so the shop assistant could see the wonky display.

"It doesn't display graphics very well," the man acknowledged. "But it's good for email."

Huh. Brian hadn't even thought of that. Being able to email from his phone as an alternative to texting would be helpful. If Internet connectivity via mobile was going to increase however - and other brands were undoubtedly already scurrying to catch up with Samsung - then Kinnetik would have to figure out how to get their website to look good on a mobile. Not that they had a website yet, but someone would need to start working on this stat. 

The shop assistant gave the slimline, silver phone a longing look. "We just had our first shipment a couple days ago, and we've already sold over half of them. It's what I'd get for myself, if the price tag weren't so steep."

A little surprised that he was resisting the impulse to buy one of the Samsungs, Brian cocked an eyebrow at the youngster. His base salary was doubtless peanuts, but he'd earn a commission on sales. Besides that, one of the major perks of working for an outfit like this one would be a significant discount on their products.

A personable, knowledgeable, tech-savvy clerk like this guy must be racking up commissions during the holiday season. He would've pegged Brian as well-off when he walked into the store and could have pushed the Samsung from the get-go, but instead, he'd provided a rundown of all the new mobiles, leaving it to Brian to make a decision.

He might've been leading Brian to favour the Samsung, but it was subtly done. 

The younger man shrugged regretfully. "I'm only here for the holidays, to earn some tuition money. Even with a discount, I can't afford it."

"How much is it?" Brian asked. Not that it really mattered.

The shop assistant sighed. "Five hundred dollars."

Pricey, but worth every penny - as long as it didn't malfunction.

"We've got a couple different payment plans-"

"No payment plan," Brian interrupted, taking his billfold from inside his peacoat. "I'll pay in full."

The clerk looked utterly gobsmacked, but he managed to rein in his envy. His tone professional as he accepted Brian's AmEx, he said, "I'll process this right away, sir."

Twenty minutes later, a ridiculous number of forms signed, Brian was back in the Lincoln town car on his way to Blick Art Materials, his old Nokia left behind to be disposed of as e-waste. After setting up his favourite ringtone, he began entering his speed-dial numbers, reprioritising as he'd been meaning to do on his old mobile but kept forgetting about. The salesman had been able to juice up his old Nokia long enough for him to jot down the numbers, so he could program them in. He'd have to remember to reorganise the numbers on his Panasonic landline too; otherwise, he'd forever be dialling the wrong person.

Good timing, he thought in satisfaction when the chauffeur pulled up in front of the art store right as he finished entering the last number. The driver might be unduly obsessed with snowy weather - Justin would probably know the term for that, if there was one - but he was efficient at getting Brian from place to place.

"I'll probably be a while," he informed the bloke. "If you want to get a cup of joe" - he gestured across the street at the appropriately named Jitters Café - "I can ring you when I'm done."

"I might as well," the chauffeur accepted the suggestion. "Don't take too long though." He cast a weather eye at the lowering sky. "Much more of this and we could be snowed in."

Jesus. He'd never met anyone so pessimistic about the weather. He had a point though. Brian wouldn't want to be stranded in Shadyside; after all, he had a blond boy to collect later on.

The sidewalk in front of Blick's and the other trendy shops along Walnut Street had been cleared, he noted approvingly. In fact, he discerned as he opened the door, ready to get out, someone must have supplemented the efforts of the city snowploughs, shovelling away the snow alongside the curb and making it easier for customers to park.

"You might want to leave the car here," he recommended. At the height of Christmas shopping, parking was bound to be at a premium. 

The driver, who'd just turned off the engine, gave him a look over his shoulder that doubtless meant something like ‘don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs.'

Brian chuckled. The chauffeur did that almost as well as Debbie.

He was about to pull open the door to Blick's - and the driver was jaywalking across the street - when Brian suddenly realised he didn't have either the man's cell phone number or that for the car service. The ‘last dialled' feature wouldn't help since his old phone was gone.

"Wait!" he shouted, causing the chauffeur to slew around in the middle of the street and a passing motorist to honk a warning.

He probably should've just called information, Brian realised as the driver trotted back over to him, looking at him questioningly. But that would be a pain since he'd have to call directory assistance, get the number, call the car service, and then have the dispatcher contact the driver.

"You got a phone number?" Brian asked brusquely, covering up his embarrassment.

The guy nodded in understanding. "New phone, huh?"

Idiot. Brian gave him a ‘duh' look.

The chauffeur pulled out a crumpled card and scribbled something before handing it to Brian. "Here you go. Call the main phone number and then enter those three digits when prompted."

After checking to be sure the numbers were legible, Brian grunted, "Thanks," and crossed the cleared sidewalk to the art supply shop.

"Can I help you?" inquired a blond man as soon as he set foot in the shop. Good-looking, nicely dressed in a peacock-blue turtleneck and navy slacks, almost as tall as he was and around his age, Brian calculated. His gaydar pinging, Brian was pretty sure the blond was interested in providing more than one kind of help.

Unfortunately for the Blick employee, blonds weren't Brian's type - with one major exception.

"I need a folding easel that will accommodate large paintings, a canvas that's around ten by eight feet-" He paused. Knowing Justin, he might not be satisfied with his first effort. "Make that a couple canvases in that size. I also want a palette, paint brushes, and paints in a wide array of colours."

"That's quite large. Are you sure you want canvases in that size?"

Christ. Another moron. Brian bloody well knew the dimensions of the wall where the painting would be hung. "Yes," he responded curtly. "I'll take some smaller canvases too, depending on what you have available." Might as well give Justin an outlet for some of his energy... when Brian wasn't available for the kid to channel it in an even better direction.

"This way, sir. We have every ‘size' imaginable."

Brian rolled his eyes behind the blond's back. The stress on ‘size' was hardly subtle.

As he followed the blond over to the easels, they passed by an arrangement of art desks and Brian stopped. Justin should have something like this at the loft, he thought, his eye caught by a light table.

Realising he'd lost his customer, the salesman also halted and returned to Brian. "See something you like?" He batted his eyes flirtatiously.

"Yes. Something my partner would like. He's an artist." Brian hadn't ever imagined he'd use the ‘partner' excuse - or that it could provide such a sense of satisfaction.

One of the very first things Brian had replaced after the burglary was his computer desk. Initially that had been because he did a fair amount of work from home. Then, after Ryder booted him out, he'd only had his home office, which also doubled as Kinnetik's premises.

Thank fuck Kinnetik's move to the erstwhile bathhouse was imminent. Brian still intended to have a secondary office at the loft however. Now that he had the insurance reimbursement, he'd be purchasing a new desktop computer and a state-of-the-art printer.

If he had that kind of set-up, why shouldn't Justin? Operation Twat Retrieval was almost complete, and providing quality equipment at the loft for an artist should be exactly what was needed to bring the process to a successful conclusion.

Besides, there would be times when it would be way easier, and more convenient for both of them, for Justin to do freelance work from home. It would certainly be easier to fit in a tension-relieving fuck at the loft than at the office, he thought with a smirk.

There was more than enough room to fit in another desk without crowding the designated workspace. That would be a much better solution than both of them trying to use Brian's desk; it would get awfully crowded if they both wanted to work there at the same time. He could banish the twat to the kitchen table, but it wasn't an ideal work surface, and the kitchen chairs weren't designed for office use. Besides, there were better uses for the table-

"That's one of our top models," the Blick salesman interrupted his fantasy before it got started.

"Hmm." Brian sat down on the stool in front of the desk, frowning when he went to scoot forward and discovered the stool was stationary. Who the fuck would want a stool they couldn't roll around on? The padding wasn't very good on the stool either, and even with Justin's natural cushioning, the boy was bound to get a sore arse if he sat for long.

Brian stood up, glancing around for a better option.

The salesman, who'd scurried over to another desk, wheeled over a different stool. It was obviously superior to the one Brian had been sitting on because it was on casters, and the padding looked much thicker.

"We have a new assistant. He must've switched the stools by mistake," the flustered Blick's rep twittered.

He should've just kept his mouth shut, rather than giving a poor impression of a colleague - and of the art supply store. Brian might criticise underlings, but only to their faces - never in front of an outsider.

"If you take a closer look, Jeremy," came another voice, mild but with a hint of bite to it, "I think you'll see that the stool was correctly placed. It was with our top-of-the-line light table."

The blond coloured up and stuttered something incomprehensible.

The newcomer, an older man whose black hair was peppered with grey, motioned with his head toward the store entrance. "Why don't you go help the young couple who just came in? I'll take care of this gentleman."

"But-"

Although Jonah obviously didn't want to lose out on a lucrative commission, Brian was more than ready to be rid of him. 

"Now, please."

The extra bit of tartness in his voice sent Jerry scuttling over to the new customers.

The man he assumed was a manager turned to Brian. "My apologies for the mix-up."

Very professionally done, Brian gauged. The bloke had reined in his employee but didn't stoop to badmouthing Jerome.

The manager outstretched a hand. "I'm Richard... Blick," he introduced himself, adding his surname after the briefest of hesitations.

"Brian Kinney," Brian returned the greeting, raising an eyebrow as he clasped the man's hand.

"I skip the ‘junior,' Richard said with a genial, self-deprecating smile. "And I never shorten my name."

Brian hadn't really thought about it before but ‘Dick Blick' was hardly flattering. It could easily be confused with ‘Dick Blink,' as if a very important part of a man's anatomy was worthy of no more than a blink. Either that, or the guy could be mistaken for a flasher.

An elusive thought nagged at him for a second. Then he remembered researching Blick Art Supplies back when he was an undergrad and reading that the company had been sold by the original founder.

"Didn't the original Dick sell the company?" he asked. 

Richard laughed easily. "That's one way to put it."

He probably should have taken a moment to phrase that better. Thankfully, Dick Junior had a sense of humour. 

His amusement petering out, Blick answered, "You're correct though. My great-grandfather sold Blick's to Robert Metzenberg back in 1948. But since our families are close, there have always been opportunities in the company for new generations of Blicks. Especially if you have an art background or are an artist."

Curious, Brian quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm a weaver," Richard provided the information without further prompting.

That was... different. Brian had expected him to be a sculptor, painter, photographer, or even a jeweller or interior designer. Anything but a weaver.

He obviously hadn't done a good job of hiding his surprise because Richard chuckled, commenting, "I get that a lot. I've got a gorgeous piece of fabric about ready to come off my loom in the back, if you'd like to take a look before you leave."

Thrown off stride, Brian glanced around. He was surrounded by desks and could see the easels and canvases against one wall as well kilns even further back. He didn't see any looms though or - thread? He really didn't have a clue what weavers used.

"We have everything a weaver could want here at Blick's," Richard stated proudly. "Looms of all sizes, shuttles, yarn - you name it. We've got the other crafts covered too: jewellery-making, woodworking, scrapbooking, knitting, macramé, origami." 

If Emmett decided to take up knitting, he'd know where to send him, Brian thought dryly. Or Debbie when she went on her next afghan-making binge, using the most eye-searing colours possible.

Richard finished, "Whatever the medium, we aim to meet the artist's needs." He paused for a moment. "Are you an artist?"

Brian had to laugh. "Only if drawing stick figures counts."

"It might," the weaver noted. "You can make all sorts of helpful diagrams with stick figures."

Brian stared at him blankly.

"You know, for instruction manuals," Richard clarified.

He instantly envisioned stick figures in a booklet beginning with ‘kama' and ending in ‘sutra.' Probably best not to mention that.

Richard gestured at the light table they were standing next to. "A desk like that would help you get all the angles straight."

A quick glance at Blick failed to reveal whether the double entendre was purposeful. Damn, the guy had a good poker face. Left clueless as to whether he was gay, straight or somewhere in-between - a rarity since his gaydar was normally faultless - Brian gave a mental shrug.

"It's not for me," he said. "It's for my partner."

"It would make an ideal Christmas gift for an artist. Or an architect, animator, cartoonist or calligrapher," Richard covered more possibilities.

Recalling Justin's fascination with animation, Brian thought the blond could well find more than one use for the light table cum desk. Justin also had very neat handwriting, which might lend itself well to calligraphy.

Space-wise there wouldn't be any problem; the light table would fit in next to his computer desk - or it could go across from his. He wouldn't object to seeing the blond when he looked up from his computer, the boy's brow furrowed, his tongue sticking out as he concentrated on something. Yeah, across from him sounded good.

"It would also make a good gift for other occasions, of course," Richard offered. "A birthday or anniver-"

Brian flinched. He wasn't ready for the A-word and wouldn't be anytime soon. Justin's birthday though... Maybe he should wait till then so he didn't overwhelm the boy at Christmas? He didn't want it to look like he was trying to buy Justin's affections.

They'd want to break in the light table though, and they couldn't do that until the new piece of furniture was in the loft, so sooner would be- Brian's thoughts skittered to a halt when he realised he had no idea when Justin's birthday was. He couldn't be eighteen yet, right? The kid would surely have said something.

He was getting a little frantic when he remembered the situation with the POAs and relaxed; Justin wouldn't need a work-around if he was of legal age. Reminded that he wanted his own POAs redone, Brian made a mental note to ask Melanie to draw up new ones, but not till after he'd talked to David.

In the meantime, all he'd need to do to learn Justin's birthday was check his employment contract-

The contract that Cynthia was carrying around in her briefcase because he still didn't have a secure place to lock things up. Brian sighed. Fuck. He'd either have to ask his secretary to read off the date of Justin's birthday, come up with a plausible reason why he needed the entire file of employee contracts, or sneak it out of Cyn's briefcase when she wasn't looking. He immediately nixed the last option; he didn't want to deal with an irate blonde if she caught him sticking a hand into her briefcase. Broken metacarpals - or was it metatarsals? - because she slammed the case closed on his hand was a more than sufficient deterrent.

Richard rescued him from musings about broken finger bones. "There are two other light tables I'd recommend for the serious artist," he commented. "They're more expensive than this one, but the additional features are worth it."

Why Jimmy hadn't shown him their best to start with, Brian didn't know. The bloke really was an idiot - a bigger sale meant a bigger commission.

"Show me your best combination of light table and drafting table," he requested.

"Computer-assisted design is becoming more and more popular," Richard noted as he wended his way between desks. "Our finest drafting table includes a space for a computer, right next to the adjustable surface."

He stopped in front of a desk which had the drafting board titled up at an angle, a monitor next to it and a CPU on the floor beneath the monitor. The keyboard was on a shelf that could be pulled out from beneath the light table.

"The drawers are a separate unit," Richard informed him, pointing at a set of five drawers to the right of the table. "Not everyone wants them, but supplies have to go somewhere. This can be moved around to where the artist needs it." He placed a hand on the drawer unit and moved it around to the other side of the desk.

It was an artist's wet dream. Once his blond laid eyes on it, Brian might never again be able to tear him away. He'd just have to see what kind of art Justin produced when he was being rogered from behind...

"We can offer you a discount on this demo model if you want it for Christmas." Blick shrugged in apology. "I'm afraid we sold the only other one in our warehouse, but we do have more on order."

Brian was fine with waiting. He'd never give a used item as a gift, and unless the little twat's birthday was coming up before the end of the year - unlikely since the POAs wouldn't be so urgent in that case - he shouldn't need the desk for a bit.

Nearly forty minutes had passed by when Brian finally exited the art store, smiling in satisfaction. Justin's main Christmas - and birthday - presents were sorted, although he still intended to pick up a few other things for the kid. Like a pair of gloves that actually matched the hue of his new Vince Camuto peacoat.

The collapsible easel, canvases, paints, brushes and palettes that Blick's would deliver weren't much of a gift - not when Justin would be recreating the rinsed-away drawing at Brian's request. The plein-air tripod and pochade box combo would be the main gift. Along with a full set of accessories of course.

A couple months ago, he'd overheard Justin lamenting to Daphne about the plein-air easel he'd had to leave behind. At that point, focused on getting the boy out of the loft, he hadn't paid much attention. But then he'd seen Blick's line of plein-air products while Richard was showing him the other easels, had thought of how Jennifer fucking Taylor didn't drop off one of the kid's most prized possessions, and had known just what to get Justin for Christmas.

Blick's would deliver everything, for no fee. That was a normal service for larger purchases. What was unusual was the arrangement to order the items for Justin's birthday and store them until Brian was ready to have them delivered. Brian's willingness to pay upfront had undoubtedly made a difference, as had the size of the order. 

Opening the back door of the Lincoln town car, he slipped inside.

"Your latte, sir." The driver twisted around and passed his coffee through the opening between the front seats.

Thank God, thought Brian. He was in desperate need of a caffeine infusion. Fortunately, when he'd called the chauffeur to say he was done at Blick's, he'd had the forethought to order a latte. As he raised the cup to his lips, Brian realised he'd forgotten to specify non-fat, but that that was okay. He'd work off the extra calories running around shopping.

He took a swallow and almost spit it back out. The latte was horribly bitter; you'd think he'd ordered an Americano. Shit. Too used to having Cynthia get his coffee, his forethought hadn't extended to asking for extra sugar, even though coffee houses, in his experience, shorted their customers on the necessary amount of sweetener.

"You like it sweet?" the driver asked. Not waiting for Brian to answer, he said, "Me too," and passed several sugar packets and a stirrer back to him.

Normally, Brian would snap at anyone who made such a ridiculous assertion. He didn't like his joe ‘sweet,' but getting extra packets of the sugar - needed to make the latte palatable - had been a considerate thing to do.

"Thanks," he acknowledged the favour the driver had done him. Maybe the man wasn't so bad after all.

"Sugar helps keep the energy up, which is especially important in this cold weather." 

Brian forebore from telling the bloke that the paltry amount in his coffee wasn't going to make a difference.

The chauffeur looked out the windshield. "Which is only going to get worse," he reported pessimistically.

Jesus, Brian thought, his goodwill evaporating. "Kaufmann's," he grunted.

"Right," the driver responded. "I'll get you there as fast as I can, but the way the weather's shaping up, we'll be in the middle of an ice storm before we get there."

The sky had a leaden look and the snow was coming down more thickly, but ice? Surely not. Brian leaned back in his seat, took a long draught of his lightly sweetened latte and mulled over which departments he needed to hit in Kaufmann's.

Brian watched the car slide through the thickening traffic, the chauffeur neatly avoiding a collision with a middle-aged woman who turned her steering wheel in the wrong direction when her tires skidded on the slick pavement.

Despite the chauffeur's dire prognostications, they reached the main entrance to Kaufmann's in a reasonable amount of time, unhindered by sleet or anything else icy. Brian smirked at the driver, and feeling generous, suggested, "You may want to get another coffee. I'll be here for a while."

"I might do a bit of shopping myself," the man declared, "after I park Christine."

Brian, who'd just stepped out of the Lincoln, turned a narrow-eyed gaze on the car. Reassured that the town car looked nothing like the Plymouth Fury in the film adaptation of Stephen King's novel, he relaxed.

"I'll call you," he said, shutting the car door and striding toward the department store. Right before he reached the overhang that extended out above the entry, Brian felt something small hit him on the head. Stepping under the overhang, he turned around and stared at the tiny pieces of hail that were beginning to pelt down.

Jesus, the chauffeur was going to be unbearably smug, Brian thought as he pushed open one of the swinging doors and entered the store. It was probably futile to hope that the hailstorm would be of short duration, and that the driver would have forgotten about it when Brian was done shopping.

Avoiding the bank of elevators - they were bound to be crowded - he headed straight for the escalators, passing beneath large silver and gold stars that hung from the ceiling. There weren't many people on the leftmost escalator, so he took that one, climbing past the two people who were on the right before connecting to the escalator on the next floor.

He ignored the tinny Christmas music that played over the loudspeakers, interrupted periodically by announcements about various specials. When he reached the third floor, Brian swung to the left for the next leg of the escalator ride but then paused, his attention caught by an array of socks that appeared to be in toddler sizes.

"Do you mind?" wheezed someone behind him.

Brian turned to see an overweight guy with a receding hairline, a Kaufmann's badge on his jacket, sweating profusely.

"One of the lifts is out of order," the man puffed, "and I've gotta get up to the ninth floor to find out what the holdup with Santa is. The kiddies are getting antsy."

Moving nimbly out of the way, Brian watched as the man set one hand on the rail and huffed and puffed his way up the steps, only a little faster than if he'd just stood still. Christ, he'd never let himself get out of shape like that.

Might as well browse the socks that had caught his attention and give the tub of lard time to get out of the way. Gus needed some Christmas presents too after all. The socks that had caught his attention were in solid pastel colours, except for the brightly coloured animal heads - bear, fox, rabbit, squirrel - on each side near the top of the sock. They weren't bad but upon closer inspection, he didn't care for the little pom-poms sewn above the animal heads.

Walking further into the children's department, Brian stopped at the next arrangement of socks. He found them to be quite boring - solids, stripes, stars. Even the ones with cars weren't much better.

Walking about the stand, Brian discovered a display that caught his eye. The socks in it were whimsical and fun and definitely way more cool than the ones the girls had bought for his son.

Whoever had set these up knew what they were doing. There was a toddler-size mannequin sitting in the middle of the display, a colourful knit cap on its head, dressed only in a pastel blue onesie - and a pair of ribbed brown socks that had an appliquéd felt elephant near the toe. The pachyderms were stuffed and stuck out so that chubby little hands would be tempted to grab for them.

One of the mannequin's hands was indeed outstretched toward the ivory elephant, while the other hand reached for the grey and white striped cat's face that was attached to a pair of winter white socks next to the baby.

Other designs included a panda on a light grey sock, a hedgehog on an ecru sock and a brown bear on an ivory sock. The neutral colour scheme of the whole display was appealing and satisfying to Brian's advertising senses.

The pair of socks on the mannequin came up to the baby's knees, but if desired, they could easily be folded down. Brian fingered the material, pleased by its softness, and then looked at the label on one of the pairs. Ninety-five percent cotton - excellent for comfort and breathability; machine washable - essential, and not his problem if the girls had to take extra care when laundering them; and made in the USA - a nice surprise. He didn't mind the price tag, which was actually indicative of a quality item in this instance.

Neither of the girls would object to these, he thought. The socks were tasteful and would keep the tyke's feet toasty warm. They'd also engage Gus' curiosity, and when the nipper reached for the appliquéd animals, the munchers could use the opportunity to teach him the names of the animals on the socks.

Best of all, they'd drive the lezzies nuts - collecting stray dust bunnies and making it look as if they didn't do a good job keeping the carpet clean. Granted, that might be true of any socks - or bare feet, for that matter - but the appliquéd animals provided more nooks and crannies where dust and grime could get stuck. 

Brian absently hummed along to All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth when he got back on the escalator. He'd talked the salesgirl into taking his purchase over to customer service to gift wrap and bumping him to the front of the queue. It was a hefty purchase - he'd got two full sets of the pricey socks - but he reckoned it was his good looks and charm that had won the girl over.

By the time he reached the eighth floor, Brian was short of breath, no longer smiling and feeling a surge of sympathy for the overweight Kaufmann's employee who'd taken this route before him. At least he could be certain that he'd worked off the latte. Maybe he'd stop at the Arcade Bakery on his way out of the store for another one.

Hoofing it through the oriental rugs, he got on the old, clackety, wooden escalator to his destination. The wooden escalators on the top floors, one of Kaufmann's best-known features, were a big draw - and a magnet for the kids who wanted to see Santa. Kaufmann's powers that be had, naturally enough, taken advantage of that and located the toy department - and Santa - on the ninth floor.

The ancient escalator was so crowded - the horde of children and their frazzled-looking parents must've taken the lift up to the ninth floor or he would've run into them sooner - that Brian's upward progress was blocked. The good thing was that it gave him time to catch his breath as the stairs clacked their way up to the next floor.

The Christmas music got progressively louder as they inched upward, and when they were almost at the top, Brian was horrified to see that the long line of people waiting to see Santa reached almost as far as the escalator.

Wanting to get as far away as possible from the cranky adults and kids, Brian tried to sidle around a mother with three unruly boys. His attempt failed when a tot - a tiny Asian girl in a light lavender jacket and a dark lilac beanie - appeared out of nowhere and ran directly into him, her head ramming him uncomfortably close to his crotch.

The little girl shook herself off quickly, muttered something in a foreign language that sounded like a sneeze and ran off in another direction.

"How rude!" exclaimed the mother of the three boys, right as one of her brats kicked him in the shin.

Unlike the tiny girl, the hooligan didn't apologise.

Brian took a deep breath and determined not to let himself be bothered. Unable to bear being so near the Santa chaos, he hurried off to the opposite end of the toy department in the hope that he'd find something worthwhile. He walked past arrangements of stuffed animals - mostly teddy bears, the perennial favourite - but dismissed them without a second thought.

Gus would probably be drowning in stuffed toys by the time Christmas was over, besides which Brian didn't want to get him the same thing as everyone else. If he did get his kid a bear, it would be a leather bear - way more unique than the dopey, obnoxiously optimistic Winnie-the-Pooh, the anorexic, overpriced Steiff or the garish, cutesy Care bear.

Just past the stuffed animals, Brian came upon a slew of rocking horses. An antique-style horse caught his eye, the pattern of the wood, the horsehair mane and leather tack all combining to make it look like a real palomino. Unfortunately, it would be a year or more before Gus would be big enough to clamber onto a rocking horse of that size.

Brian absently ran a hand through the horse's white-blond mane, which, although soft, was not as soft as Justin's hair. His gaze drifting to some of the other rocking horses, he considered getting Gus a smaller one now and upgrading to the palomino later.

Gus was still a little young though, even for a smaller horse, Brian conceded. The nipper would turn one year old in just a few months, so he'd save it for his first birthday instead.

Leaving the rocking horses behind a little reluctantly, Brian continued browsing. An activity centre would be practical, he thought, tracing his fingers across the colourful dials and buttons of a Fisher-Price toy. It lacked pizzazz however and wasn't what he wanted for Gus' first Christmas. Besides, If someone else didn't get one for the tyke, he could always pick one up later.

A loud screech had Brian warily glancing around, worried that he'd accidentally strayed near the store Santa and his enthusiasts. Once he'd ascertained that it was just an overly exuberant or overtired, peevish child, he returned to searching for the right Christmas gift for his own.

Not paying attention to where he was placing his feet as he turned a corner, Brian almost stumbled over something. Glancing down, he discovered it was a rolled up carpet for a child's room. Other carpets, fully or partially unrolled, were displayed across a wide swathe of flooring.

This just might be what he was looking for, he thought, studying the design of the play mat, which depicted a small town centre, with greens and browns for trees, lawns and parks; reds and oranges for buildings and playgrounds; blues for windows and water; various shades of grey for streets, parking and paths, with dashed white lines dividing the streets into lanes.

Gus would have a blast driving toy cars, trucks and buses down the streets, stopping at stop signs, parking outside the ice cream shop... Brian looked around for a cash register, his decision made, but then he stopped, realising it might be too large for Gus' room, or whatever area the munchers had designated as the playroom. He sighed, coming to the conclusion that the carpet would also have to wait till Gus' first birthday, so he could measure the space and get the right size.

Even though he was getting a little discouraged - it shouldn't be this difficult to find the right present - Brian persevered. He trudged down two rows chock full of board games and puzzles before correcting course and returning to the items for younger children.

There! he thought, his eyes lighting up. He would have loved a wooden train set like that when he was little.

The assembled set covered several square feet of flooring, the train tracks looping around the outside of a town and forming a figure eight on the inside. There were all sorts of buildings and people, including, of course, a train station and signalman.

Best of all, it was perfect for a child Gus' age - not too complex but with plenty to explore - and would provide entertainment for months to come. As Brian could tell from other train sets on display near this one, the tracks could be expanded and made more elaborate as Gus grew older.

Brian slid the train along the tracks and checked the other vehicles to be sure they moved smoothly and easily, and as he did so, he pictured himself down on the floor, playing with the train set with both his boys.

Satisfied that he'd found just the right present, Brian checked the boxes on the shelves, and once he was certain that he'd located the one that matched the display set, he hefted the container in his arms and headed in search of a cashier.

Only to come to an abrupt stop within sight of the till. Now that was a fun plate, he thought, looking at the bright orange object exhibited on an end cap. Way better than the Piglet plate Justin had used for Gus' breakfast yesterday morning. Piglet reminded him too much of the damned sow Honeycutt was always nattering on about.

The bright yellow of the cutlery and the orange of the plate might be a little garish, but kids responded well to primary colours and other bright hues, he recalled Justin saying.

He grinned as he took a step closer and noted the black ‘constructive eating' lettering as well as the little pictograms of various construction vehicles, also in black, embossed around the rim. The plate was bound to capture his son's attention, and the bulldozer pusher, forklift and front-loader spoon would keep him focused on what he was eating. Gus wasn't a fussy eater, but this dish set should make getting the tyke to try new foods easier than it otherwise might be.

Picking up a box from the shelf beneath the displayed plate, Brian flipped it over and read the story behind the item. A hetero couple had apparently designed the plate and utensils for their son Mikey, who ‘loved construction so much that he used Cheerios for rubble instead of eating them.' Once he had the plate however, ‘Mikey eagerly ate whatever we gave him, using the tools to build his meal.'

An American success story - and a clever variation on ‘Mikey will eat anything' - Brian mused, chuckling. Maybe it would have the side effect of teaching Michael how to construct things? In their youth, Mikey had been totally inept at assembling toys and was now equally inept with the cheap furnishings he got from the Big Q. He relied on Brian, who wasn't much better at it, or whomever was available to lend a hand. Honeycutt, thankfully, knew what the fuck he was doing and had come to the rescue on more than one occasion.

Mikey's gift was already sorted - it went with the present he had planned for Vic and Deb - but it wouldn't hurt to get him one of these as a gag gift.

Brian smirked. The girls had been talking about a possible remodel of their attic - and doing it all themselves - so he might as well get three of the plate and cutlery sets for them. Plus three for the loft; Gus would feel like one of the grown-ups if they all ate from the same plate. 

Stacking up seven of the flat boxes, he schlepped them over to the checkout counter along with the wooden train set. It was a good thing he didn't have to go very far, or he would've had to make two trips. Now he got the reason for the red wagons that had been placed to one side of the escalators; they were meant for dragging around all the stuff you couldn't help buying.

Fortunately, the sales clerks were efficient, quickly ringing up everything, taking it off his hands and promising to send it to gift wrap. A little to his disappointment, he discovered that it was his platinum membership in Kaufmann's rewards program that earned priority processing for his purchases and not his charming persona. No wonder the salesgirl in infant wear had been so accommodating.

His wallet considerably lighter, Brian hurried toward the escalators, determined to beat the horde of parents and kids who were headed in the same direction, presumably having finished badgering the fat guy in the red suit about what they wanted for Christmas. Catching sight of what might be that slip of an Asian girl who'd assaulted him, he moved even faster, hitting the escalator almost at a run. He wasn't up to a repeat of their previous encounter, worried that his gonads might not come out of it uninjured this time.

Letting the escalator bring him down to the eighth floor, he rushed to the next one. Once he'd fled several floors down, he risked a glance behind him. No sign of the little girl, of course. She couldn't possibly keep up with him.

But then, from behind the lawn mowers that were, for some inexplicable reason, mixed in with housewares and the bridal registry, he caught a glimpse of dark black hair and an elfin face.

No fucking way, thought Brian, nevertheless hastening down a couple more escalators just in case. Soon enough, he reached the safe haven of the first floor - the men's designer clothing section. Sucking in air, Brian felt himself relax as he stared blankly at the racks of designer ties in front of him. He was safe; this was his personal Mecca.

Once he recovered, his eyes focused on one of the ties displayed in front of him - a mix of blue, brown and ecru paisley swirls on an orange background. It would look stunning on Emmett. He'd never given the southerner a Christmas present before but was seriously tempted now; it would certainly have Honeycutt gobbling for something to say. After a brief hesitation, he reached for it and took it off the rack. 

Paisley wouldn't do for Theodore however, so Brian moved to peruse a couple more of the tie carousels. He was a little annoyed about Ted's behaviour last night, but it didn't affect his desire to get his friend something special that he knew the accountant would never splash out for himself.

If he could find the right colour combination, a striped tie would be ideal. He dismissed the bright blues, greens and other bold colours; those weren't Ted. Brian might not be an artist, but he had an excellent eye for colour and knew what would suit the older man best. He wanted something classic and understated. Then his fingers closed around a tie in muted shades - thin lines of white, pale blue and brown grouped together between broad stripes of soft tan.

The colours reminded him of the hues in the fabric on Richard's loom. The Blick scion was right; the piece was gorgeous. Richard had been surprised by Brian's astuteness when it came to colours and fabrics - until Brian admitted that he worked in advertising. Then Richard had wanted one of his cards which left Brian in a bit of pickle. He'd felt like a dolt since the new cards weren't yet printed; heck, he was still waiting for a logo.

Thankfully, Richard had been understanding when he explained the situation and gave Brian one of his cards instead. Brian had promised to send invitations to his new agency's opening gala for him and anyone he might care to bring along. The man had dropped hints that Blick's might be in the market for a new advertising campaign and Brian, hoping that Metzenberg himself might show up, wanted to be ready to shmooze him.

Coming out of his client-induced reverie, Brian lifted the Davidoff tie off the carousel with a satisfied nod to himself. He was finally all done with his Christmas shopping. Like Vic and Deb, the girls were sorted, and now he had presents for everyone else. Thank fuck. Who knew shopping could be so tiring?

He deserved a reward for all his effort, Brian decided, eyeing a white Versace necktie with a black pattern. He grabbed it without much hesitation and even considered swapping it out right away for the blue tie he was wearing but in the end decided it would make his outfit too monochromatic.

Brian handed the ties off to an eager, bright-eyed salesman, who was obviously chuffed at the size of his purchase. All he needed now was gloves for Justin that actually matched the boy's peacoat; really, you'd think it would drive an artist nuts to have the hues be off like that. The gloves, like the peacoat, weren't a Christmas present - just something his boy needed. With an experienced eye like Brian's, it wouldn't take long to match the colours properly.

Then, finally, he could quaff a much-needed, well-deserved cup of coffee while gift wrap processed his latest purchases. He'd collect everything from the pick-up station on the ground floor after he called the chauffeur cum weatherman.

The bell above the door to the diner jingled so violently that it sounded like it was having a seizure.

Debbie, who'd stopped by their table to see if either Justin or Molly wanted more hot chocolate, asked, "What the-"

She and Justin looked up to see Jennifer bursting into the diner, her hair windblown and her coat buttoned wrong.

"Excuse you," objected a twink who had been perusing notices on the board next to the door and was whacked on the ass as the blonde threw the door open violently.

Jennifer ignored him as she scanned the diner.

The door swung shut forcefully, the bell letting out more unmusical notes of protest.

Running over to their table, Jennifer began patting her daughter down worriedly. "Are you hurt, honey?" she asked the girl, sounding frantic. "Are you okay?"

Molly stared at her mum silently, looking caught off guard, while Justin snorted and rolled his eyes.

Noticing his reaction, Jennifer snapped at him, "How dare you! This isn't funny, Justin!"

Justin refused to apologise. Had Molly not been okay, he would've told his mother on the phone, and they wouldn't just be casually sitting at a table, drinking hot chocolate.

"And you, young lady." Assured Molly was fine, Jennifer turned her ire on her daughter and began berating the girl. "I told you I would take you to see Justin. Why would you leave like that?"

The spunky eight-year-old retorted, "Well, you kept putting it off!"

Jennifer backed off a little, seeming contrite. "I'm sorry, honey, you're right. I've been very busy these past few weeks; you know what this time of the year is like."

Although his sister didn't look completely mollified, she accepted the olive branch. "Jester's been showing me some of his sketches," she said at a lower volume. "They're really good."

Jennifer tensed up, her eyes narrowing, but then, her glance lighting on the open sketchbook, she relaxed. She even essayed a smile as she looked at the unfinished drawing of Molly sitting at the diner table, sipping her hot chocolate. "I'm glad you two had time to talk," she said.

Plainly taking that as encouragement, Molly burbled, "Everyone's been really nice, Mum. I really like where Justin lives."

Justin blinked. Did his sister think he lived at the diner?

Drawing her misbuttoned coat tighter about her, Jennifer flicked a dubious look around the diner. "You have to be careful, Molly," she said, her tone again lecturing. "You don't know who you can trust around here."

Debbie made a disapproving noise but didn't say anything. That surprised Justin, but he reckoned the redhead was waiting to see how things played out.

Her gaze focused somewhere behind Justin, Jennifer's lips pursed and her nose tilted up. 

Recognising his mother's judgy expression, the blond lad sighed and braced himself.

"My innocent daughter should never have ended up here. On... ‘queer street,'" she stammered, her nose turned up in disgust. "Being exposed to so many disreputable people at such a tender, impressionable age."

"Sweet Jesus," muttered Debbie under her breath.

Justin's momentary hope that Molly's visit might serve as a catalyst for his mother to reconcile with him died.

Jen went on, glaring at her son, "This would never have happened, Justin, if you'd come ho-"

"But everyone's been really nice and helpful, Mum," Molly interrupted the tirade. "Like the bus driver or the really nice lady who walked me all the way from the bus stop to the diner."

"Molly, what have I told you about ‘stranger danger,'" Jennifer scolded the girl.

"She wasn't a stranger," Molly countered. "The bus driver recognised her - said she was a nice lady who rode his bus all the time."

Jennifer frowned and upbraided her daughter, "Molly Anne Taylor, the bus driver was a stranger too!"

"No, he wasn't!" Justin's sister hit back. "At school, they told us we can trust all ‘public servants.'" She stumbled a little over what must be a new term but went on gamely, "That's teachers, police, doctors, librarians, mailmen and bus drivers. Any of them will help you if you just ask."

Debbie chortled at Jennifer, whose mouth hung open.

His mother, Justin thought, had probably never talked to a bus driver. Before he was kicked out, Justin had never taken the bus to St James. Craig and Jennifer had always insisted that people of their status did not ride the bus, and Jennifer had always ferried him around when Daph couldn't give him a lift.

Since she could hardly argue with what Molly had learned at school, Jennifer tried a different tack. "Well, who was this lady? What did she look like?"

"Uh, slender - she had a tiny waist - and she was taller than Jester."

Of course. Justin sighed. He was beginning to think there was hardly anyone who wasn't taller than he was.

Molly continued, "She was wearing a bright pink scarf and had a large black and white winter coat."

"Did she-" Jennifer broke off for a second before resuming, "-smell in any particular way?"

Justin wasn't sure what that was about. Was she worried that the woman who had helped Molly was homeless? Or an alcoholic? Or even a slapper?

Molly seemed as confused as Justin felt, both of them looking at their mother uncertainly.

Jennifer waved her hand, as if dismissing the question. "Does your brother know her?" she asked instead.

Geesh. You'd think Molly's ‘brother' wasn't sitting right in front of Jennifer.

Molly shook her head. "Once I saw Jester - he was sitting right here - the lady said she had to get to an appointment with the manicurist. Her nails were really pretty - a bright pink that matched her scarf - but she said they needed touching up."

Jennifer nodded in understanding. "It's important to get your nails redone if they get chipped." Peering down at her nails - polished the usual pale pink - she added, "I should get mine done too." With a shake of her head, she got back on topic. "What else was she wearing besides a pink scarf?"

The slight emphasis on ‘else' made it sound like Jennifer expected her to be running around buck naked.

"Um." Molly scrunched up her nose in thought.

Debbie elbowed him. "She looks just like you when she does that, Sunshine."

Justin smiled fondly.

"She was wearing this really pretty black and white dress. I couldn't see all of it 'cause of her coat, but the top part was solid black and the skirt was black and white checks. The colours were different but it made me think of the pale pink dress you keep in the garment bag in the back of your closet. The one I'm not supposed to touch."

Justin struggled to keep a straight face. He was pretty sure Molly had done more than just touch the dress.

"Oh." Jennifer let out a soft sigh. "My retro 1950's dress. That cost a pretty penny. But it was worth every cent. Your father proposed to me when I wore it. What else did the lady have on?" she inquired, showing far more interest than heretofore.

"She had a white belt with a big, square buckle."

Jennifer nodded again.

"And the coat had some kind of animal print, I think. Though it was black and white and grey..."

The woman must've made quite an impression on Molly, to have her remembering the outfit in such detail. His little sister wasn't normally this fashion-conscious. Their mother though-

As if on cue, Jennifer breathed, "An animal print?"

"I think so." Molly nodded. "She was wearing these incredible black shoes too. Like the lady over there has on." She motioned with her chin at the closest booth, where two drag queens were sitting.

Jennifer's gaze went straight to the floor and the shiny black shoes one of the women had on. "Platforms with high heels." She sighed again. "I never mastered walking in those."

It dawned on Justin as he looked at the shoes that the lady who'd helped Molly was most likely a drag queen. Who else would be walking around in spike heels in the middle of winter - and not fall on their arse? He wasn't about to say anything to their mother though; she wouldn't take it well. He just hoped she wouldn't figure it out too.

"But the best part was her hair! It was so cool!"

"What did it look like?" Jennifer tucked an errant strand of blonde hair behind one ear, reminding Justin of someone. It took a second before he realised that Lindsay flicked her hair with the same exact motion.

"Um, maybe it's naturally black," Molly noted a little uncertainly. "I think she's Asian."

"Oh, they have the most gorgeous raven-black hair," Jennifer commented wistfully.

"The hairdo made the lady look even taller. It was, like, brushed back over her head, and there was this really neat white streak."

"I wish I could have something like that." Jennifer fingered a lock of her blonde hair. "But Craig would have a fit."

Justin doubted his mother would try something that daring anyway. It would make her stand out too much from her country club friends. A different shade of blonde - where you couldn't even see a difference - would be more Jennifer's style.

"Oh, that one," a voice dripping with envy carried from the neighbouring booth.

They all looked over to see the queen in the black platforms, her scarlet lips pursed in a pout that matched her close-fitting red leather skirt.

"She got lucky with that hair of hers," muttered the other drag queen, fluffing her purple curls and looking just as jealous as her companion.

The two drag queens must've been earwigging their conversation, Justin realised. They also obviously recognised the person who'd escorted Molly to the diner.

Jen's brow furrowed and Justin suspected she was on the verge of figuring out who the ‘lady' was.

"And her makeup!" Molly enthused. "I mean, you always look nice, Mum, but hers was, like, perfect."

Their mother didn't look very happy with the less than flattering comparison.

"She had the longest eyelashes I've ever seen; her eyebrows were shaped so nicely; and her lipstick matched her scarf and nails. She had really white teeth too," Molly added after a moment's consideration.

"Got lucky with that face too," grumbled Platform Shoes. "Didn't need any cosmetic surgery - not even a little liposuction."

Jennifer stared at the drag queens for several long beats before turning to her daughter. "Darling," she informed Molly, swallowing hard, "I think that was actually a man you met, not a lady."

"Uh, yeah, I know," Molly said, looking like she wanted to roll her eyes. "But she was a girl when I met her."

"Um, I know, honey," Jennifer tried again, her temper visibly starting to fray and her distaste showing, "but he-"

Fed up, Justin interjected, "It's disrespectful to call a drag queen ‘he.'"

Purple Hair piped up, "Oh, we don't really care all that much, honey."

With a sidelong glance at Jennifer, Black Platforms threw in, "Unless you're doing it on purpose, out of disrespect."

Purple Hair sneered, "As if you'd know, you tired-ass showgirl. You look like a woman in and out of drag!"

The woman with the platform shoes kicked her friend in the ankle. "You're just jealous I don't have to pad!"

Looking the other queen up and down judgmentally, Purple Hair sniped back, "Pad? No. Cinch? Definitely."

He'd worked in the diner long enough to have witnessed a couple of spats between drag queens, but Justin was still shocked at the way they turned on each other. And amused, although he did his best not to let it show. They were vicious; he didn't want them turning on him.

Black Platforms screeched, "Shut up! So what if I'm a curvy girl?"

"Curvy, my ass!" Purple Hair slandered her supposed friend. "You're all just one big curve!"

More insults flew, so thick and furious that Justin lost track of who was saying what. "You bi-" one of them shrieked.

"Girls!" Debbie snapped in her best no-nonsense, ‘take no prisoners' voice.

The drag queens' heads swivelled toward her.

"There's children present," Deb reminded them.

Both women looked abashed and immediately adopted a motherly attitude. "Sorry, sweetie," said one.

"Didn't mean to set a bad example," agreed the other. "We're best friends. Really."

A wry twist to her lips, Purple Hair chimed in, "Even if you can't always tell."

Molly giggled but Jennifer looked like she'd eaten a lemon.

"I think we should leave," Jennifer said, clasping Molly's hand and urging her to stand up.

Molly didn't budge. "Muuum," she whined.

"A gay diner isn't the best place for children," Jen noted sternly. "These people aren't a good influence." 

Debbie harrumphed, and Justin thought how lots of children ate with their families at the diner, never mind that not all the adults who came in here were gay. Sure, everyone here probably had some connection to the gay community - be it through a friend or family member - but it wasn't like there was some kind of requirement that you had to be queer to eat at the diner. Given her attitude, he guessed none of those people would be acceptable to his mother.

"But, Mum," the eight-year-old complained, looking both bewildered and unhappy. "I, like, just got here and I'm having fun. I've really missed Justin, Mum."

"We need to go," Jennifer insisted, tugging on her daughter's hand.

"Jen, why don't you sit down a spell," Debbie suggested, her voice a little stiff. "I can get you a cup of hot chocolate too. You can visit with Justin; I'm sure you've missed him."

Justin could tell Deb felt more than a little insulted; after all, she brought Michael up in this environment. Nevertheless, she was making an effort to be polite - which was more than Jennifer was doing - even if it was mostly for his and Molly's sake.

"Please, Mum," Molly begged, her eyes imploring their mother to stay.

For a moment, it appeared that Jennifer might give in. She started to sink down into the chair between Molly and Justin, but then, giving the chair a dubious glance, she straightened back up

Did she think the chair had gay cooties? Justin wondered.

Debbie chuckled. "Did someone get food, or hot chocolate, on there?" She whipped the dish towel off her shoulder and bustled around from the other side of the table, ready to wipe up a spill - only to be confronted with a perfectly clean chair. 

Her face fell, and she pressed her lips together before directing a glare at Jen, obviously biting back a pithy remark.

Disgusted by Jennifer's attitude - and the slights against Debbie - Justin spoke without thinking. "Don't bother, Mum. She's not gonna listen while she's on her high horse." She never did, the teenager mused wearily. He used to think it was only Craig who was like that, not-

His thoughts scattered when two heads, one red and one blonde, swivelled toward him. What? he wondered, puzzled by the way they were staring at him.

"Don't worry, honey," Jen said in a patronising tone. "I know what Debbie's like..."

Huh? Justin rewound what he'd said and cringed. He hadn't meant to let that slip in front of his mother.

Her eyes narrowing at the blonde, Deb rebutted stridently, "Justin was speaking to me, missy. About you."

Jennifer's mouth hung open for a moment, before she shot back, "You've got a lot of nerve." Without looking at him, Jen jabbed a pink-tinted nail at Justin. "He's my son!" she shrieked, her normally dignified manner deserting her. Then, a blush that was brighter than the pink of her nails rising to her face, she tried to rein herself in. However, despite her efforts to relax her facial muscles and appear calm and unruffled, the pinched, angry look stayed put.

Justin opened his mouth, a sarcastic retort forming, but catching sight of Molly's rounded grey-blue eyes and the anxious expression on her face, he bit it back. 

Debbie snapped, "For fuck's sake, Jen. Act like it then!"

Outstretching a hand and clasping Molly's smaller one in his, Justin whispered, "It's okay, Mollusk."

It wasn't, not by a long shot, but he didn't want his little sister freaking out about the adults yelling at each other.

Deb glanced down at him and then Molly, evidently taking in how pale the eight-year-old was. Taking a step back from Jennifer, she made a visible effort to speak more calmly. "Look, Jen. Whyn't you and Sunshine-"

"Sunshine?" Jennifer inquired sharply. "That's not my son's name."

Justin was getting more and more ticked off. He was certain Debbie had used that nickname around Jen before, but his mother was choosing to play dumb. Like she was the only one allowed to come up with a nickname for him. It wasn't like Sunshine was some kind of awful moniker, so she could hardly object to it on those grounds.

Before he could tell his mother off, Molly piped up, "It's Debbie's name for Justin, Mum. Like Jester's my name for him." She beamed up at the waitress. "She said I'm Sunshine Junior - that we have the same smile."

"Hmm," Jennifer hmmed, stymied and obviously not happy about it.

Justin smiled to himself. As far as their mother knew, Molly had spontaneously come up with ‘Jester' shortly after she turned five, running around the living room and screaming, "I'm gonna get you, Jester," so she could hardly argue that she - and presumably Craig - were the only ones allowed to bestow names on their children. Justin was certainly never going to reveal that he'd coached Molly in calling him Jester, all so she'd have a nickname for him when he teased her with Mollusk.

The teenager sighed, thinking how he'd already been hesitant about trying to establish a better relationship with Jennifer because he felt she'd become flaky and unreliable. He'd worried she might cop out on him, but now it was even worse. Not being allowed a perfectly nice, affectionate nickname was ridiculous. It was like he was a possession, not a person. His mother apparently didn't want him in her home unless everything was exactly how she dictated.

"Oh, look!" Jennifer made a show of glancing at her wristwatch. "We really do have to be going, sweetie. There's just enough time to get home before I have to put dinner in the oven."

Geesh, talk about a lamebrain excuse. It had just gone half three. Even poking along - the way Jen always drove regardless of the weather - they should be home before the rush hour hit. In fact, she'd almost certainly have time to kill.

"Muuum," Molly whined in protest after a glance at the wall clock. "It's only-"

"Time to go," Jennifer insisted. She turned a strained smile on her son. "You could come with us, Justin," she offered. "We could have a family" - she gave Debbie a meaningful look - "dinner, and you could even stay the night."

"Come with us, Jester?" Molly pleaded, reluctantly standing up at Jennifer's urging and putting on her puffy down coat. "We could try out the Game Boy I got for my birthday; it's the newest one."

Justin couldn't help feeling a spurt of envy. Craig always got hold of the newest electronic gadgets, and before his dad had kicked him out, he would've made sure Justin had the latest gaming console too.

Molly squirmed in annoyance as Jen snapped up the coat for her, giving their mother an incredulous look for treating her like a baby. "I can do it, Mum," she muttered.

Justin winced, empathising with his sister. He'd hated having things done for him once he knew how, and Molly was the same way. Doing up her coat - a skill she'd mastered at, like, two years old - was especially bad.

Paying no heed to her daughter, Jennifer continued with the snapping, all the way to the one right under Molly's chin. With a tentative smile at her son, she reiterated, "It would be nice if you came with us, Justin."

She actually sounded sincere, thought Justin, still hoping, despite everything, for a decent relationship with his mother. 

"Only" - Jen hesitated for a moment - "if you do come with us, it's better if neither of you brings up Molly's, er, little ‘adventure.' And Justin, you need to keep quiet about your choice of lifestyle."

Justin scoffed. First, his sexuality wasn't a ‘choice,' and second, it was Craig who seemed compelled to address his son's homosexuality. His parents' utter lack of understanding aside, he had no desire to see Craig - or to listen to another lecture on the ‘immorality' of being gay.

"What do you mean, Mum?" Molly asked. "What lifestyle?"

"Justin hangs out with some unsavoury characters, honey." Jennifer's gaze skimmed across the drag queens and Debbie before landing on Justin. "Your father doesn't approve, and well, neither do I."

Molly looked even more confused than before. "But everybody's so nice and friendly, Mum."

If this was his mother ‘still loving him,' thought Justin, his hopes dashed, he wanted none of it. It didn't feel like love to him. In fact, it felt closer to hate - the same hate that Craig had spouted when he threw him out.

"Maybe another time," he responded to his mother, making an effort to stay civil because of Molly. "I already have plans for tonight."

Looking woebegone, Molly wrapped her arms around him and held on tight. "When will I see you again, Jester? I've had to wait ages since my birthday."

"You're always welcome here, Junior." Debbie ruffled Molly's strawberry-blonde curls.

Justin smiled gratefully and gripped his sister just as desperately as she was doing to him. He'd already known he missed her, but until she turned up this afternoon, he didn't realise how much. He almost offered to pick Molly up the next time she wanted to see him, but he knew their mother wouldn't be receptive to the idea, especially since it was likely to be by bus.

"In the meantime," Debbie went on challengingly, "I bet your mum'll make sure you and Justin see each other at Christmas. Right, Jen?" 

Jennifer spluttered inarticulately for a moment before coming up with a vague, "Perhaps. Not that I see how it's any of your-"

While their mother was busy with Deb, Justin pressed a scrap of paper into Molly's hand. "That's my number at Debbie's," he said quietly. He didn't like being so secretive, but he didn't trust their mother to give the number to Molly.

"You can call me whenever you want, okay?"

Molly nodded against his chest and unobtrusively slipped the napkin into her coat pocket.

"Now, Molly Anne Taylor," Jennifer demanded, the red flags in her cheeks betraying a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

Letting go of Justin, Molly allowed her mother to tug her away from the table. At the door, she turned to give a single forlorn wave before she was rushed outside.

"Don't you worry, Kiddo." Debbie patted him on the arm. "We'll get you and your sister together, come hell or high water."

"Or homophobes," threw in one of the drag queens.

"Preach it," the other one agreed.

Evening was rapidly approaching when Brian parked his jeep in the driveway at Debbie's house. As the mechanic had promised, the repairs were finished on the dot at five o'clock - and not one minute sooner. He'd had to cool his heels in the shop for a good eight minutes before he finally had the jeep back, the guy he'd talked to claiming they'd wanted to do one final check to make sure the heat was working properly.

Hot air was blasting out of the vents, Brian begrudgingly allowed, and at least the blond boy would be warm on the drive back to the loft. He turned off the engine, got out and legged it across the lawn to the house, wincing when snow slid over the collar of his left shoe and soaked his sock. 

He stamped his shoes on the doormat - too late to do any good - and shook out his trousers. If his Zegnas were ruined, he had no one to blame but himself - and maybe whatever fucking god was responsible for dumping all this snow on the Burgh. 

Pressing the doorbell, he cast an assessing gaze at the sprig of mistletoe just above his head. Unfortunately, instead of being greeted by his blond's bright smile, he heard a shouted, "Come in!"

Brian depressed the latch and pushed open the door, only to be assaulted by heavy, hot air redolent with a sweet, cinnamony smell. After shucking his outwear and his sodden shoes - with a scowl for the latter - he went in search of his wayward blond.

He stuck his head in the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the incense burning on the stove; the sweet smell was stronger here. Since when did Deb and Vic burn incense? There was no sign of Justin, so he tried the living room, where he found both Justin and Vic. 

The paper Vic must've been reading had slipped out of his fingers and was about to fall to the floor, the older man's mouth open on a soft snore. Justin was sitting on the carpet in front of the coffee table, surrounded by coloured paper and cardstock cards.

Brow furrowed in concentration as he slid a pencil across a piece of cardstock, Justin appeared to have forgotten that there was a visitor. Christ, thought Brian, the kid needed a keeper. Anyone could've walked into the house.

Moving closer, he studied the paper and cardstock strewn across the table, realising that they were covered with Christmas-themed sketches. "What is this?" he snarked. "Santa's workshop?"

Vic snorted, started awake and sat up straight in his chair, loudly proclaiming, "I wasn't asleep."

"Sure, Vic." Brian humoured the older man.

Vic narrowed his eyes, insisting, "Wasn't."

Finally looking up, Justin grinned. "Vic's my... card tester. I've been creating individualised Christmas cards that can double as gift tags. Vic's been helping me decide which designs are best."

"Right," Vic heartily agreed. "That."

"Hmm," Brian hmmed, doing his best not to laugh at the way Vic's eyes guiltily shifted away from him.

Brian lifted an eyebrow at the blond artist. "So, what's the verdict?"

Justin tilted his chin at some tags on the end of the table closest to Brian. "Those are all a go."

Brian picked up one, inspecting the intricate drawing of three figures. The three ‘wise women' were a dead giveaway that it was destined for the munchers. Another card had an angel and a third a sleigh. "They look good," he muttered grudgingly. "Isn't it a waste of your time though? People just throw this shit away."

"It doesn't really matter." Justin shrugged. "As long as I'm having fun."

"Which one's mine?" asked Brian, inspecting the cards on the table again, searching for his name.

Justin picked up his sketchbook and held it close to his chest. "Hey! No peeking! It's supposed to be a surprise."

"Drama princess," Brian muttered, a little put out that Justin wouldn't give him a sneak peek.

Chuckling at their banter as he got up from his recliner, Vic opined, "Pot, kettle."

Justin unsurprisingly giggled. Brian scowled, but then conceded the point with a reluctant laugh - even though he was a queen, thank you very much.

"The two of you want a brew?" Vic asked, shuffling toward the loo. He must be planning to visit the kitchen after he'd taken care of business.

Brian wasn't much of one for drinking tea, but right now it sounded good. "Sure," he agreed.

"Me too, please," Justin piped up politely, like the good little WASP he was. "I can make it if you want."

"Nah." Vic stepped into the bathroom. "I'm already up. You keep working on those cards - they're gonna be a hit."

Although he was still curious about the card for him, Brian decided to respect Justin's decision. Instead, he admired one of the cards on top of the ‘go' pile - clearly meant for Debbie, going by the neat calligraphic lettering of her name. There was a beautifully detailed rendition of a snowflake on it - thin black pen lines over a light pencil sketch. Brian quite liked the unfinished look of the piece.

"You're keeping the pencil lines?" he asked Justin, not looking away from the card in his hand.

Justin scrunched up his nose in thought. "Not sure yet. What do you think?"

Glancing up at that moment, Brian caught the weirdly cute motion, which was accompanied by a strange pang - too much coffee sans food, he reckoned. Shrugging as if he didn't have a firm opinion, he nonchalantly said, "I kind of like it as is."

Justin smiled. "Thank you. I'll keep it like that then." Then, after a pause, he added, "Except for the one for Gus. I want to colour in that one." He picked up a card from the bottom of the pile, showing it to Brian. It had the same calligraphy writing and a drawing of an elf.

Gus wasn't old enough to really enjoy the card - although he might like the bright hues - but his lezzie mothers would want to keep it as a keepsake of his first Christmas, Brian was certain.

Justin passed over another card, Molly's name neatly penned at the top. From the snowman, baseball mitt in hand, jaunty scarf around the neck and a Pirates' ball cap on its head, Brian surmised the girl must be into sports - or at least baseball.

Jennifer had probably saved all the cards Justin had made in the past, putting them in scrapbooks or something. "Did you make cards for Jennifer and Craig too?" he asked.

"No." Justin shrugged. "I don't see the point. I won't bother with any of the ‘regular' Christmas cards - the ones my mother always made me write and send to relatives - this year either. I'm sure" - his mouth twisted into a bitter slant - "Craig has delivered the news by now; I doubt they'll want to know me anymore."

If Justin's blood relations were uptight, self-righteous WASPs like Craig and Jennifer, the boy was doubtless right. Heck, they didn't have to be WASPs. They could be homophobic pricks like Jack or religious wingnuts like Joan. If any of the Kinneys or Foleys ever caught wind that Brian was queer, he'd be completely ostracised. Not that that would be so bad, he mused, recalling some of the awful Christmases he'd endured as a child.

Before the bitter memories could fully surface, Vic returned with three cups of tea and a plateful of Christmas cookies.

Brian removed one of the cups from the tray - the only one without milk - and taking note of the steam rising from the cup, decided he'd wait for it to cool before drinking. There was no point in scalding his tongue. It couldn't hurt to add a pinch of sugar to sweeten it though, he thought, reaching for the sugar bowl and spooning in a miniscule amount.

As he was stirring it in, he noticed another pile of drawings off to one side. "What're those?" he asked, tilting his chin at the stack.

"They're Christmas presents I've been working on," Justin informed him. "No, you can't look," he chided when Brian reached for the topmost one.

Vic chuckled. "Don't worry, ragazzo. He wouldn't show me either."

"What about the one on the top?" Brian pressed. He liked the drawing, which showed the silhouettes of two men dancing, both turned on - going by the visible erections in their trousers. He couldn't decide who Justin intended it for though. Maybe Emmett? He and Justin were the best dancers among the gang.

"Oh, that's not a gift. Besides, it's just a first draft."

"Of?" Brian questioned, absently picking up an amaretto and biting into it.

After taking a sip of his tea, Justin clarified, "I gave it to Arthur as a thank you for hiring me to dance at Babylon. I thought he might like a new T-shirt design for the employees. And to sell... if anyone wants to buy it."

"Oh, they'll sell," Vic interjected. "Every fag in the Burgh's gonna want one."

"You shouldn't have just given it to Smythe," Brian criticised.

"Why not? He offered to pay me for it, but I refused."

Christ. What was wrong with the little twat? "Smythe is going to profit off your work, Justin. You can bet he'll take in far more than whatever paltry amount he would've paid for the design." Biting his tongue, he left unsaid ‘just like he did with you as one of the go-go boys.'

His mouth setting in familiar, mulish lines, Justin countered, "So what? It was the right thing to do."

Vic remarked, "If you feel better for having done that..."

"I do," Justin stated firmly. He looked at Brian. "So drop it, okay?"

Brian sighed. He still thought giving away his work was a dumb thing to do, but there wasn't much point arguing about it - that would only put Justin's back up even more.

"You're getting crumbs all over, ragazzo," Vic noted in a teasing voice.

Brian glanced down to see that both his shirt and tie were dotted with crumbs. He'd swear he could see grease stains spreading across the silk of his tie. Fuck. He didn't even remember picking up the zeppole that was in his hand; hadn't he just tasted something almondy?

"You know, Channel 7's queer guy was just talking about a stain remover for fine fabrics," Vic commented, his grey eyes twinkling. "You should try it."

Brian snorted, amused. Vic damned well knew he took his designer clothes to the dry cleaner. "Anything worthwhile on the news?" he asked.

Vic scratched the back of his neck and then took a sip of his tea. "Chatter about Republican shenanigans, but that's nothing new." He paused for a moment before remarking, "There was a segment about a rash of burglaries in the city. Burglaries are apparently way up in the Burgh, as compared to the holidays last year - more than twenty percent. When you got here, I was just checking the newspaper to see if there was any additional information."

Right. Brian raised his eyebrows at Vic.

The older man shrugged insouciantly in return, making a show out of putting on his reading glasses and picking up the Post-Gazette.

"So what did Carl tell you?" Justin piped up. "Anything interesting?"

"Uh, you could say that, yeah." Brian had been debating with himself whether to mention Carl's info to Justin. He didn't want to scare him, but he felt Justin had a right to know. Besides, he doubted Carl would keep it from Justin - better to tell the boy himself and treat him like his partner.

"You saw Horvath?" Vic peered at him over his half glasses.

It was fortuitous that Vic was here, Brian decided. The older man was level-headed and might have some good insights.

"Yeah, he asked me to stop by." Brian really didn't want to talk about the reason Horvath and his partner were investigating the burglaries, a throbbing starting at the base of his skull.

"Carl and Wen have a lead?" Justin asked hopefully.

"Not exactly. But it looks like it was a professional job." Brian went on to describe the weakness with the backup battery in his alarm model and how it was a pretty common problem.

Vic lowered his newspaper, observing, "That doesn't explain how they got into your loft."

Brian recounted Carl's demonstration with the Altoids box and the plasticine-like substance. "I never knew it could be that fuckin' simple to make a copy of someone's key." Getting pissed off all over again, he admitted, "It could've been a trick. Probably was, in fact."

"Don't beat yourself up over it," Vic advised. "You couldn't have known that might happen. You're only human, ragazzo."

Yeah, well, thought Brian, Vic wasn't the one who'd been so careless. He glanced over at Justin, but that didn't help any. A furrow between his brows, Justin was staring off into space. Might as well reveal the worst and get it over with.

"There's more. In one of the houses that was burgled, a woman was found dead. Murdered."

Justin paled and bit nervously at his lip. "I read about an old woman who was stabbed to death."

"When was that?" Brian questioned sharply.

"Uh, a week and a half ago?" Justin estimated. "I was curious about all the burglaries. Thinking about someone going through my stuff kinda freaked me out. I wondered if there was anything similar to what happened at the loft." The boy rubbed his hands up and down his arms, looking as if he was trying to comfort himself.

Fuck. Brian felt like a heel. He hadn't even thought about the invasion of privacy from Justin's perspective; it had been all about the loss of his designer goods. Even if the burglars hadn't taken any of Justin's belongings, they'd probably rifled through them. And it wasn't just Brian who'd slept on his former mattress; it had been Justin's bed too. Their home had been invaded.

Then Brian had gone and compounded all the anxiety the kid must've been feeling by accusing him of being responsible for the break-in. By now, Justin probably wanted more than Brian absolving him of any responsibility for the burglary; he wanted to be unequivocally cleared.

"Was that the murder Carl was talking about?" Justin wanted to know, rubbing his arms some more.

"Horvath didn't confirm anything," Brian cautioned, wishing he could console the boy. "We don't know if that's the same murder victim."

"But it's the only one I read about where someone was murdered during a break-in," Justin stressed. "If there were any other burglary-related murders, they'd be reported in the newspaper, wouldn't they?"

Brian wasn't sure. The cops might be playing their cards close to the chest.

Just then, his eyes narrowed, Vic observed, "I knew there was something suspicious going on."

"About what?" Brian inquired, grateful to have the conversation redirected.

Vic clarified, "Horvath and that Asian partner of his investigating a robbery. They're homicide detectives."

It had taken Vic all of one second to put the pieces together, thought Brian, mentally kicking himself for having been so slow. 

"Oh!" gasped Justin. "I never thought twice about it, not even when I went to Carl's office about the bullying at St James. How stupid can you get?"

Ouch. Brian winced. He knew Justin's comment wasn't directed at him, but he was angry about his own stupidity. "I might as well have extended an invitation to the thieves," he muttered. He not only felt sore about the whole thing, but fear clutched at his heart all over again as he thought about what could have happened if Justin had been there.

After mulling it over, Vic assessed, "You shouldn't have to worry. I doubt the burglars would try to hit the same place twice. Even if they could get in now that you've changed the lock, the alarm would make a helluva racket once the battery's-"

Brian had stopped listening after ‘changed the lock.' "Fuck," he grunted, disappointed in himself for being so fucking stupid. In response to questioning looks from both Vic and Justin, he elaborated, "They could just kill the fuse box and waltz back in. I forgot to change the lock."

"So call a twenty-four hour locksmith now," Vic reasonably suggested. "Then you'll feel secure."

Brian was pulling out his new mobile as Vic spoke, but then, looking at Justin, he hesitated before dialling the operator to connect him with a locksmith. "Maybe you should stay here tonight."

"What for?"

"So you can protect me," Vic joked. "In case the burglars come for my recliner... or the state-of-the-art TV."

The tension in Justin's shoulders eased as he swivelled around to look at the old TV, his mouth falling open. "State of the art?" he gasped, one giggle and then another welling up.

Brian and Vic started laughing too, memories of watching the Admiral telly with Michael when they were young teens assaulting Brian.

His laughter tapering off, Brian floundered for a way to get Justin to stay with Vic, where he'd be safer. "You should stay here, Jus," he suggested, hoping that the affectionate shortening of his lover's name would work its usual magic. "You could keep an eye on things-"

"I'm going with you," Justin interrupted firmly. "And staying."

Brian huffed out a laugh. He could hardly argue with that.