It was not yet noon, but the diner was already filling up with the early lunch crowd, and all the usual suspects were ensconced in all the usual places.

As usual.

Emmett was struck with a not-so-silly notion that this tacky little diner with its ever-changing array of tacky little seasonal decorations was more home to 'the gang' than any residence would ever be.

Debbie was behind the counter, dishing out pea soup and lemon bars and cheeky, down-and-dirty wisdom in equal portions between bouts of an ongoing gossip session with her friend Ida and one of the diner regulars, a beat cop who was studying the lunch menu scrawled on the chalk board near the serving window.

In their regular booth, Ben, Michael, and Hunter were seated across from Lindsey and Melanie, with the professor and the lawyer exchanging enthusiastic comments about the latest pro-gay legislation in Canada while lamenting the newest efforts by anti-gay fundamentalist Christians in Pennsylvania to compel inclusion of a rewritten Prop 14 on the next election ballot. The back-and-forth between the two was almost - but not quite - enough to compensate for the brooding silence of the remaining three, and the hard glint in Melanie's eyes suggested that she was close to reaching the end of her emotional rope and erupting into one of her customary take-no-prisoners assaults.

Nevertheless, neither Michael nor Lindsey seemed to be paying much attention, and Hunter appeared lost in thoughts of his own.

In the next booth, Blake was regarding Ted with an indulgent semi-smile, schooling himself to overlook the faint but undeniable notes of cattiness threading through the accountant's current rant about his employer. The abuse counselor knew it was just Ted's method for coping with things he could not yet comprehend or accept - a self-defense mechanism that would subside once the current crisis was past - but he hoped the passing would come sooner rather than later as the refrain had become increasingly abrasive throughout the morning. Still, he assumed the tirade would end quickly, once Ted worked his way through his resentment of feeling relegated to secondary status while Cynthia had been Brian's primary spokesperson throughout this entire debacle.

Meanwhile, across the table, hunched into the corner of the booth, Emmett was stirring his coffee and savoring its warmth. It might be spring outside, but there was still a chunk of raw ice residing in his chest that showed no signs of thawing. He would have preferred to pretend it was nothing more than a facet of the climate - but he knew better.

And so did Calvin, who was concentrating on ignoring Ted's continuous monolog and regarding his old friend with a sweet, tentative smile.

"You look tired, Honey."

Emmett frowned. "I am, I guess. A little bit, anyway."

Calvin nodded, but continued to study Emmett's face, trying without success to read the expression lurking in those dark, hooded eyes. "But that's not what's bothering you. Is it?"

Emmett dredged up a smile. "Of course, it is. What else would it be?"

That was a cue for Ted to pause in mid-tirade and turn his attention to the individual he would always consider his best friend. "Why don't you tell us?" he asked, not bothering to try to conceal his testy attitude. "You've been moping over something, ever since you got ... "

"Bashed?" Emmett provided the word that Ted apparently could not say. "You call it moping; I call it something else."

"Such as?" There was only a faint nuance of a sneer in Ted's tone, but Emmett heard it as clearly as a clarion call.

His eyes darkened, shadows reforming and growing denser. "Re-thinking things," he replied evenly. "It's amazing what a little near-death experience can do to a person's perspective."

Ted did not - quite - resort to rolling his eyes. "Very profound. Don't think too hard or you might strain something."

Emmett blinked, as both Michael and Ben turned around to listen and to check out the look on Emmett's face, in response to Ted's snarky remark. It was immediately obvious that the young man understood the motivations behind Ted's caustic commentary, and was striving to retain his composure. He knew Ted - better than almost anyone else did - and he realized that the snarkiness was just a means to avoid a loss of control and an emotional meltdown. But that didn't make putting up with it any easier.

"Hey!" said Ben, raising his voice to be heard over the babble in the diner while Emmett remained silent. "Something like this should give us all cause to think twice."

"About what?" Ted snapped, and only Blake was watching closely enough to note that his hands were trembling. "What's really changed? Homophobes have been around forever, and going after somebody like Brian . . . well, it's just miraculous that nobody ever nailed him before. After all, it could have been any of us."

"Could it?" asked Emmett finally, staring down into ink-black coffee. "I wonder."

"Meaning what?" The conversations around them had begun to fall silent as Ted's level of annoyance - and his volume - had grown, while Blake seemed increasingly distressed.

"Meaning," Emmett said softly, apparently once more intent on defining the exact color of the semi-sludge in his cup, "that he's not like the rest of us. Not really."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" At this point, everyone in the group understood that Ted had lost whatever small degree of patience he'd had left. "Don't tell me you're going to buy into this whole 'Brian Kinney Mystique' crap. You're just getting your knickers in a twist over that fricking photo-shopped bullshit in the tabloids."

Emmett's gaze was steady as he studied Ted's face, and, once more, he fell silent for a while, debating whether or not to point out what he knew to be true - that the images in the tabloid had been accurate and unretouched. Ultimately, he decided to leave that issue unaddressed and allow the group to seek solace in their delusions should they choose to do so. At the same time, he refused to be intimidated by Ted's petty malice. "Did you hear the things Cynthia said to us yesterday? Did any of it register, or did everyone just ignore it? Like always?"

"What the fuck . . ."

"She said," Emmett continued, "that none of us knew Brian. I've been wondering . . ."

"Wondering what?" asked Michael, very quietly.

"If she was right. Or if she might . . . become right from this day forward." He took a sip of his coffee.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" demanded Melanie, lips twisted into a sneer. "If anybody was ever more of a fucking open book than Brian Kinney, I can't imagine who it might be."

Emmett and Ben both turned to stare at her, while Michael and Lindsey looked at each other.

"He's different," said Emmett slowly. "I can't explain it exactly. But I know it's true. He's not the same. Something is . . . off."

"What's off?" asked Debbie, delivering a pink plate special to the next table before turning to join in the conversation.

"Brian," answered Ben, worried eyes resting on Michael's face. "Emmett thinks . . ."

"Since when has Brian not been off?" laughed the Liberty Diner diva.

But Michael understood exactly what Emmett meant. "I don't know, Ma," he said softly. "It feels different this time. Everything could . . . change."

Debbie paused for a moment, something pale and formless rising in her eyes, before wading in with her customary determination to dismiss any suggestion that she might not know Brian Kinney as well as she thought she did. She had, after all, made a semi-career of trying to cut him down to size - even if he'd always refused to stay cut - and she had no intention of looking at him from a different perspective now. So she huffed a half-laugh before offering up her rebuttal. "He hasn't changed since he was fourteen years old, and he's not about to ..."

To everyone's surprise, it was Hunter who spoke up, cutting off the observation she'd been repeating, in one form or another, for more than a decade. "You know something? You people really are amazing. Some of you have known him for longer than I've been alive; I've known him for - what, three years max? - and I've seen huge changes in him, just in that short time. But you - you all manage to see exactly what you expect to see, what you've always seen. Makes me wonder if any of you ever really saw him at all. And now - the only one of you who's actually talked to him since all this shit started, is trying to tell you that something's different. And you don't want to hear it."

It was Ben who turned to study the look in his son's eyes, while Michael's gaze shifted out into the brilliance of the midday vista beyond the windows, but it was anybody's guess what he was really seeing. Meanwhile, Ben lifted a gentle hand to touch Hunter's face. "When did you get so smart?" he asked with a smile.

"If Emmett's right," the boy continued, "then it could make a big difference - in all your lives."

When the entire group - except Emmett - turned to stare at him, he easily read the denial in their eyes, and he laughed. "Christ! You don't even know, do you? He's the center that holds you all together. Whether you like him, or you love him, or you resent him, or you hate him" - a quick look at Melanie punctuated that observation - "without him, you've lost the tie that binds you all together."

Most of them were instantly ready to dispute his words, to deny the possibility - to disbelieve - and a couple of them, of course, were incensed at the very idea.

Except . . .

Inside, beneath the bravado and the scoffing and the need to deny, every one of them was aware of a tiny core of uncertainty. A tiny little voice that could only whisper two words.

What if . . .

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

"You don't have to stay." Brian's voice was rough, tremulous, barely audible.

Both Cynthia and Lance Mathis stood at the foot of his bed and regarded him with steady, unflinching eyes. "Maybe she doesn't," Mathis replied calmly, "but I'm not budging."

He carefully avoided noticing the poisonous glance Cynthia directed toward him, while observing that it was amazing that a man swathed almost head to toe in bandages could manage to convey simmering rage through nothing more than the flash of hooded eyes.

"Didn't we just have a detailed discussion about your primary responsibilities?" Brian snapped, voice suddenly full and firm, with only the faintest indication of the pain it cost him to speak so forcefully.

"We did, and I've got it covered. I'm not going anywhere."

Matt Keller looked up from his study of the data displayed on a cardiac monitor array. "Unless," he said, "he says otherwise."

"Doctor," Mathis began, "you can't . . ."

Keller's smile was cold. "Want to bet?" He stepped forward and laid a gentle hand atop Brian's shoulder. "Whatever you may think, Mr. Mathis, in this realm, the patient is the crown prince."

Brian turned slightly to stare up into the face of his old friend. "And what does that make you?"

Keller grinned. "King of the hill - and the only one who can over-rule you."

"I'm not leaving," Mathis repeated, crossing his arms and regarding the doctor with a defiant gaze.

Brian took a deep, painful breath. "It's all right, Matt," he said finally. "In the end, there's no way to hide this mess. Is there?"

Keller hiked himself onto the edge of the bed and promptly forgot about everything and everyone in the room - except his patient.

"How bad?" Faint or not, there was no mistaking the determination underlying those two simple syllables.

"Bad enough. But not irreparable."

Brian sniffed. "Bullshit! You might be the snow-job master, Old Friend, but you've never once managed to snow me. Don't even think about trying now. I want . . ."

"The truth," Matt interrupted. "You think I'd try to give you anything less?"

Brian's eyes were dark, but his gaze was steady. "I think you might, if you weren't sure I could handle it."

Matt sighed. "That's one thing I've never wondered about. Brian Kinney always handles the truth."

Brian closed his eyes. "Even when it's ugly," he said softly. "So just spill it."

Keller nodded. "No point in me giving you chapter and verse of the damage. You can take a look at the chart, if you like. Suffice to say the list is long and complicated: skull fracture with concussion, punctured lung, plenty of broken bones - ribs, clavicle, arm, hand, ankle, jaw, cheekbone. Multiple lacerations to your gallbladder, so we had to remove it. Major blood loss, torn ligaments, severe bruising to internal organs. Any or all of that could be considered major damage, but it's all begun to heal, largely because you were in fantastic physical condition to begin with. If you hadn't been, you'd be dead today. And there is some good news. You have some strained muscles and a dislocated shoulder, but there's no discernible damage to your spine. You're going to need some extensive physical therapy but should regain full motion eventually in your hand and wrist. And, although there's no way to be sure yet, I don't see any indications of major nerve damage. In time, everything can be fixed."

Brian didn't say anything for a while; he just continued to stare at his old college friend . . . and waited. Then he sighed, and phrased his question with utmost efficiency. "Except?"

Keller drew a deep breath. "I won't lie to you, Brian. The bastards did a hell of a number on you. The damage to your face - your body . . . it's extensive. You've got a long road ahead of you."

Brian turned away then, and looked out the window, his eyes caught by a jetstream slowly dissipating across the blue vault of heaven. "A long road," he repeated. "To where? To reach a point where the mother of my child can stand to look at me without flinching? Or where my good friends can congratulate themselves on tolerating my appearance so they can indulge a chance to gloat over - what was the phrase - 'how the mighty have fallen'?"

Keller folded his arms and waited until Brian decided to look up once more and meet his gaze. "You know me better than that," said the doctor. "Do you really think I'm going to let that happen?"

Brian felt the quick twinge of the smile he could not quite muster. "Despite your own inflated opinion of yourself, you're not God! You can't fix this."

The physician frowned. "You're right. I can't."

Brian looked down quickly - but not quite quickly enough to prevent the doctor from noting the shadow of despair forming in his eyes. He was quiet for a while, his breathing jerky and rough. Then he looked up again, and Matt felt a heaviness around his heart as the despair was replaced by grim resolve. "Thanks, Doc. Anyone else would have tried to soften the blow. I appreciate that you didn't. So - now I just have to figure out what to do next. Maybe I can find myself a stylish mask and scout out a basement under the local opera house. But whatever I do, I need some time to think, so, if you don't mind . . ."

"But I do mind," Keller interrupted. "Because I'm not done. I've admitted that I can't fix this. But I didn't say that it can't be fixed. And if you're going to accept this - just sit there and feel sorry for yourself - then I only have one question. Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Brian Kinney?"

"What the hell can I do?" It was not quite a snarl, but close enough to put a smile on the doctor's face.

"You can do what you always do - what you've been doing all your life. You can give 'em all the big 'Fuck you!' You can refuse to quit. You can fight."

Brian closed his eyes. "Matt," he whispered, barely audible, "I'm tired."

"I know," replied the physician, his fingers closing around Brian's hand. "And I'm sorry - because it's not going to get any better, anytime soon. But . . ."

Brian opened his eyes then, and found Matt's face just inches away, beautiful green eyes bright with promise. "But what?"

"You're not going to have to do it alone, this time. And I'm not going to let you give up. I promise you. You're still Brian Kinney, and you will be beautiful again. And, in the process, maybe you'll learn something you should have learned a long time ago."

"Like what?"

Keller smiled; the note of suspicion in the clipped response was very faint, but it was enough to confirm what he'd been hoping to find in his old friend. The body was damaged; the flesh was weak - but the spirit was still there, waiting to resurge.

"Like being 'Brian Kinney' doesn't have a fucking thing to do with how you look."

"Of course." That couldn't possibly be a pale hint of laughter in that hoarse whisper - could it? "It's what's inside that counts. Right?"

After a beat of silence, Matt Keller burst out laughing. "Okay," he admitted, after taking a moment to regain control of himself, "so that's a pretty stupid comment, all things considered. But that's not really what I meant, anyway. I hope you know how hard it was for me to admit that I, personally, can't 'fix you', as you put it. But I do know who can. He's an arrogant bastard, and a first class prick with delusions of godhood, and, if he stepped in front of my car in the express lane on the freeway, I wouldn't even slow down. But . . . he has one saving grace. For this - for what you need - he's the best there is - anywhere - and he can do what I can't." He leaned forward then, and touched his forehead to Brian's shoulder. "He can restore what they took from you. He can make sure the bastards don't win."

Brian turned his head, brushing his brow against his old friend's cheek, before pulling back to regard him steadily, refusing to flinch away from the dark truth reflected in green eyes. "How long?" he asked finally.

The doctor huffed a sigh and managed a tiny, lopsided smile. "I don't really know. I can tell you that you're looking at several months before your injuries are healed. Probably several more before the therapy is completed. But the only one who can make an educated guess about the rest is Rick Turnage. He's flying in tomorrow."

"He's really that good?"

Keller grinned. "He's almost as good as he thinks he is. Reminds me of somebody else I know."

"Does that mean . . ."

The grin became a chuckle. "Yep. You're probably going to hate each other's guts."

"So . . . why should I trust him? And why do you?"

"Because he's a driven man. The only thing that means anything to him - anything at all - is to be the best, the most skilled plastic surgeon in the world, and he's spent his whole life looking for the one challenge that will prove that he is. And I think . . . I really believe . . . it's going to be you."

Brian's eyes were suddenly filled with uncertainty, but he did not verbalize his misgivings. In truth, he wasn't sure he could, because he wasn't sure what it was about the whole scenario of Rick Turnage as savior that bothered him.

Keller lingered for a moment, trying to determine if Brian understood what he'd been told, but, in the end, he just got to his feet and moved off. He had provided all the information he could; the rest would be up to Turnage. And Brian. The physician allowed himself a tiny smile as it occurred to him that the plastic surgeon was about to find out that one never realized one's dearest ambition without paying a hell of a price.

The room was quiet for a while, as Brian pondered what he'd been told. Then he looked up and noticed Cynthia watching him carefully, glints of renewed hope flickering in her eyes. He looked away quickly, but could not quite suppress the surge of anger that engulfed him. False hope was something he would not encourage.

He did manage, however, to conceal his disquiet quickly - to camouflage it as something else. "Cynthia," he said, lifting a hand to summon her closer, "I need you to do something for me. I forgot to ask Lindsey something. Would you see if you can locate her?"

Cynthia frowned, and regarded him with some small degree of suspicion. "Why don't you just call her cell phone?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Because this is something private, something about Gus that we need to discuss, face to face. Please?"

She moved around to the left side of the bed, ignoring Matt Keller, ignoring Lance Mathis, ignoring everyone and everything except the man who was the primary mover and shaker in her world.

"I'm not leaving," she whispered, bending forward so no one else could hear. "Do you really think there is anything - anything - that would make me turn my back on you? Do you think your looks make any difference to me? After what you did for me? Do you really think I'm that shallow, Brian?"

He stared up at her, and knew it was time to concede defeat. It had been almost two years since the event - the 'what you did for me' - had happened, and he could count the number of times either of them had ever referred to it on the fingers of one hand, so he knew this was her way of pulling out the big guns. He might be able to fool the rest of his extended family, to bully them, or manipulate them, or deceive them. But it wouldn't work with her; she knew him too well, knew the man beneath the façade as almost no one else did. Still, he'd give it one more shot. "You don't have anything to prove to me," he said solemnly. "And there's no need for you to have to see . . ."

"Shut - up. And do what you have to."

He hesitated; then he nodded before turning his head to regard Matt Keller with a steady gaze. "Show me."

There was no room for argument in either words or manner, but the doctor did not move to obey.

"Brian, I don't think this is a good idea."

"I know you don't, but do it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I need to see what they did to me. I need to know how much they hated me. So you either take the bandages off now, or I do it myself. Which is it?"

Keller didn't bother trying to conceal his irritation. "Fuck, Brian!"

"In your dreams," replied Brian, and Keller had no trouble visualizing the smirk hidden beneath the bandages. "Now are you going to . . ."

"All right, all right. Keep your pants on."

Lance Mathis grinned. "Bet that's not something you hear too often."

"Fuck!" said Brian. "Everybody's a God-damned comedian."

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

Woody's - pool hall, barroom, and gay watering hole par excellence - was never really empty, but, in mid-afternoon, it was relatively deserted and a pretty good place for sharing a quiet - or not-so-quiet - conversation. And, in this case, it would allow Emmett to kill two birds with one stone - so to speak. If one could wrap one's mind around the notion of identifying two very different but equally awkward confrontations as 'birds'.

Drew Boyd had called first, requesting a face-to-face sit-down, and Emmett had only hesitated for a moment. Caleb had patients scheduled all afternoon, and Darren had persuaded his cousin to fill in for Emmett for a few days in their party-planning partnership, to allow Emmett time to heal, physically and emotionally. So his time was his own, until the middle of the following week when he would have to climb back on the proverbial horse and finish planning the Berlinger/Rabelais wedding that was to be the social event of the spring season. Weddings by Auntie Em had become the new haute status symbol for Pittsburgh society, but he did not spare the time to reflect on how satisfying it was to have become the premier social event planner of the area. In spite of his success, he never really thought of himself as anything other than a little piece of hick/trash from Hazlehurst, Mississippi.

It was an opinion which would stay with him throughout his life, despite the fact that he would be loved deeply and wholeheartedly by people who knew better.

He had agreed to meet with Drew at mid-afternoon. The quarterback had been diffident during their conversation, requesting rather than demanding, determined but prepared to accept 'no' for an answer, if necessary, which, of course, insured that Emmett could not possibly deny him.

The second call had been far less subdued or polite.

Justin had been . . . loud and abrasive and almost rude. And panic-stricken. He had not said much beyond, "I need to see you. Right now." But what he had not said had conveyed much more than the words he did speak. His voice had been raw and hoarse, as if he'd been screaming. Or crying.

Emmett was no fool; he knew immediately what had happened and why Justin was so devastated. What he didn't know was whether or not he could figure out how to fix the problem, or if, indeed, he should even try. Brian's motives for the actions he was taking were complex and not easily explained, and more was at stake here than protecting someone from the rage and outrage of homophobic monsters.

He thought back to the conversation they'd shared in the waning hours before this current nightmare had begun, and understood that it wasn't only bodies that were at risk; it was hearts. Souls perhaps. Lives - to be lost or gained on the whim of a moment.

Emmett wondered if he could get away with faking a sudden bout of appendicitis. But Drew - damn him - was right on time, and the opportunity died aborning.

When they were seated at one of the tables at the rear of the room, Emmett with his signature Cosmo and the quarterback with a shot glass and a bottle of Chivas, neither seemed to know how to open the conversation. Emmett sipped at his drink, unaccountably nervous, before taking a deep breath and looking directly into sable-dark eyes.

"Not to be a stickler for protocol," he said with a smile, "but you called me, Honey Chile. So what was so urgent?"

For a moment, it appeared that Drew might be content with just gazing into Emmett's eyes, as he was suddenly swept into memories that he had kept under lock and key for over a year. "I wanted you to be the first to know," he said finally, lifting his shot glass as if to propose a toast.

"Know what?"

Drew leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Emmett's mouth. "It's my birthday," he whispered.

Emmett sighed. "Yes, well, unfortunately, we all have one of those every year, you know. So . . ."

"Not like this. If you stop and think, you'll remember that you were the one who told me to call you . . . for this one."

Emmett, in the process of taking a sip from his Cosmo, gulped as he grasped the deeper meaning beneath Drew's supposedly casual announcement, and choked on the sweet liquid, turning rose red, and gasping to catch his breath.

As a diversion from the intensity of the moment, spluttering around a vodka and cranberry juice cocktail left a lot to be desired, thought Emmett, but it had done the trick well enough. When he managed to regain his composure, they were both able to smile and ease back a bit from the brink of emotional overload.

"You mean it?" Emmett asked finally, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. Though entirely focused on whatever answer Drew might provide, he found that he could not - quite - bring himself to look directly into the athlete's eyes.

Drew leaned forward and folded Emmett's left hand into both of his own. "I have never meant anything more," he replied. "You know me, Em. I'm not good with words. I don't have a clue how to make you understand how much it means to me that you were willing to give me the time to get to know myself, as a gay man. To explore and learn about the new world that opened up to me once I was finally able to come out.

"But I have explored it now. I have learned. And I won't lie to you and claim that I didn't enjoy the hell out of the experience. Only . . ."

"Only what?" Emmett was surprised to find that he was almost holding his breath, barely able to contain his need to hear the rest.

"Only, after a while, you begin to understand that all the gorgeous guys in the world don't make up for the one you really want, the one you can't stop thinking about, the one that means more than any fuck." He paused and dropped a quick kiss on the tips of Emmett's fingers. "The one that makes you feel . . . whole."

Emmett closed his eyes, not yet willing to be overwhelmed by the emotional surge rising within him. He could not afford to be swept away, only to find that he had allowed himself to hear what he wanted to hear, rather than what his one-time lover was actually saying. "And that would be . . . who?"

Drew grinned. "You gonna make me say it?"

Emmett tilted his head and put on his very best Lana-Turner arch expression. "I think I've earned the right to hear it."

The grin became a rough chuckle. "Yeah. You have. So here goes. After sampling all the joys the gay world has to offer, I've finally come to my senses and realized that all I want . . . is you, Emmett." Then he frowned. "But I understand that you might not feel the same. You gave me the freedom to find out what I really wanted, and I'd be a piss-poor excuse for a man if I didn't do the same for you. I know you're with Calvin now. He seems like a nice guy, even though he's not nearly good enough for you. But then, I don't think anybody is good enough for you. Including me. But I just felt that telling you was the right thing to do. You don't owe me anything. Not even an answer, if you don't want to give one. I just wanted you to know."

And, having said his piece, the big athlete pushed back from the table and stood up.

Emmett looked up at him, at a loss for words, perhaps for the first time in his life. "Wait!" he managed finally, as Drew turned to move away.

The football player froze, but remained silent. He had said everything there was to say; it was up to Emmett to decide if anything more was needed.

"What did Brian tell you?"

Drew couldn't quite conceal his surprise at what he perceived as an off-the-wall change of subject. "What?"

"What-did-Brian-say-to-you?" Each word was distinct and bitten off, crisp and to the point.

"Why does that matter?" The quarterback was obviously uncertain about the meaning of this turn in the conversation, but he did settle back into his chair, intrigued in spite of himself.

"It matters," said Emmett slowly, "because I need to be sure that this declaration isn't just a ruse to allow you to stay close to me and make sure I don't get bashed again. I know Brian blames himself for what happened to me. Hell, I'm beginning to think he always blames himself for everything, all the way back to original sin. So much so that I think it's entirely possible that he threatened your life if you don't take it upon yourself to watch over me."

Drew's smile almost - but not quite - camouflaged the flash of annoyance in night-dark eyes. "Do you really think I'd be scared of anything Brian Kinney might say to me?"

Emmett shrugged, unintimidated. "I don't know. He scares the shit out of me sometimes."

The quarterback was startled into a snort of laughter. "Okay," he admitted. "I see your point."

"So, what did he say to you?"

Drew hesitated, choosing to look down at the hands he was clasping on the table rather than to meet Emmett's questioning gaze. Then he sighed. "He said it was time to get my head out of my ass and reach out for what I really want - before it's too late."

Emmett's initial response was a slow blink. He remained silent for a while, and when he did choose to speak, he was careful to avoid any inflection in tone or voice. "And was he right?"

Drew smiled. "He's a smart little fucker. Too smart, sometimes."

"Sooooo, you're . . ."

"Emmett, do you love Calvin?"

Again, Emmett blinked. "And if I do?"

"Then this conversation is over," Drew replied gently. "I didn't tell you this to hurt you, or to make you feel obligated or guilty. I just wanted you to know how I feel, so . . ."

He rose again, and this time he wasted no time in starting to walk away.

"I don't, you know."

Drew paused in mid-stride, uncertain of whether to stay or go, uncertain of anything except how much depended on what Emmett might say next. "Don't what?"

Emmett stood up and moved around the table, stepping forward and deliberately invading the big man's personal space. "I don't know how you feel, and I don't . . . love Calvin." He paused and was forced to look away for a moment, to pretend he couldn't read the bright flicker of relief in Drew's dark eyes. "And, just to be totally upfront about it, he doesn't love me either. He's a good friend - and a great fuck - but we both knew from the start that this was never meant to be a forever-thing."

Drew smiled, and slowly slipped his arms around Emmett's waist, stifling an impulse to disagree with his lover's assessment of Calvin's feelings. He was pretty sure that Emmett was wrong; he had seen and recognized the emotion in Culpepper's face while watching the two old friends sharing an intimate moment. But he figured it was best to let this particular sleeping dog lie. "So, if you don't love him . . ."

Emmett's smile was slightly coy. "I'm feeling a little unsettled here. Things have been really weird lately, and I'm just a little . . ."

"I love you, Emmett." Drew's voice was steady, filled with certainly. "I think I knew it from the beginning, but I wasn't ready to deal with it. Now, I am. But only if it's what you want." He smiled and lifted a hand to cup Emmett's cheek. "I think I've learned something from a . . ." The smile grew slightly sardonic, "mutual acquaintance, about what love is - and isn't. I know now that it shouldn't be a prison cell. That's not love; that's possession. I love you, and all I want is to make you happy. And safe - and, just incidentally, to fuck you into next week. At your convenience, of course."

Emmett grinned. "Would right now be too soon?"

Drew sobered abruptly, as he gazed into Emmett's eyes, searching for reassurance, for confirmation - for an end to loneliness. "Then . . ."

There was no more uncertainty when Emmett responded. "I think I loved you the moment I first saw you. Even when you pissed me off by acting like a homophobic prick. And I think I always will."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Emmett could not quite suppress a sigh. "That," he replied, looking up to watch as two new arrivals walked through the front door.

The big Nelly-bottom had to fight off an urge to grab his old/new lover and go racing out the rear exit. Judging by the look on the face of the young man who was charging toward him, wide-eyed best friend in tow, it was obvious that his second meeting was not going to be nearly so satisfying as his first.

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


The silence inside the hospital room was so intense that noises from the street below barely penetrated air that felt as thick as a blanket as Brian stared at his reflection in the large hand mirror Nurse Beck held at the proper angle and distance for him to be able to examine the condition of his face.

To their credit, neither Cynthia nor Lance Mathis had uttered a single sound nor allowed the tiniest flicker of expression to touch their faces when Dr. Keller had removed the last of the bandages and stepped away to allow the nurse access to the patient. Exhibiting an admirable degree of professionalism, Beck had gently and efficiently cleaned the wounds before taking the mirror from Keller's hand and positioning it for Brian's convenience.

The four observers all experienced exactly the same reaction to watching the patient's first glimpse of his own appearance; they all wished to be elsewhere, to not have to see the darkness of despair rising in hazel eyes - the only reaction Brian allowed himself. He did not flinch, did not gasp, did not look away. Did not speak or sigh or weep. He just looked, turning his face slightly, from side to side, to get a better view.

Then he nodded to the nurse and turned away.

"I need to speak to Dr. Keller," he said, his voice very soft but completely steady. "Alone."

"Brian," Cynthia began, the spontaneous clinching of her hands the only indication of the level of her distress, "you don't . . ."

"Alone," he repeated - still softly, but with greater determination.

Though it was obvious that both Mathis and Cynthia wanted to protest, in the end both simply nodded and walked out into the hall, with Nurse Beck bringing up the rear.

Matt Keller closed the door behind them, took a moment to take a deep breath and make sure his demeanor was entirely professional, and only then turned to regard his patient with an appropriate degree of composure.

He didn't have long to wait. "Nobody can fix this." It was not a question; it was a statement of perceived fact.

Keller moved forward slowly, his eyes noting all the damage to a face that had once been perfectly beautiful, but was now only a ruin, a broken reminder of what had been destroyed. Battered, distorted, torn . . . mutilated. "Brian, I . . ."

"No bullshit!" The mangled features contorted into a twisted smile, and, for the first time, Keller could not quite suppress a grimace of pain. "I'm an ad man, Matt - a master of bullshit, so don't waste my time - or yours. This . . ." He lifted a bandaged hand and touched his knuckles to his chin, none too gently. "This isn't going away. It's not going to get better; it's not a temporary condition; it's not a fucking boo-boo that's going to heal." He paused and swallowed hard, not quite successful in dislodging the lump in his throat. "This is who I'm going to be. From now on. And your boy-genius surgeon should find better ways to occupy his time."

When he jerked his hand away from his face and clinched it into a fist, Keller had no choice but to move quickly to grab it; he couldn't be certain of Brian's intentions but he was pretty sure he recognized a deadly anger and desperation in his patient's eyes. He had never doubted that Brian could and would handle whatever shit life might throw at him, but . . . he was struck by a flash of memory, a scrap of conversation between the two of them after Brian's cancer recovery.

"I didn't want to live - diseased and damaged and imperfect. I wanted to die." Brian's voice over the phone was strangely hollow, as if his mind was wandering through a bleak, empty landscape. "To leave everything and everyone behind, and party til I was ready to drop and then . . . just disappear. No good-byes, no grief, no tears, no weeping over might-have-beens. Forever young, forever beautiful."

"So . . . why didn't you?"

Matt closed his eyes and visualized Brian's shrug. "Debts to pay. Promises to keep."

The physician had chosen not to express his own sense of relief over what Brian had ultimately decided, or his profound sadness in the realization that his old friend had truly wanted to die, had never realized how much he meant to the people who loved him. Had, in truth, never understood how much he was loved.

Keller sat beside his patient, and regarded him with weary resolve. "Do you trust me?"

"With this?" The scorn in Brian's voice was as sharp as a blade. "You really are having delusions of godhood."

Keller leaned forward until his face was only inches away from his patient's, and braced his hands against the bed on either side of Brian's shoulders. "Shut up - and listen to me. If this had happened just a few years ago, then you'd have been right to doubt. You'd have been fucked - and not in a positive, life-affirming way. But we live in an age of miracles, Brian. Medicine has become an art, as well as a science, and the man who's going to work his magic on you is a fucking Michelangelo. And, by the way, you have no idea how hard it is for me to say that."

"So that's what I'm going to be? His fucking Sistine Chapel?"

"If that's what it takes to fix you," Keller replied with a shrug, "who gives a shit?"

Brian managed, somehow, to narrow his eyes, despite the swelling around them. "I don't know if I like the idea of being somebody's masterpiece. Is he queer?"

Keller shook his head and smirked. "I never cared enough to wonder where he puts his dick, though I do seem to recall an entourage of nubile young things with IQs down to here and boobs out to there. Maybe he's bi. You're the one with the infallible gay-dar, so you can figure it out for yourself."

Brian settled back against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling, focusing on nothing more than the tiny flicker of the fluorescent light fixture and concentrating only on breathing, ignoring everything but the in-and-out process of filling and emptying his lungs. Then he looked down and met Keller's eyes, peering deep into jade green depths to search for intimations of truth. "You really think he can do this? Turning Quasimodo into Casanova would be easier, I think."

"I really do. I wouldn't lie to you."

"But you don't know for sure?"

The fact that Keller's gaze faltered briefly spoke volumes before he had a chance to find the right words to cover up his misgivings. "Brian, you can't just . . ."

"Listen to me, Matt," Brian interrupted, reaching out to wrap his fingers in Keller's lapel. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening, Asshole. When have I ever not listened?"

Brian swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment, searching for the right words, but without much success. "I don't know how... to deal with this. I don't know how to ..."

"You're still Brian Kinney."

The patient could not quite suppress a sigh, and his attempt at a smile was painful to watch. "Brian Kinney," he said softly, "is beautiful. Always was. That's what Michael always said to me, whenever I had doubts about what I should do or . . . whatever. It's the only thing I ever had, to make me different, special. Without that, I don't know who I am."

"Oh, Baby," Keller whispered, "one day, I hope you'll begin to understand how beautiful, how special you really are - and always will be." Then he deliberately leaned forward and kissed Brian's lips, with excruciating gentleness, to offer comfort, without pain.

When he sat back, he was careful to avoid staring at Brian too intently, understanding instinctively that his old friend needed a few moments to regain his composure and rebuild the defensive walls that allowed him to function in spite of the pandemonium around him.

It was a delicate moment, potentially destructive, but the awkwardness was quickly eliminated when the doctor summoned Nurse Beck back into the room to apply fresh bandages to Brian's injuries, and Cynthia and Lance Mathis re-entered together. Cynthia was talking on her cell phone, eyes narrowed in concentration while Mathis was studying a photocopy of a police report, and Brian, in his attempt to ignore what the nurse was doing, found it reassuring, somehow, that both seemed focused on business as usual rather than caught up in the livid trauma of the situation.

Normalcy had never seemed so sweet.

Until, that is, the door opened again, and he knew that any semblance of normalcy within this framework was the illusion rather than the reality - that the drama surrounding this particular situation had only just begun.

Detective Horvath was first through the door, arriving in time to get a detailed look at the damage done to Brian's face. He had, of course, seen extremely graphic photos of what the attackers had done, but it was different, somehow, seeing it in the flesh. He came forward, nevertheless, without hesitating, and reached out to lay a hand on the patient's shoulder, refusing to flinch or allow himself to look away.

Brian took a deep breath, understanding how difficult the detective must find it to bury his natural reaction to such carnage and present a façade of detachment. "Hey, Carl," he said. "If you'll give me a minute - to finish getting my face on, as it were - I'll be right with you."

He was pleased when he noted that Horvath had to struggle to suppress a surprised grin. It seemed that his adoring public - as well as those who were not so adoring - was expecting to see him chastened and wallowing in self-pity and seeking sympathy. Well, fuck that!

His gaze was steady as he regarded the cop, sensing that Horvath might have pertinent information for him. Then he noticed that someone else had entered the room, someone who was standing just inside the door, apparently waiting for permission to come closer - someone whose features were indistinct, backlit by the reflected glare from the hallway.

"Hello, Brian," said the detective. "It's good to see you."

Brian managed a small chuckle. "Yeah. You too. So what can I do for Pittsburgh's finest?"

Nurse Beck finished with her task and ignored the cop as she checked the patient's IV. "How's the pain?" she asked softly.

"Thriving," Brian replied, with typical snark.

She glanced toward Keller who confined his response to a nod, authorizing another dose of narcotic painkiller.

"Could we hold off on that for a bit?" asked Horvath. "I really need to get a statement from him, while he's alert."

Both doctor and nurse looked as if they were going to object, but they were over-ruled by the patient. "It's okay," Brian assured them, before turning to confront Horvath with a level gaze. "If you make it fast."

Hovath nodded. "Short and sweet, I promise. Only there's someone you need to meet first. Someone you're going to get to know very well, before this case is over."

Brian sighed. "The Feds?"

"So far," said the stranger standing in the doorway, "just one Fed."

"So," drawled Brian, "where's the task force?"

A pleasant baritone laugh provided accompaniment as the individual came forward, right hand extended. "You shouldn't believe everything you see on TV. The task force - for now - is me."

Brian looked up and had the strangest sensation - as if the young man coming toward him was someone he had known before, although he was dead certain the two of them had never met. He would have remembered.

"My name is Chris McClaren, Mr. Kinney," said the newcomer, his fingers closing around the hand that Brian had lifted, just as if they'd met in a board room or at a social event, totally discounting the fact that the hand he took was swathed in bandages. "I'd say that it's good to meet you, but I'm sure you wouldn't agree, under the circumstances, so I'll spare you the pleasantries."

As it happened, Cynthia was staring at Brian's face at that moment, and she would always wonder how it was that she was the only one to notice the spontaneous flash of insatiable curiosity - and something even more elemental - that struck him as McClaren took his hand. Then she shifted her focus to the FBI agent, and saw the same exact response reflected in his expression.

Both were masters of self-control - and masks - so the reactions were quickly suppressed, so quickly that no one else even noticed. But Cynthia continued to stare at the two of them for a while - wondering what she had just seen, and then wondering if maybe she had just imagined it all. Especially when Brian immediately demonstrated his customary brass.

"How refreshing!" he replied. "Someone with the guts to mention that I have a right to feel like shit. Now can we get on with this? I need my beauty rest."

Chris McClaren took up a position behind Horvath, apparently willing to let the local constabulary lead the questioning, but Brian wasn't fooled. The man was totally focused, prepared to ignore everything and everyone around them to concentrate on whatever Brian had to say. Of course, the fact that the agent was built like - what was that disgusting expression that Emmett was so fond of? Oh, yes, a brick shithouse - was something of a distraction for the patient. And the rest of the features - Jesus! Ash blonde hair framing a perfect face, featuring sculpted cheekbones, sensual, molded lips, dimpled chin, strong, symmetrical nose, and large beautiful eyes, the color of a summer sky surrounded by a ring of twilight blue, rich as sapphires, and fringed with thick, dark lashes. Shit!

As beautiful as any man he'd ever met, and, being Brian Kinney, he'd met more than his fair share. Only now . . . shit!

"Agent McClaren is a profiler, Brian," said Horvath. "And, coincidentally, a specialist in undercover work. He's going to be your . . . "

Brian did not - quite - roll his eyes as he was struck with the irony of the situation.

"Beard?" he supplied.

"Just call me 'Whiskers'," drawled McClaren.

Brian looked up at the agent and saw something indefinable flash in those blue eyes. "Like Magritte's pipe?" he asked, his voice conveying a tiny, barely there nuance of amusement.

McClaren was not - quite - successful in concealing a surprised smile. "Precisely."

"Are you good at your job?" Brian didn't have time for bullshit, although he was gratified to realize that his instincts were as keen and true as ever.

"Extremely."

The patient sighed, his thoughts turning - as they did so frequently - to a lovely young face, a perfect young body, and the more lovely and more perfect heart and soul behind the exquisite physical image. "You'd better be," he observed, realizing that he alone knew how hard the task would prove to be. Justin was nobody's fool, and he would be expecting some kind of ruse, some kind of trick to undercut his stubborn determination to resume his place at Brian's side. He had been hurt by the things Brian had said to him - but he had not been convinced.

It would take more than the cruelty that Brian had wielded so wickedly. It would take hard evidence.

Brian spared a glance at McClaren's body. Hard evidence, indeed.

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

"This is bullshit!" Justin had entered the pool hall in a state of high dudgeon, and he hadn't yet managed to calm down, despite the efforts of Daphne and Drew Boyd to encourage him to do so.

Emmett, strangely enough, had said very little, apparently content to wait, to allow the younger man to vent his feelings of frustration and betrayal before attempting to reason with him. In addition, while he listened carefully to everything Justin had to say, he was also still caught up in the memory of his conversation with Brian, and found himself, for the first time, looking at events through new lenses, from a new direction.

It was amazing, he thought, how none of the group of people he considered his closest, best friends had ever once managed to step outside the box they all occupied and move around the emotional barriers that had been constructed for them. They had never seen the real Brian Kinney, because the real Brian Kinney had never allowed himself to be seen.

Only now, perhaps he had grown weary of the game, or perhaps he had simply assumed that his task was done - that no one would ever be sufficiently interested or motivated to look for the deeper meanings behind the mask.

Perhaps he had simply decided to stop hiding.

So caught up was Emmett in his thoughts that he did not at first notice when Justin retreated into a sullen silence, eyes locked on Emmett's face.

"Did you hear anything I said?" demanded the young blond in a tone thick with acid. "Or am I keeping you from something more important?"

Emmett's eyes were soft with sympathy, but his voice was remarkably steady when he started to speak. "You're assuming that I have the answers you want. But I don't. On the surface, Brian seemed much the same as he always did, after you left. But underneath . . . he changed, Justin. He allowed all of us to go on as always, assuming he would revert to the life he'd always lived. And we did, just as he planned. Only it wasn't real. Whatever Brian became once you were gone, he became . . . alone. None of us really knew him any more."

Justin barely managed not to flinch away from a truth he did not want to hear. "He says he found someone else. That he found someone who would give him what I couldn't. Surely, if that had happened, you would have known. All of you would have known."

"Would we?" Emmett sighed. "I've begun to wonder if any of us ever really knew him at all. In thinking back, I've remembered time after time after time when we all assumed that we understood why Brian did the things he did and how he would react to whatever we threw at him. But . . . we didn't really. And at those times when we did finally figure out what he'd done, we almost never understood why."

"Brian has never been one to hide who he is, what he is, so why . . ."

Emmett nodded. "That's what he trained us all to believe. But he's a little older now; he's lived through a lot, so maybe he's not quite so contained. Maybe it's not quite so easy to lock out the world."

"What the hell do you . . ."

Emmett reached out and touched Justin's cheek, sorry that he felt compelled to speak what was in his heart, but knowing he had no choice. "He believes," he said gently, "he was never what you really needed, or wanted. He believes that you left him - time and time again - because he couldn't be the person you needed him to be."

"Why on earth would he think such a thing?" Justin was outraged, furious. "I always came back. Every single time . . ."

"But only," said Emmett, "when you had no other option. At least, that's how he sees it. When you needed him to help you find your way back after the bashing, when the fiddler proved to be a pretentious, backstabbing cretin; when you felt obligated to take care of him when he had cancer; when Hollywood turned its back on you; when he was so devastated with guilt and fear after the bombing that he tried to become something he's not - something he thought you wanted him to be. From his perspective, it was never because he was your sole reason for living." He sighed and was surprised to feel tears rise in his eyes. "Like you were - for him."

"And you know this . . . how?" Justin demanded. "He wouldn't tell you that. Brian Kinney doesn't admit things like that."

"Ordinarily, I'd agree with you," Emmett replied softly. "But he's . . . I don't know how to explain it except to repeat what I said before. He's different. He still lives his life on the surface just like he always did. Still indulges and enjoys all his addictions; still has any trick he wants and fucks everybody who catches his fancy; still works as hard as he plays and sets the world on fire professionally. Shit, he's up for a Clio award this year, and he's landed some really big name, international accounts. He's still Brian Kinney - the Stud of Liberty Avenue. Except . . . something inside me insists it's all just a false veneer. Underneath, he's not the same."

"But you believe he still loves me? Right? You said I was his reason for living. Right?"

Emmett nodded. "You always were, once he got over the initial shock. I don't think Brian ever intended to let himself love anybody, because he never believed he was . . . well, let's not go there. That would just be speculation on my part. Anyway, I think it says plenty that he cared enough to refuse to lock you up behind closed doors, to always make sure you had the option to decide where you wanted to be. That much hasn't changed. But I think . . . look, I don't know anything about a new guy. But I do think he might have reached a point where he doesn't believe any more."

"Believe what?"

Emmett took a deep breath. "In the two of you. I think he might have just given up."

Justin suddenly seemed to find it hard to breathe. "He really told you that? He really believed that I only came back because . . ." He closed his eyes, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "How could he think that? Why would he . . ."

He opened his eyes then, to find his oldest, best friend staring at him, her lovely dark eyes filled with pity - and something more. "Daph?" he murmured, needing reassurance, needing to hear someone tell him that Brian had no right to believe such a thing. Only, that wasn't what he saw in her eyes.

"I love you, Justin," she said gently. "You're my best friend, and you always will be. But you've always been the one to walk away. I think the reason Brian always stood back and let you go was that he didn't believe he was the one you needed - or loved. I think he always expected that you would leave him, sooner or later, and you made it pretty clear, you know. Over and over again. It's possible he might have finally just accepted it."

Justin stood up abruptly, his mind reeling as he spun and walked to the bar where he sank down on a stool and buried his face in his hands. He had listened to everything Emmett had said, everything Daphne had said, and he had wanted to scream out his denial, to dispute every word.

But he couldn't. He couldn't because . . . they were right. He had always been the one to walk away. But not for the reasons Brian thought.

Oh, God! How could he have been so blind, so stupid? He had walked away, time and time again, because he was hungry to taste everything life could offer, because he was curious, because he wanted to see and experience the entire world. But only if he could be sure that, once he had sampled it all, tasted it all, experienced it all, he would be able to come home.

To the only home he'd ever wanted.

To Brian.

So why, he wondered, had it never occurred to him that he might find, when he was finally ready to return, that what he'd left behind might not be waiting for him?

His heart had insisted that Brian would always be there. But now . . .

No. He wouldn't accept this. He couldn't believe this. He turned back to face Emmett, and his eyes were filled with grim resolve. "You said that he was only able to hang on, to endure what they did to him, because he wanted to make sure I was safe. A person wouldn't do that if . . . if not for love. He still loves me. I know he does."

"I don't doubt that, Justin," Emmett admitted. "But loving you is one thing; waiting for you - believing in you - could be another. He might just be tired of watching you walk away."

Once again, Justin buried his face in his hands, suddenly swept into a cold awareness that he wanted to push away, to resist. How could he have fucked up so badly? And why had he never considered the consequences of his actions, without the fucking rose-colored glasses? "What have I done, Em?" he whispered. "I love him so much. I don't know how to live . . . without him."

Emmett exchanged glances with Drew - soft, loving glances filled with sympathy for the young blond's obvious anguish - and moved to the bar to drape his arm across Justin's shoulders. "It's funny, you know," he said softly. "All of us - his so-called friends - wanted nothing more than to make sure he never changed, that he'd always be the Brian Kinney we expected him to be. And you, who claimed to love him, seemed to want nothing more than for him to become someone else - the man of your dreams. And, in the end, we all screwed ourselves over. He changed, while all of us stayed the same. We're all still here, in the same place, and he's . . . " He paused as he felt Justin shudder under his arm. "I'm sorry, Sweetie, but I think he's just . . . gone."

Justin went very still then, as he felt Daphne step close and lay her head against his shoulder, offering the solace of a gentle touch. But it was not enough. Nothing, he thought, would ever be enough.

He wanted to scream, to yell at his companions to leave him alone, to break things and rage against the unfairness of it all. He wanted to push them all away, to strike out blindly, to hurt someone or something, so maybe he would feel his own hurt a little less. He wanted to blame somebody, but he couldn't, for there was ultimately nobody left to blame. Nobody except . . .

What had he done?

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