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Chapter 25


The realization that it was long past time to go home struck Sharon Briggs when it occurred to her that she could not remember the silken touch of her damask-patterned 800 thread count sheets against her skin or the smell of the special blend of espresso that wafted from her sunny kitchen every morning or the sound of raindrops dappling the surface of her flagstone terrace or the taste of the Scarlet O'Hara cocktails that the bartender at her neighborhood bar always made special for her. Enough was enough, she reasoned, since she couldn't even remember - exactly - just how long she'd been locked up in this mental ward that managed - but only just - to masquerade as a trauma center.

This observation was prompted by the confrontation she'd just witnessed between a boisterous, emaciated crack addict and Nurse Mandy Fleming, who had just ejected him - physically - from the private room where his grandmother was recuperating from a stroke. Apparently, the young thug had decided that his beloved Nana would be happy to give him permission to rifle through her belongings and steal a wad of cash from her purse, if only she weren't still comatose.

Sharon had watched the dust-up while forcing down an almost irresistible urge to spring from her seat and handcuff the little bastard while shoving her Beretta 9MM up under his sternum. She didn't act on the impulse, leaving the hospital security staff to deal with the fracas, but she'd been sorely tempted.

Which was another reason to go home.

But she couldn't - not quite yet.

According to the information she'd been given, her release would come tomorrow, when Brian Kinney was finally to be allowed to take flight, to go forth and try to find his way into whatever future awaited him; logic suggested that a few more hours spent here, in this sterile, colorless, perpetually mind-numbing environment, where drama unfolded only on the other side of gray walls and security doors, would be as futile as all the previous hours had been. Mostly.

Although she did have certain suspicions. But thus far, there was nothing she could prove, so she acknowledged that she should just pack up and go home.

Only . . . her suspicions were a little like an itch that needed scratching. She just had to figure out a way to reach the right spot.

She was still not entirely comfortable working under the supervision of the man who had borrowed her services from the Narcotics Division. Things were different among the narcs - by necessity. Regulations still had to be followed, of course, and policies observed, but there was more room for interpretation, more freedom to step outside the boundaries of convention in an environment peopled by drug dealers and their henchmen, and addicts and snitches and undercover cops representing a dozen different agencies - federal, state, and local. Still, she had to admit that Detective Horvath had surprised her by being a lot less rigid than she'd expected. He had allowed her to use her own judgment in a case that obviously had special significance for him, leading her to conclude that he had realized that his objectivity might be compromised if he refused to defer to those with more experience in undercover operations.

It took a pretty big man to cope with that kind of self-awareness.

Sharon, AKA Shoshona, had more than nine years of experience under her belt, years in which she had lived two completely separate lives. Two identities, two residences (although one of them barely even qualified as a squat) two personalities - two lives, each totally separate from the other. And Horvath had acknowledged her skill and expertise and refrained from throwing his considerable weight around. She respected him for that, but it didn't make her any less weary of the whole situation.

Was it any wonder she sometimes had trouble remembering who she was supposed to be at any given time? But, for this moment at least, there was no confusion, as she had been in character far longer than usual during this little excursion, becoming more and more comfortable in her adopted skin, and thus - paradoxically - more and more prone to fatal error. Slipping so deeply into alternative reality sometimes degraded natural tendencies to paranoia, which could save a life - or cost one.

She thought longingly of her Jacuzzi tub and the pitcher of Margaritas she could prepare to enjoy during a long, luxurious soak, as she watched a weary custodian push a dustmop across the floor, pausing along the way to watch David Letterman cracking wise with the latest blonde Madonna-wannabe.

Sharon sighed, and rose to walk to the window, pulling her shabby old parka more tightly around her slender form. She was not really cold, but the sterility and impersonal atmosphere of the hospital was beginning to wear on her, not to mention the fact that she had been 'in character' for such a long time now that she was losing touch with the person she really was - the stylish young woman whose closet was filled with Dolce and Gabbana clothing and Manolo Blahnik shoes and whose fashionable townhouse was furnished with Regency antiques and custom upholstered pieces and stunning impressionist artwork from a group of up-and-coming young artists who might very well turn out to be the Picassos of tomorrow.

Tomorrow. She had a ridiculous urge to break into song - a la Andrea McArdle - and go dancing down to the street and over into the parking garage where she could duck into her lovely little Mazda RX8 and step back into her genuine existence - simultaneously. Sharon had come from money - her father was the Briggs half of Freemont-Briggs Healthcare Products - and thus, was one of those rare individuals who did not depend on the earnings from her job to support her lifestyle. She was a cop - and a very good one - out of volition, not necessity, to the horror of her very traditional parents. And she had known Brian Kinney for a very long time, although he would most certainly not recognize her if he happened to catch a glimpse of her in her current guise.

She still got an occasional laugh from the memory of the look on her father's face when he'd been told the truth about his new face (yeah, right - like it was the 'face' that mattered) of BareBronze, who also happened to be the target of the old man's latest scheme to find a suitable mate for his hard-headed daughter.

She smiled, remembering how Brian had charmed her parents with his sardonic wit and sense of style. Then she recalled how he looked now, what had been done to him, and the smile faded. She turned away from the spectacle of the stormy night and looked across the bland, featureless waiting room toward the nurse's station . . . and went very still.

The itch was back and refusing to be ignored.

Perhaps the endless hours she had spent here, portraying a familial devotion to a comatose great aunt - the comatose patient was real enough, although the family connection wasn't - would not prove to be the complete waste of time she had feared, although she had, over time and with great reluctance, come to feel a certain connection to the old lady in Room 406, since it had become obvious that the elderly stroke victim - a retired school teacher - had no one else to care for her. How would it feel, she had come to wonder, to live through almost nine decades and find one's self completely alone and unattached to anyone after enduring so much of life? The answer, she thought, was something she preferred not to know. Thus, she had begun to talk to the old lady during her visits to the room, speaking in generalities, since she knew very little about the woman's past, but feeling compelled, somehow, to offer snippets of conversation and observations about life in general. She had no idea, of course, if the patient could hear her, or would care if she did, but she felt, somehow, that it was the right thing to do, especially since she was using the woman as an excuse for her continuing presence in the waiting room.

Nevertheless, professionally, it had not been a very productive period, but perhaps her luck was about to change, if she was very careful and very lucky . . . and very quiet.

Head Nurse Jessica Burnside had not had a very good night. She was obviously tired and frazzled and having a bad hair day, as she vacillated between hoping that everyone around her would fall into a deep, dreamless, bottomless sleep so she could just sit and vegetate for a while and - conversely - wanting some cocky little twerp to walk out of the elevator and give her a perfect opportunity to vent her not inconsiderable level of frustration. She almost envied Nurse Fleming's run-in with the crackhead. But for the moment, she would settle for a little peace and quiet to allow her to indulge her need for caffeine and to finish reviewing the physician's orders and medication instructions for the heart patient in 416, while awaiting the arrival of a new patient transferring in from the ICU.

Thus, when Viola Ritchie, an older LPN with a wide body and a cheerful disposition, and the freckle-faced nurse's aid who was her regular assistant departed for the night, the RN confined her farewell to a quick wave before returning to her task, her frown reflecting the degree of the headache pounding in her temples. So focused was she that she barely registered the passage of the respiratory technician who bustled down the hall to administer a breathing treatment to the pneumonia case in Room 411 and failed to notice the arrival of the lab tech who took up a position at the counter, where he proceeded to affix labels to a group of test vials and check them against notes on his clipboard. Nor did she see when the man shifted his body, with exaggerated casualness, in such a way as to shield his movements from inquisitive eyes as he lifted one folder from the chart cabinet and flipped it open to scan its contents and capture a couple of photos with his cell phone before returning the file to its original position, all in less than thirty seconds with no one the wiser. Dark eyes swept his surroundings and saw exactly what they expected to see - nothing remarkable and no living being except for the nondescript young black woman who had been sitting there in the waiting room for so long now that she had become almost a fixture, barely worthy of notice - especially since she seemed to be fixated at that moment on the latest Brangelina scandal exposed on the pages of a battered copy of Us magazine.

The man smiled, confidant that he had found what he was looking for and gone unobserved in the process.

Sharon Briggs saw the smile . . . and was careful to maintain her appearance of fascination with the ridiculous expose in the tabloid, while just glancing up at exactly the right moment to catch a glimpse of the man's employee ID tag.

Oh, yes. This night might just prove the old adage: good things come to those who wait.

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

Chris McClaren had been restless and apprehensive all evening, watching as midnight came and went and progressed into the wee small hours of the morning. He had finally managed to doze off just when the buzz of his cell phone caused him to jerk awake, scrambling to silence the device before it could awaken the room's other occupant, who definitely needed his sleep. Brian had not had an easy day, and the FBI agent hurried out of the room before speaking.

"Yeah?" he answered, after glancing at the phone's ID screen to identify the caller and noting that it was just past three AM.

"Very professional response, Agent McClaren," said a contralto voice with sardonic overtones.

"Hello, Alex," he replied, massaging weary eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Still rubbing elbows with the rich and famous?"

Alexandra Corey blew a tiny little raspberry into her phone before replying. "Bite your tongue, Junior. It was Sen. Marbury's sub-committee. Would you willingly rub anything with that woman?"

"Point taken," he conceded. "So . . . where are you?"

"In the Pitts, Hon. Literally. I've spent most of today getting to know your Mr. Kinney - a very interesting day, I must say."

McClaren chuckled. "He's definitely not your typical victim."

"Agreed. I'm really eager to meet him - to see for myself if he lives up to his press - but I think it's going to have to wait a bit longer. I still have more people to see, more details to nail down, before I'm ready to hear his side of the story."

McClaren was silent for a few seconds, debating whether or not to say what was on his mind or simply trust her to figure things out for herself, as she always did. Then he smiled as he realized that, by his very silence, he had already said too much.

"Out with it," she demanded, as he heard the snick of her cigarette lighter and comforted himself with the realization that her latest attempt to give up cigarettes had been as futile as the thousand or so earlier attempts had been. He knew it was petty of him to be glad that there was a weakness that she could not overcome by dint of sheer will power, but he was glad nonetheless. Such a weakness proved that she was not - quite - perfect, and that was a comfort to seriously flawed beings, such as himself.

"Don't make the mistake," he said slowly, "of judging him by standards that might not apply."

Then it was her turn to pause. "Do I detect a tiny nuance of admiration, Agent McClaren?"

He smiled. "Let's just say I'm withholding judgment until all the facts are in."

"I've read his file, you know. And seen his photographs."

He took a deep breath, struggling for patience. "Have you ever known me to be distracted by a pretty little face?"

"No," she admitted, "but he's hardly just a 'pretty face', is he?"

"No. He's not, which is reason enough to wait until all the facts are in before reaching any kind of conclusion."

"Good enough," she retorted, and he sensed, somehow, that she was pleased with him, which was reason enough for him to be moderately pleased with himself, as Alexandra Corey did not bestow approval without very good cause. "One thing is certain, however," she continued. "He apparently has an incredible gift for pissing people off. So much so that some of his biggest fans attempted to burn his house down tonight. Literally."

McClaren huffed a small sigh. He had not yet visited Kinney's home, but he'd heard about it from a variety of sources and found himself hoping it had not been destroyed by the man's enemies. He wasn't sure why, but he was hungry to see the place for himself.

"And did they succeed?"

"Are you kidding?" she chuckled. "The White House should have such a security system. A little bit of smoke damage on the bottom floor, some scorched tiles in the back entrance. Nothing to worry about. Have you seen his place, by any chance?"

"No. I've been too busy standing guard over his ass to go sightseeing."

"From what I hear," she laughed, "that's not such a terrible assignment."

"The ass may be charming," he retorted, "but he's got a mouth on him that you wouldn't believe."

"Oh," she said softly. "You'd prefer Little Mary Sunshine, maybe?"

He grinned. She really did know him entirely too well.

"Okay," he conceded. "So what's his place really like?"

"From what I hear," she answered, "it's a lot like him. Elegant, classic, stylish, and very, very self-contained - unless you know what to look for."

He wondered what she meant by that, but quickly realized that pressing her for an explanation would be counter-productive.

"Have you turned up anything interesting?" he asked.

"Interesting doesn't even begin to cover it," she said with a soft sigh. "Given his background, I'd say that we're all very, very lucky that young Mr. Kinney didn't turn out to be a combination of Jeffrey Dahmer, the Zodiac killer, and Jack the Ripper."

"Son of Psycho?" he asked, wondering why he wasn't more surprised.

"At least."

"Alex," he said softly, "he's just begun to process everything - just begun to confront issues he never thought he'd have to endure. He's going to need help, but . . ."

"Let me guess," she interrupted. "He's not going to make it easy for anybody to help him."

"How'd you figure that?"

She sighed. "Strong, independent, self-motivated individuals are seldom willing to admit that they can't handle everything on their own. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

"With all due respect," he replied, "I can almost guarantee you've never met someone like him before. He's . . . unique. And he resists any suggestions about counseling like it was a venereal disease. His entire philosophy can be summed up in two words: fuck therapy."

She laughed softly. "Oh, I am looking forward to this. You know how I enjoy a challenge."

McClaren grinned. "In that case, you better prepare yourself, because you're going to fall deeply, hopelessly, madly in love with this cocky, arrogant, sarcastic, completely uncontrollable little bastard."

"That's the second time you've called him 'little'," she observed, "which is unusual for you. He is a grown man, isn't he?"

"Mostly," the agent conceded. Then his grin grew wider. "But I'm taller and, believe me, when you're dealing with Brian Kinney, you need every bit of leverage you can get."


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

McClaren checked on Brian once he'd finished his conversation with his boss, and found him resting comfortably, which was a bit unusual. The Stud of Liberty Avenue - God, he really had to stop thinking of Kinney in those deliberately sardonic terms - seldom slept easily these days. He did not actually talk in his sleep, for the most part, but he was often restless, and his breathing was rarely regular and deep. McClaren was pretty sure he knew why, although the man was loathe to discuss it and, in fact, sharply denied any suggestion that his restlessness might be due to an endless succession of bad dreams.

Still, he was quiet for the moment, and the FBI agent thought he'd just grab a few moments of downtime - and a cigarette. He summoned his back-up to take up a place by the door before striding down the hallway toward a small balcony area that overlooked a rear courtyard. It was not - officially - a designated smoking area, but, under the circumstances and given the lateness of the hour, it would do.

He should have been surprised, he thought, as he stood looking out into the night, and watching as pale glimmers of moonlight managed to punch through the cloud cover, while he filled his lungs with the welcome tang of nicotine poison. He should have been - but he wasn't.

"Have you given up sleeping, for the duration?" he asked as Carl Horvath settled beside him at the railing.

Horvath grunted. "I hear that tomorrow marks the end of the duration," he said as he accepted a cigarette from the agent. "And if my better half ever asks you, you've never seen me smoke."

"Hey, I'm not the PC police monitor, so your secret's safe with me. But seriously, what the fuck are you doing here at this hour?"

Horvath looked up and noted that the clouds seemed to be fleeing before the onslaught of fresh winds out of the south. "Just had a little confab with one of my undercover people. She thinks she might have a lead worth pursuing."

"Someone here?" McClaren knew better than to question too deeply. Undercover work was hazardous enough without complications, and he wasn't about to complicate anything. Still, he was curious.

Horvath nodded. "Probably nothing to do with the original perps, but a possible connection to all the information that's been leaked to the press and whoever else might be interested."

McClaren nodded. "Stands to reason that the movers and shakers that set all this in motion would want to keep tabs on his condition."

Horvath turned to study the FBI agent's expression. "You think there's still more to come."

"Don't you?"

The detective sighed. "I think they're bound to be getting nervous."

"Meaning?"

Horvath paused before answering, considering his words carefully. "This whole thing was orchestrated in such a way that they had complete control of everything. From the very beginning. They were on this huge power trip, that allowed them to believe they could do anything they liked to him, and he'd have no recourse but to knuckle under - to crawl into a hole and hide from them and the world, and they'd just be able to walk away from it free and clear. But things didn't quite go as they planned."

"I'm not sure what you mean," McClaren replied, "except that they didn't have time to finish it."

But Horvath was shaking his head. "But that's only part of it. Think it through. First of all, they must have been astonished - not to mention infuriated - when Brian didn't react the way they'd planned. He defied them, apparently to the bitter end. So if they were outraged to begin with, just imagine how they must have felt when their plans were thwarted. Then there was the fact that Mathis and his crew were smart enough - with a bit of a boost from the 'luck of the Irish' - to figure out where to look for them and get there in time to prevent them from finishing him off according to plan. Not to mention sending them all scattering like roaches in a bright light, leaving a crime scene behind, along with a dead body. I'm sure you've realized that they never intended for anybody to find out where this happened. If they hadn't been interrupted, Brian would have been dumped somewhere out in BFE when they were done with him, with no way to connect him to that warehouse - or to them - and no evidence for our forensics people to process."

"So they're worried."

"Exactly. And now, they not only have to be concerned that someone might connect them - one way or another - to the crime scene or to the thugs they hired, they have to wonder if Brian might have seen something or noticed something or figured out something that they hadn't anticipated. In light of that, even though their original plans were for him to suffer a slow, agonizing, lonely death, they might be scared enough to stop worrying about extracting their version of divine justice and just want it done."

McClaren stubbed out his cigarette and dropped the butt into a trash barrel. "If you're trying to scare me, Detective, you're wasting your time. He already scares the shit out of me, with no help from you."

"What do you mean?" asked Horvath, obviously confused.

"He's going to make my job twice as hard as it has to be, because he's not going to be willing to keep his head down and his mouth shut. So . . ."

"So you've already figured out what you're up against." It was not a question.

McClaren's laugh was low-pitched and filled with irony. "I think it was Keller who mentioned that Kinney's only barely begun to confound us."

"Hard-headed little fucker is going to get himself killed," Horvath observed, taking a final drag on his cigarette.

"Not," said McClaren coldly, "on my watch."

Horvath just nodded.

"So," said the FBI agent, still staring out into the night, "this undercover cop of yours - how good is she?"

"As good as I've ever worked with. If she thinks she's found something, it bears checking out."

"So you'll keep me posted."

Horvath turned to go back into the building. "Don't worry about that, Mr. McClaren. If you fuck this up, your job might be on the line. On the other hand, if I let anything happen to young Mr. Kinney, a certain loud-mouthed redhead will be grinding my balls into mincemeat and serving them up with marinara sauce, so it's definitely in my best interest to make sure you're well informed."

McClaren smiled. "It's funny, you know."

"What?"

"That so many people care so much about a man who does his best to portray himself as a complete shit."

Horvath's eyes were suddenly suspiciously bright. "Yeah. It's funny."

McClaren smiled as he watched the detective turn away and move off down the corridor. Did any of them really understand what Brian Kinney meant to them, he wondered. Then his smile faltered as he looked at the question from a different angle - a darker, sadder angle. Did Brian himself have any inkling of how important he was in their lives, and, even if he did finally figure it out, would he be able to believe it?

He thought not.

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

There were voices all around him, but no faces. No solid forms. Everything - everyone remained in shadow, and every time he turned to try to determine who was speaking, the gloom seemed to thicken as the voices fell silent, only to be replaced by other voices, further away. All around him, there was only debris and smoke and ashes that hung motionless in the air, forming a curtain that felt tangible enough to resist his efforts to move forward, forcing him to push against the restraint. He didn't know why it was so important that he keep moving; standing still seemed a perfectly viable option, especially in light of the fact that the effort to move was painful, although he could not figure out exactly what was hurting him. The darkness was so thick and pervasive that he could not look down and see his own body, but the smell in the air was acrid with a coppery tang, and he was conscious of a slick wetness that seemed to envelope his lower torso. Was he bleeding? And why couldn't he remember what had happened - why didn't he know how he'd been injured, if he had, indeed, been injured, if it was not all just some weird illusion?

And why was it so important that he keep moving forward? What was waiting there ahead of him that he felt so compelled to pursue?

There were screams now, creating a shrill descant that rose and fell and sometimes obscured the softer moans and the sound of weeping that formed the baseline of a terrible symphony. Although they provided no real illumination, showers of sparks erupted above and behind him periodically, and there was the snap-crackle-buzz of electric wires swinging free and awaiting the random touch of careless hands. He was stumbling now, trying to feel his way around broken obstacles and through twisted rubble, while trying not to identify the charred lumps of flesh that were contorted into bizarre shapes along his path. He fell once, and cringed away from the gut-wrenching crispness of flame-broiled skin, blackened and bonded to scraps of melted polyester.

Death was everywhere around him, and he wondered why he didn't feel more afraid, and why he kept hearing Bob Dylan's famous line repeating in his mind.
"He not busy being born is busy dying."

He was not afraid for himself, but there were other considerations.

Memory stirred, shifted, and blended with dreamscape; he had been here before, but 'here' encompassed more than one memory, more than one place.

The stench was almost unbearable, and the air, almost unbreathable, until he looked up and saw . . . he thought he smiled as he realized that even this awful, pervasive darkness could not completely obscure the gleam of hair as golden as summer straw and eyes aglow with life, a sight just glimpsed until he stepped through the particulate curtain that surrounded the setting and saw . . . something else. Somewhere else. Below him, at the center of a shadowed arena, in a distant circle of light, somehow pale and icy, he saw a slender figure, elegantly clad in tuxedo and silk scarf, dancing away into the night, while a second figure, similarly clad, followed, swinging a baseball bat like a club.

"Justin!" He knew the scream was useless, knew that it had come too late and would not carry far enough. But he could not resist it, could not contain it, as he found himself sprinting down into that huge arena, watching the swing of that bat and hearing the heart-stopping sound of the blow as it impacted bone and flesh. Not once, but over and over and over again. And then he was there and he saw the blood and the crumpled body lying in the dark pool, and he threw himself forward to shove the attacker away, grabbing for the bat and preparing to administer a rough form of justice.

Only he couldn't because . . .

"No." The denial was torn from him, leaving him fighting to breathe.

He could not - would not believe it, as the attacker turned to face him and favored him with that mega-watt smile that had given rise to his nickname.

"Sunshine, what are you . . ."

He recoiled from the deep, icy rage flaring in the depths of those incredibly blue eyes and fell to his knees to wrap his arms around the limp body at his feet, murmuring a litany of denial as he tried to wipe the blood away from that beloved face, gone white as fresh snow. "No, no, no, no, no . . . God, no!"

Then he looked up and saw the same face laughing down at him. "You should have left me to die, Brian," said a cold and detached version of Justin, smirking at the bloodied vision of his own body and watching tears overflow from the eyes of the man who had been his lover. "Now, you have to pay, for both of us. And learn the most important lesson of your life - the wages of sin."

And he swung the bat, again and again, and Brian absorbed the force of the attack, trying to shield the body in his arms, feeling the blood flowing in rivers, feeling his skin split under the terrible power of the blows, until everything suddenly went silent, and the young man wielding the bat was no longer the attacker, but the attacked, as a group of ominous figures appeared around him, bearing chains and iron bars and bats of their own, and laughing as his eyes grew huge, as he recognized his danger, as he realized what was coming - as the cruel, vicious, empty-eyed doppelganger was transformed into the beautiful, vulnerable young man that Brian had always loved, even when he'd forced himself to deny it.

"Brian!" Justin cried, desperately seeking a savior. "Brian, don't let them . . ."

Brian knew he had little strength left, doubted that he could make a difference, felt himself edging toward darkness. But this was Justin. He could not just let himself go, could not simply release his hold on consciousness when it was Justin who needed help. The body he had held in his arms was gone now, and there was only the young man whom he held, instead, in his heart. Nothing else mattered; nothing else made sense if anything bound up in this kaleidoscope of nightmare could be said to make sense.

He managed to get to his feet and stepped forward to confront the savages he had confronted before, savages who had tried and failed to make him beg for his own life. But this time was different. This time it was Justin's life that hung in the balance.

"Please," he said softly, barely audible. "Please, don't hurt him."



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

To his surprise, Chris McClaren had managed to achieve a deep, restful sleep after his return to Brian's room, even though it only lasted a couple of hours. He had not expected to catch more than a quick nap or two, as was his wont when he was on a mission, but he was finding his current duty a lot more taxing than he'd anticipated - so taxing that he must have been more tired than he'd realized.

He smirked into the darkness as he wakened, admitting to himself that it wasn't actually the duty that was trying his patience so severely; it was the subject of his scrutiny. Kinney was . . .

Sitting up in bed, arms uplifted as if in supplication, breathing labored and hoarse, as he repeated the same words over and over again.

"Please don't hurt him, please don't hurt him, please don't . . ."

It was barely even a whisper, but the lack of volume did not diminish the level of desperation; Kinney was terrified - frightened enough to resort to begging, something McClaren was willing to bet he'd never done before.

The agent did not stop to think, did not hesitate. He simply leapt to his feet and climbed up onto the bed, wrapping his arms around the trembling torso of the young man who was - much to his surprise - becoming so important to him.

"Hush now, it's okay," he murmured, shifting so that his back was against the headboard of the bed so that he could settle Brian's weight against his chest. "Nobody's going to hurt him; it's all over. It's all over. It's just a dream." As he offered his singsong litany, his hands moved in soothing strokes against the areas of silken skin not covered by bandages, as Brian's breathing slowly eased to a normal rhythm.

"Justin?" Lost and uncertain, sounding for all the world like a frightened child.

"Justin's fine, Brian. Everything's all right. So just . . ."

"Justin? Did they hurt you? Are you . . ."

"No, Brian. Listen to me. Justin's fine. I told you, it's just a bad dream. So . . ."

"I'm so sorry, so sorry." The tears were flowing freely now, and the words were halting, broken. "I'm sorry I couldn't . . ." Brian was shaking, racked by silent sobs.

"Hush now. It's okay. He's fine, Brian. He's . . ."

"Justin? Please, answer me. Please don't . . ."

Shit!

"Oh, God, please don't let him be . . ."

Double shit!

McClaren took a deep breath before touching his lips to the bare skin near Brian's ear. "It's all right, Brian. It's me. It's Justin. And I'm all right. You saved me. You . . ."

"No, I didn't."

The FBI agent sighed and wondered if anybody - anybody at all - had ever realized the depth of the despair with which Kinney lived, every day of his life.

"Yes, you did. You saved me."

Brian's eyes were still closed, and McClaren was certain now that he was still locked up tight in the realm of nightmare, even though he was responding, marginally, to what was being said to him. So he continued to run his hands down Brian's back and to murmur soft assurances into his ear, until the shuddering sobs began to subside. He sighed then, thinking that the patient had emerged from the depth of his dark dream and slipped back into deep, mindless sleep. But it turned out that he was only partly right.

One form of nightmare had ended, but another was ongoing, possibly perpetual.

He almost missed it, as it was only a whisper, and barely even that. More of a faint exhalation - words barely breathed. He almost didn't hear it at all, and was, somehow, grateful that he was lucky enough to catch it, because he would come to believe - later - that it explained so much.

"I didn't save you. I never saved . . . anybody."

McClaren lifted one hand and stroked it though spikes of thick, dark hair. "Yes, you did," he replied. "You . . ."

He was more than a bit startled when he couldn't complete the assurance because his lips were suddenly taken by a soft but relentless mouth - a very skilled mouth that refused his somewhat feeble attempts at evasion.

Shit!

"Should I leave you two alone?" The question and the tone were sardonic, but the look in Matt Keller's eyes as he switched on a bedside light was as sharp as a freshly-honed blade.

Double shit!

"Doesn't anybody around here ever sleep?" McClaren growled.

"Don't you?" came the retort. "It's funny, you know. I thought your purpose here was to protect him. Instead of . . ."

"Relax, Doc. He was having a nightmare, and . . ."

"And?" Keller was not even close to backing down.

"And he thought I was Taylor."

Keller was quiet for a moment, apparently absorbed in evaluating data from the plethora of medical monitors arranged beside the bed. Then he looked up, and his eyes were filled with far too much understanding for McClaren's liking. "Convenient for you."

"Look, I didn't . . ."

"Just so you understand," Keller continued, determined to make his point, "the pain meds are still working on him. Makes it difficult for him to determine what's real and what's not. So his judgment is a little impaired right now. It would be a mistake to assume that he's aware of . . ."

"I don't assume anything." McClaren's response was sharp, brittle with the level of his irritation, and he was immediately annoyed with himself for letting any nuance of his emotional reaction color his tone. He extracted himself from Brian's arms and stood, his gaze meeting the physician's with an almost measurable degree of defiance.

Keller proceeded with a quick examination of his patient, his demeanor completely professional as he recorded his findings in Brian's chart. Then he paused, and lifted his eyes to examine the expression of the FBI agent who was watching him like a hawk.

"Can I give you a piece of advice?" he said finally, choosing his words carefully and managing, with the aid of a deep, cleansing breath, to suppress the resentment that always flared within him momentarily whenever he witnessed the inevitable fascination that people developed for his old friend. He had absolutely no right to be jealous of anyone in Brian's life, and he knew it, but that didn't change the fact that he always was, just a little.

"Fire away," retorted McClaren, wary now, but willing to listen.

"I imagine that you must - as a matter of professional necessity - regard everyone with a certain level of suspicion. You could hardly do your job if you didn't. And I'm sure you've encountered some of the worst examples of scum and villainy that the human race has managed to produce in the course of your career - individuals that live in the heart of darkness, so to speak, who are a danger to anyone who comes in contact with them."

McClaren just nodded, understanding - somehow - that what the doctor was trying to say to him was important, not for the sake of his job, or his clients, or his employer, but for himself.

"So it stands to reason you have to be able to recognize danger when you see it," Keller continued, his eyes very focused, very intense. "But sometimes, it can sneak up on you - come at you from an unexpected direction."

"What is it you're trying to tell me, Doc?" McClaren's patience - ordinarily almost inexhaustible - was wearing thin.

Keller smiled. "You obviously already know how to watch your back, but you might want to pay a little more attention to watching your heart."

McClaren managed to dredge up a quite convincing smirk. "So . . . what? You're warning me because you're concerned for my well-being? You think I'm cruising for a broken heart?"

"What I think," Keller replied, completely unperturbed, "is that you have no idea just how dangerous this man can be."

"The so-called Stud of Liberty Avenue?" McClaren's tone was thick with scorn.

Keller's gaze was steady. "If that's what you see when you look at him - if that's all you see - then forget I mentioned it. You have nothing to worry about."

McClaren frowned. "Meaning what, exactly?"

It was Keller's turn to smile. "Stupid people are immune to the infection known as Brian Kinney syndrome. You'll never even register on his radar."

McClaren was still trying to come up with a suitably withering retort when the physician went strolling out of the room.

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

Ben stood looking out the kitchen window, not quite sure he could believe what he was seeing. He almost couldn't remember how long it had been since their tiny back yard had been touched by real, honest-to-God, undiluted sunlight. The clouds and the frigid rains of winter's last gasp - despite the fact that the calendar claimed that spring had sprung - had dissipated overnight, leaving a huge sweep of brilliant blue sky to smile down on a city too long wrapped in deep chill.

He sipped at a much-needed cup of coffee and wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the change in the weather might be enough to spark a change in the mindset of his husband. Then he sighed, recognizing the futility of the thought.

Michael was not going to be cheered up by any of the lovely markers that announced the arrival of spring. The truth was that Michael was probably not going to be cheered up at all - not for a very long time. And Ben was struggling with himself over whether or not he should take steps to put an end to the depression that had gripped his young partner since his last encounter with the only other person in the world who held the power to inflict that kind of damage on him.

He sipped again, still undecided. He was almost certain he had figured out what Brian was doing - and why. What he didn't know was whether or not he would be doing Michael a favor by making him see the truth, or exposing him to dangers that didn't bear thinking about, a consequence for which, he knew, Brian would never forgive him and would - in his own inimitable way - exact vengeance.

He still found it ironic that he, of all the people who were members of Michael's extended family, was the one who had finally - to some small degree - begun to unravel the snarled skeins of the enigma that was Brian Kinney, and he was pretty sure it was only because he was somewhat immune to the man's charm. Okay; that was a bit of an overstatement. In truth, no one was completely immune - not if Brian decided to exert himself enough to focus his efforts on any one individual - but the truth was that Brian, for whatever reason, had never exerted such effort toward Ben. On the one hand, Ben half believed it was because, as Brian himself had admitted following the debacle at the Babylon bombing vigil, Brian didn't like "Zen Ben" very much, but, on the other, he had a sneaking suspicion that Brian understood him perfectly well and even - maybe - respected him a little, even if he scoffed at most of the things Ben believed in.

There was, however, a 'third hand', so to speak - maybe the most important thing of all. Ben sometimes believed that Brian could forgive him anything, simply because he loved Michael, and that was reason enough.

At any rate, whatever the explanation, Brian had never been completely successful in convincing Ben to buy into the façade he maintained for the rest of the world, thus allowing Ben to recognize a basic truth.

Beneath the arrogance, beneath the hype, beneath the glitz and the glamour and the flagrant self-interest, Brian Kinney was the most honest, most generous man Ben had ever known. That was, of course, in addition to the fact that he was a complete shit, when the mood took him.

All fundamental truths, none of which solved his current problem.

But, with a nod to the Zen teaching that even the longest journey begins with a single step, he turned away from the window to pour his husband, still snug in their marriage bed, a cup of dark, rich, aromatic coffee, in an attempt to entice him to rise. Shining, he would worry about later.

He was, however, a bit late with the effort as Michael came stumbling into the kitchen just as Ben was spooning sugar into the Rage mug that was Michael's favorite.

"Morning, Baby," Ben offered, careful not to inject too much cheer into the greeting, since Michael would undoubtedly bristle if he detected any false note of merriment.

"Mmmhmm." Which could mean absolutely anything or - more likely - nothing at all except, "Gimme the fucking coffee."

Ben set the mug down on the table as Michael dropped into a chair, one hand lazily scratching at his chest.

"You want some breakfast?"

"Mmmhmm."

Ben chose to interpret that as an affirmative.

"Waffles? Toast? Oatmeal?"

No response.

"Fine herbs omelette, with a serving of hemlock?"

Michael looked up from the night-black liquid in his cup to fix his husband with a fishy stare. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Just something to grab your attention. Michael, you need to . . ."

"Ben, just . . . stop. OK? I know what I need to . . ."

The knock at the door came at a very opportune moment, from Michael's perspective, since he really had no idea how he'd planned to end that sentence.

Although, when he saw who was standing on the porch, he was less certain he should be happy with the interruption. He had not seen either Monty or Eli since the ugly confrontation in Brian's hospital room, except for casual glimpses as the two couples came and went in the course of their days. And he wasn't sure he was ready to see them now, not quite able to put aside his memories of the things they'd said during that ugly little episode.

Still, he wasn't prepared to be rude, and he had to concede that they were certainly not alone in their willingness to judge Brian harshly. Half of gay Pittsburgh - the half that considered itself superior to the world Brian occupied - would probably agree with them.

"Just thought we'd stop in to see how you guys are doing," gushed Eli, his manner indicating that there should be no cause for awkwardness in the moment. "We brought muffins."

Monty held up a bakery bag. "Michot's Bakery. Fresh out of the oven."

Michael's hesitation was brief, but not quite brief enough to be termed non-existent, and, when he stepped back and opened to door wide to admit them, the couple exchanged quick, knowing glances.

"We brought plenty," said Monty as they followed Michael into the kitchen. "In case Hunter or J.R. might be here."

"No," said Ben, quickly and correctly reading the uncertainty in Michael's expression. "Neither one is here, but judging by the smell from that bag, I'm sure we can do them justice."

Eli smiled, ignoring any potential awkwardness. "Only the best for our good neighbors. You can choose between banana-chocolate chip, cappuccino-chocolate, carrot-and-raisin, or nutty-mincemeat."

Ben nodded, fetching fresh mugs from the cupboard. "And the coffee's fresh brewed."

They all settled in to sample the baked goods, and even Michael was tempted enough to polish off a couple of the sweet morsels.

Then Ben made a bit of a production of looking up at the clock. "This was really nice of your guys, but, unfortunately, duty calls. I've got a class in less than an hour, and Michael . . ."

His husband shrugged. "That's the advantage of being your own boss. I get to come and go - or not come and go - as I choose."

"Michael . . ."

Eli held up a hand, signaling his intention to step into this particular breach. "Michael," he said, very reasonably he thought, "we've noticed that you've been a little out of things lately, and we're worried about you. Don't you think it would be better to get back on the horse, and . . ."

"With all due respect, Eli," Michael retorted, his tone not particularly respectful, "you have no idea what I've been dealing with, and I'm the one who'll decide when it's time to let it go. You just . . ."

"But surely, now," said Monty slowly, "you'll be able to put it all behind you. Since he'll be gone, and . . ."

Michael went very still. "What are you talking about? Who'll be gone?"

"Why, Brian Kinney, of course," Monty replied, with a small note of self-satisfaction in his tone, and a quick glance at his partner that conveyed the tiniest nuance of I-told-you-so. "After today, he'll be . . ."

"What. He'll be what?"

"Oh, no!" Eli managed to sound both confused and embarrassed, although Ben, silently observing the whole act, was almost certain he was actually neither. "We didn't mean to intrude, Michael, but we were sure you must know about it. Although, in truth, no one knows exactly where he's going. Only that he's leaving today. And it seems he'll be gone a very long time. Rumor has it he's going for treatment, but nobody is sure exactly what that means. Therapy, maybe, to help him deal with . . . well, with how he looks now. After all, it's a far cry from who he used to be, isn't it?"

Michael stood so quickly that his chair tipped over backwards and crashed to the floor. "I have to go," he said abruptly. "You'll excuse me."

"Oh, but Michael," Monty protested, "you know it's . . . it's almost impossible to get in to see him these days. Between the police and his security people and that guy who's always there with him, and Dr. Keller . . ." The last word was spoken with particular disdain.

Michael barely paused on his way toward the stairs to call out a response. "No. It might be impossible for you to see him, but he'll see me. One way or another."

Ben just happened to be looking at Monty, as the lab technician turned and exchanged quick, but loaded glances with his partner, and knew that something was definitely up,  something more than it seemed, and abruptly realized that he had never really liked either of the two men very much, although he'd let himself be taken in by their domestic bliss routine during a time when he and Michael had been particularly needy and vulnerable.

But he had no time to pursue that thought for the moment. He had something more important to do, to help his husband prepare for the confrontation he was facing.

The time had come . . . for truth.

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

Brian sipped at his espresso gratefully, favoring Matt Keller with a quick thumbs up while Rick Turnage made new, apparently extensive notes on his PDA, and Cynthia arranged a sheaf of documents that needed Brian's signature.

Completely out of character for her, Cynthia seemed nervous, the papers trembling in her hand as she tried to put them in order, and Brian noticed immediately, despite the fact that she was obviously trying to conceal her unease.

"Matt," Brian said softly, "could you take Pygmalion out of here for a minute? I need to have a brief business discussion with my junior partner."

Rick Turnage turned to stare directly into the eyes of his patient. "Pygmalion?"

Brian shrugged. "Sorry." But his tone made it plain that the apology was just a token.

Turnage was obviously not happy with the comment, but did not resist as Keller, wearing his customary smirk, led the plastic surgeon out into the corridor.

"Junior partner?" Cynthia managed a soft chuckle, still not completely herself, but sounding slightly calmer.

"Actually," Brian replied, reaching over and extracting a file from the nightstand, "yes. All signed, sealed, and delivered, and completely legal."

Cynthia's eyes grew huge as she stared at the document he'd placed in her hand. "Brian," she whispered, "no. I can't accept this. I can't let you . . ."

She saw the smile in his eyes. "You can't stop me. It's done."

"But . . ."

"Cynthia," he said earnestly, "you need to understand this. No matter how much he insists otherwise, there's no guarantee that God-the-Surgeon's-Son out there is going to be able to do what he says he can. There's no guarantee that I will ever come back here. And, if that's how it all turns out, you're the person who'll have to run Kinnetik for me. For me, and for Gus. And for you . . . and Katy."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "For you," she whispered. "And for Gus and Katy. But only until you come home. I will not accept that you won't be coming back. You promise me, Brian, that you'll come back to us, no matter what. Do you really think I give a shit what you look like? Do you really think any of us care about that?"

He sighed. "Some will, and you know as well as I do that, in advertising, image is everything. Kinnetik needs a pretty face to present to the world. And now, that's you."

She nodded. "But only until it's you again."

He managed a small laugh. "Okay. If that's how you want to look at it."

She looked at the document again, which granted her a one-quarter interest in the company. "There are some people who are not going to be pleased with this," she said slowly.

He shrugged. "Fuck 'em all, Girl Friday."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Fuck 'em all. Now sign this shit for me so I can . . ."

"No need," he reminded her. "Your signature will work just as well."

"Maybe so, but I . . ."

She was interrupted by a commotion at the door and a cacophony of voices, as Chris McClaren left his post by the window, where he had been discreetly pretending not to hear the exchange between Brian and his assistant, and hurried to intercept whatever trouble might be trying to break in.

Trouble, as it turned out, was embodied in one dark-haired young man with determination in his belly and fire in his eye, with his hunky partner-in-crime at his heels.

"Brian!" Michael's voice rang out like a rifle shot. "If you don't let me in, I'm going to tell my mother what really happened to her souvenir hurricane glass from Pat O'Brien's. I'm going to tell Horvath who really glued Judge Roy to the toilet seat. I'm going to tell Doc Harding what happened to his Rolls-Royce hood ornament. I'm going to . . ."

"Fuck!" said Brian, trying to concede defeat gracefully. "Let him in before he wakes the dead."

Michael didn't wait for a formal invitation, but forged inside, actually nudging Chris McClaren out of his way and leaving Ben to follow as best he could.

"Fuck you, Brian Kinney!" Michael snarled, stopping beside the bed and staring down at the man who had been his best friend since junior high school. "You're fuckin' pathetic, you know that?"

Brian simply blinked, and resorted to his coldest, most condescending manner. "What the fuck are you raving about?"

But Michael was not buying it. Instead, he simply leaned forward and kissed Brian - the kind of kiss that they only exchanged when their feelings were too profound for words. "Mikey . . ."

"Shut up, Brian!" Michael snapped. "And listen to me. Are you listening?"

Brian was not quite able to suppress a reluctant smile. "Yes. I'm listening."

Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, and stared daggers at Chris McClaren when it appeared that young man might step forward and try to pull him away. "Do you have any idea," he asked, returning his attention to his old friend, "how stupid I feel? That it took Ben to figure it out, and show me what you were up to? That I thought I knew you better than anybody, but never understood what you always tried to do?"

"Mikey . . ."

"I said, Shut - Up!" Michael retorted. "For once - just this once - you're going to listen to me. You're going to hear me. Understand?"

The smile was almost a grin now. "Yes, Boss."

"Sometimes, Ben understands me better than I understand myself. I know you probably think that's bullshit, considering your attitude about marriage and monogamy, but it's true anyway. He's the one who figured out how much I was hurting - inside - when I turned my back on you. And he's the one who reminded me that you've always protected me, even when I didn't understand that I needed protecting. And, finally, he's the one who's always known how much I loved you - how much I still love you. And I don't give a flying fuck whether you're still the beautiful Brian Kinney or you look like some ugly troll." His voice went soft then, as his eyes were suddenly filled with tears. "You're still my Brian, and you will always be young and beautiful to me, because I don't see you with my eyes. I see you . . . with my heart."

"Mikey . . ."

"Shut up. I'm not done."

"But . . ."

Ben was smiling. "I'd advise you to do as you're told, Mr. Kinney. He's in rare form today."

"Yeah," Brian muttered, "and it's all your fault."

"No more games, Brian," Michael said softly. "You've managed to fool just about everybody, for as long as I can remember, but you keep forgetting that I know you; I know what's under all the bullshit, and I'm not buying into the act any more. You're going away from us - today, if I heard right - but you're never going to be able to leave me behind. Because I'm always with you. And I always know what you are." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Brian's forehead. "You're my best friend, and I love you, and I know what you deserve out of life."

"Yeah?" There was only a faint tremor in Brian's voice, but it was definitely there. "And what's that?"

"The best." Michael was absolutely certain. "Because that's what you are - the best friend a man could ask for."

"Mikey?"

"Yeah?"

"You're pathetic."

"I know."

"And I'm no angel, you know. In fact, I'm still more sinning than sinned against."

Michael blinked. "Huh?"

Ben chuckled. "Only Brian Kinney can twist Shakespeare around to suit his own purposes."

But Michael was not - quite - done. He had come to get an answer - one particular answer - and he wasn't leaving without it.

He looked down at Brian's face and waited until his old friend met his gaze, his eyes steady and unshadowed. "Do you still love me?" He asked, his voice feather soft, his heart in his throat.

Brian knew he should deny it. Knew it would be the smart thing to do, for everyone's sake - especially Michael's. And he had always had the ability to lie very convincingly, without reservation, if he believed that the truth would hurt the people he loved.

Only, for some ungodly reason, not this time.

"Always have," he answered finally, lifting his hand to touch Michael's face. "Always will."

Michael took a moment to close his eyes and revel in the gentle touch of the fingers against his face. "Me too," he murmured finally. "And when I call you, you better fucking answer your phone. Am I allowed to know where you're going?"

Brian looked up and saw the warning in Chris McClaren's eyes. "It's better that you don't," he answered. "Better for you, and better for me."

Michael nodded, reluctantly, and looked over at his partner only to see that Ben was studying Chris McClaren's expression with great interest. He'd have to make a mental note to question his partner about what he'd found so interesting.

"One more thing," said Brian, as Michael hugged him, albeit very gently. "The people who did this . . ." he drew a deep shaky breath,"weren't kidding, Mikey. They meant to do as much damage as they could, to me and to the people I care about. And that could include you. So you promise me that you'll be careful. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise."

"I promise."

"Swear it!"

Michael was, by this time, having trouble seeing through the tears clouding his eyes. "I swear it, if you'll swear that you'll come back to us." He paused for a moment to regain his composure. "Nothing would ever be the same without you."

Good-byes followed - quick, brisk, tearless. Mostly. Until there were only the patient, his primary physician, and his FBI bodyguard/pseudo-lover left in the room.

"You okay, Brian?" Keller's tone was very gentle.

"Fabulous," came the cold, clipped answer. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Keller leaned forward, ostensibly to check the security of the patient's IV line, but managing, in the process, to lay a tender palm against a bare patch of skin. "No reason," he replied. But his touch said much more. "The chopper will be here soon, so they'll be moving you up to the roof in a few minutes."

He started to pull away, but Brian caught his hand and held him motionless for a moment. "Thanks, Matt. I won't forget everything you did for me."

Keller grinned. "Damned right you won't. I intend to hold it over your head, forever." Then he dropped a quick kiss on Brian's forehead, and he was gone.

Minutes later, so was Brian.

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

The half-played chess game lay on the table before them, mostly forgotten, as Justin's eyes wandered repeatedly to the brilliant morning light pouring through the windows. His companion took another sip from the super-sized cup of Starbuck's French roast, extra bold coffee, a treat his young friend had brought to him every morning since he'd discovered how much Cedric longed for the taste of the dark roast blend native to his hometown. This was not real Cajun coffee, but it would do in a pinch.

They had started their game early, as they did almost every morning, since neither ever managed to sleep late given the general clamor of the hospital setting. Cedric, of course, had a designated room as part of his rehab program, but Justin tended to roam the corridors of the facility, sleeping wherever the notion took him - waiting rooms, consulting rooms, even empty patients' beds, on occasion.

Many of the staff members knew, of course, but they also knew why he was here, since several of them were part of his information network, helping him to keep tabs on the condition of one Brian Kinney. Doing so was against any number of regulations - local, state, and federal - but somehow, none of those he had enlisted could quite find it in themselves to deny his request for help. They laughed at themselves when they realized that they were moved to help him for ridiculously romantic reasons, but there it was, and they did not shirk their duties to him. He was young; he was beautiful, and what had happened to the man he obviously loved so desperately was enough to motivate anyone to try to help him.

At any rate, they all turned a blind eye to his transgressions, and did their best to grant him whatever comfort he managed to take from his desperate situation.

He sighed as he looked once more out into the sunshine, and thought about simple things like walking in the park, and floating in a pool, and driving with the top down. With Brian, of course. Otherwise, it just didn't matter.

Then he looked back at his friend, and read sad comprehension in the old man's eyes. His throat felt dry, and a glance at his watch revealed that he had been talking for more than an hour. He hadn't realized it had been so long; also hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to have someone listen to his story - his whole story, stretching from that first moment under a streetlight on Liberty Avenue, through his misadventure in a parking garage, his dalliance with Ethan, Brian's cancer and the whole Stockwell debacle, his glamorous stint in Hollywood, the bombing at Babylon, the wedding that didn't happen, and all the long hours since that last moment he'd spent with the man who still owned - would always own - his heart.

Cedric had been extraordinarily attentive, asking questions when appropriate, but mostly just listening.

When Justin had finally fallen silent, after struggling through a rough but thorough description of what had been done to Brian, and how he'd behaved afterwards, Cedric had nodded, and taken a few minutes to consider what he'd heard.

Justin was still waiting to hear whatever wisdom Cedric might have to offer in response.

The first thing the elderly man said puzzled him.

"If I were to tell you that your entire story involved the regular repetition of three little words, what do you think I'd be talking about?"

Justin smiled. "Guess there's no denying that I love him."

Cedric nodded. "I know that you do, Justin, but those aren't the three words I'm talking about."

"They're not?" Justin was honestly confused.

"No. They're not. You tell your story beautifully, you know, and you make your feelings for him very clear. Not to mention painting him with words almost as perfectly as I'm sure you paint him in oils. But this, ultimately, was not the story of how much you love him. The three words that you repeated - not just once, but several times - are, 'I left him'. Does it really surprise you so much that he has begun to doubt your willingness to base your life on your feelings for him?"

"But . . ."

"Especially," continued the older man gently, "if he's one of those noble souls who tends to blame himself for all the sins of the world. As I suspect he is."

"Brian?" Justin laughed. "Brian never blames himself for anything. He thinks he's perfect - above reproach."

Cedric's smile was very gentle. "Does he now?"

"Yes, he . . ." Justin fell silent, struck by a series of memories. Brian's face when he was trying to help Justin regain his memory of his bashing - white, and still and clinched with pain. Brian's face whenever he had refused to bind Justin or Lindsey or Michael - or anyone at all - to him whenever they chose to escape his grasp; Brian, resisting help or sympathy when he was diagnosed with cancer and didn't wish to be a burden to anyone; Brian after the bombing, helpless and desperate to make up for something he had no part in, but . . .

Could it really be that simple?

Cedric smiled again. "Perhaps you need to rethink your conclusions."

"Yeah." Justin felt like a kid with a brand new toy, eager to explore whatever it offered. "Maybe I do."

"Justin!" It was Roy Guerrio, one of the housekeeping staff who regularly worked the wing where Brian's room was located. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Hey, Roy," he replied. "What's up?"

The big, black man rolled his eyes. "What's up, Blondie, is that there's a medical chopper coming in for a landing as we speak, and your boyfriend is going to be loaded onto it, heading for parts unknown. And if you're gonna catch him before he's gone, you better skedaddle right now."

"What? What the fuck? Why didn't anybody tell me?"

Justin was already on his feet, racing toward the elevators.

"Not that way," shouted the housekeeper. "Take the stairs to the roof. It'll be faster. As for why nobody told you, it was top secret, I guess. I don't think anybody knew."

But he was talking to thin air, as Justin had already slammed through the door to the stairwell.

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

Chris McClaren didn't like rooftops. They made him nervous - too exposed, too lonely, too open, too unprotected. But since one couldn't very well land a helicopter in a parking garage, he supposed he'd just have to deal with it.

He had posted look-outs, both police officers and Mathis' security guards, and the bureau was monitoring everything via satellite. But he still didn't like it.

The chopper was heading toward them from the South, and would arrive within two minutes, and then it would be a matter of moments to get Brian and the plastic surgeon aboard for a short hop to a small local airport where they would board a private jet to complete their journey to the coastal area of North Carolina where Turnage's ultra-upscale, ultra-private little clinic and the cottage that had been rented for Brian's use were located - places which would be considerably easier to secure than this giant, sprawling complex.

But first they had to get there.

Brian was seated in his wheelchair, with a nurse close at hand to monitor his condition and his vital signs, while Rick Turnage asked him a series of questions, referring to information in the voluminous chart he had extracted from his briefcase.

A clatter behind them caused McClaren to spin toward the disturbance, and he had almost drawn his sidearm before he realized who it was who was sprinting toward them across the flat surface of the roof. A quick hand signal alerted the security people that the threat was not a real threat, but he shuddered to think how easily the situation could have gotten out of hand if Taylor had not been so instantly recognizable.

"Brian!" The young man wasn't wasting any energy in trying to approach quietly. "Brian, wait!"

McClaren glanced down at Kinney, and saw the renewed surge of despair in his eyes.

Justin was just a few feet away before he seemed to realize that he might be crossing some line he should not cross and slid to a halt. "Where," he asked, gasping to catch his breath, "are you going?"

Once more, Brian had cause to be grateful for the bandages obscuring his face. Even wearing the mask, he wasn't entirely sure that his hunger for his former lover might not be glowing in his eyes, so he was careful to keep his gaze turned toward the approaching helicopter.

"I don't see why you need to know that," he replied shortly.

"But why? How can you be sure you'll be safe out there, wherever you're going?"

Brian's snicker was particularly nasty. "Like I was safe here, you mean?"

"No, I . . ."

"I told you to go home," Brian continued sharply. "Why are you still here?"

If McClaren had foreseen it, or been fast enough, he would have stepped in to intercept the young man, but Justin was surprisingly quick, and was on his knees at Brian's feet before anyone had a chance to react.

"Because I love you. And because I know you still love me, no matter how much you claim otherwise."

Brian closed his eyes, and only McClaren was close enough to notice how much he was trembling as he fought to regain his emotional control. "If you really love me," he said finally, softly, "you'll do as I ask and let me go. I can't spend my life waiting for you to make up your mind, Justin. You wanted your freedom; now you have it. So go. Fly away."

Tears trembled on golden lashes, as a gentle hand reached up to touch Brian's face. He flinched away, but not quite quickly enough to prevent Justin from caressing his cheek, the gentleness of the touch feeling like a red hot brand against his skin.

"I can't fly . . . without you, and I know you don't mean it. Please, Brian. Don't leave me."

"I have to," Brian whispered, suddenly weary of it all. "I'm tired, Justin. I can't do this any more. I need you to let me go."

Justin studied his face, trying to see through the bandages, trying to read an expression he couldn't see, but all he could actually see were Brian's eyes, which seemed to be filled with an almost unbearable sadness.

"Is that what you really want?"

Brian thought his heart might shatter in his chest as he recognized the defeat in Justin's weary voice.

"It is," he answered, forcing himself to allow nothing of his grief to color his tone.

"Then show me," Justin demanded. "Say good-bye, exactly the way you always have."

Brian didn't know if he could endure this, but he knew what he had to do. He leaned forward, and reached out to caress beautiful, pale, silken skin and hair shining like spun gold in the bright morning light. Then he touched his lips to the mouth that he would have gladly spent a lifetime devouring, if fate had only allowed it, and traced his tongue across its sensual curve.

"I did love you," he whispered, barely able to swallow the tears rising in his throat,"but it's time to let it go."

Justin simply nodded. Then he stood up and walked away. He never looked back as he heard the helicopter settle to the roof behind him, and was buffeted by the wild cyclonic swirl of its landing.

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