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Chapter 41


Change can come on tiptoe;
Love is where it starts.
It resides
Often hides
Deep within our hearts.
And just as
Pebbles make a mountain,
Raindrops make a sea,
One day at a time,
Change begins with you and me

 Ordinary Miracles
n -- Ruthie Henshall


There were few things in life, thought Brian Kinney, which could surpass, or even equal, a fine meal followed by a top shelf French cognac and a genuine Cuban cigar: Justin's ass and/or mouth and/or cock - depending on the circumstances; the sweet scent and feel of Gus's little body in his daddy's arms after a pre-bedtime bath; the mind-blowing buzz of the finest weed money could buy.

He paused for a while to consider it, before concluding that he couldn't really think of anything else.

He took a sip from his snifter of Courvoisier and savored its slightly smoky taste as he bent once more to continue his study of the document spread out on the desk before him. As he read, the background noises from the den were a constant source of comfort for him. He did not concentrate on distinguishing the meaning of the words being spoken; the tone was sufficient. Gus and Justin and Ron Peterson were chatting excitedly and laughing together - or not - as they watched the DVD of Free Willy that Brian had sent one of his security people to hunt down at the little video store in the nearby village. They were also undoubtedly scarfing down big mugs of Trina's cocoa, volumes of buttered popcorn, and mounds of her Ride Krispies treats.

Brian grinned. If Sunshine weren't careful, his bubble butt would be somewhat expanded by the time their journey to the seashore was over, and Brian wondered if it wasn't just slightly malicious of him to relish the thought. Then he remembered all the times when Justin would allow himself a bit of preening and a little cattiness in comparing his twink physique with those of friends and family who were no longer blessed with twink metabolisms . . . and decided he would not feel the least bit guilty if the time came for the little twat to have cause to lament a bit of over-indulgence.

It would all come under the heading of reaping what had been sown, and he would continue to crave the butt in question, regardless of its girth or expanded contours - within reason, of course.

The little office was mostly in shadow at this late hour, the only illumination coming from the cone-shaped desk lamp and a Tiffany-style floor lamp in the corner of the room. Beyond that, only the golden reflection of one of the exterior lights broke the darkness of the night.

Brian, in t-shirt and soft, artfully faded jeans, continued to study the document before him, pausing sometimes to reread or to make sure he'd read a section correctly before proceeding to the next part, and the man who sat in the room with him, simply watching and waiting for the questions which were certain to come, noticed that the ad man's jaw would clinch periodically, as his eyes narrowed. Other than those miniscule clues, there was little to indicate that what he was reading was having a profound effect on him. Kinney, thought Quinn, was probably an excellent poker player, not given to nervous tics or tells or physical indications of what was in his mind. Nevertheless, he was pretty sure the man was seething with barely-controlled rage - a response to what he was reading which the attorney understood perfectly - and approved.

Eventually, Brian discarded the cigar in favor of his trademark Marlboros, and noticed, as he lit up, that, if he turned his head just so, he could make out the denim-clad expanse of Chris McClaren's back as he sat on the steps of the lower deck, his hands clasped in front of him as he gazed off toward the East or turned to watch the progress of the beacon from the lighthouse as it swept across the sculpted sands. Even from this vantage point and under this dim lighting, it was obvious from the tension in the lines of the man's spine, that he was almost hyper-alert and completely concentrated on his visual reconnaissance.

Brian wondered if Chris himself realized that he was never truly relaxed - except for when he was sleeping. And even then, it wasn't certain the FBI agent was completely at ease. On more than one occasion, Brian had been roused to wakefulness as some tiny, mostly insignificant anomaly in the rhythm of the night had brought the man from a sound sleep to full alertness in the blink of an eye.

That, of course, would not happen again - not in his presence anyway - but he allowed himself a tiny smile as he realized it as a somewhat comforting fact, even though he knew it made life less than simple for the man himself.

He closed the file finally, and sat back in his chair, his eyes unfocused as he pondered what he'd read.

Then he looked up and confronted the man who was sitting across from him, waiting for his questions. "Is this all of it?" he asked finally.

Liam Quinn did not volunteer a knee-jerk response, but rather seemed to give careful consideration in determining how to reply. "It's everything they allowed me to see, but I can't guarantee they didn't keep some information in reserve."

Brian nodded, and rose from his chair to move to the window where there was little to see besides his own reflection. "What does your gut tell you?"

Quinn smiled. "I've worked with Alexandra Corey before, often enough to feel confidant that she's given you everything you need for your purposes. Is there more? Probably, but it's likely to be more about the undercover arrangements than anything that effects your decisions on what to do from here on out."

Brian sighed. "God damn Theodore!" he muttered, not quite under his breath. "What the fuck was he thinking?"

It wasn't that he hadn't already known about his CFO's indiscretions; he had received a number of briefings in which the fundamental information had been included. But he had not known the specifics of the conversation until now, and he had been unwilling to believe it at first - had been forced to backtrack and go through it again to review the exact comments exchanged between Theodore and Monty Peabody. On reading the verbatim report of Theodore's remarks, he'd been forced to pause for a moment, to take a deep breath and swallow a surge of black resentment so extreme that all he really wanted to do was pick up the phone and put out feelers for a hit man to resolve the issue and solve the problem once and for all. In spades. He sighed. It wasn't that Ted had endangered him, per se; he was a big boy and long accustomed to taking care of himself and watching his own back, and never mind that he'd screwed it up royally in this one instance. But Ted had done something much, much worse; by opening his big mouth - not once, but twice, and who knew how many other times when no one had been around to hear it - he had endangered both Gus and Justin.

"I want to kill the motherfucker," he said coldly.

"I know you do, but . . ."

"How could he have been so fucking stupid?"

Quinn shrugged. "Just thoughtlessness, I think. And a need to impress someone with his importance to you. Not admirable, of course, but not deliberate either. Nevertheless, you more or less let him off the hook earlier today. I mean, yes, he's been demoted and had his privileges revoked, but . . ."

"But I didn't know the whole story then. If I had . . ."

Quinn nodded. "So what do you want me to do?"

Brian frowned. "Why would you think I want you to do anything? I'm perfectly capable of . . ."

"Mr. Kinney, I . . ."

"Mr. Kinney was my father," said Brian quickly, "and not one of my favorite people. Call me Brian."

Quinn nodded. "Fine then, Brian. But what I want you to know is that this is the kind of thing that I do. I protect my clients, in whatever way they need protecting."

Brian took a deep drag off his cigarette as he returned to his desk and regarded the lawyer with narrowed eyes as he dropped into his chair, willing himself to relax and take a few deep breaths. "I thought you were a criminal lawyer."

"I specialize in criminal justice, that's true, but it entails a lot more than just representing clients in a courtroom. It means taking care of business - whatever that business might entail. For example, you haven't yet mentioned Mr. Peabody, and what you might like to do to him."

Brian's smile was not pretty. "That's because I want to preserve some measure of plausible deniability and because some things shouldn't be mentioned in polite company."

Quinn grinned, and Brian was delighted to note a gleam in those parti-colored eyes which seemed to suggest a kindred spirit - a man who knew and appreciated the value of a keen sense of revenge. "We're going to ignore any mention of possible vigilante actions, while I assure you that the man's goose is most certainly cooked. While no move will be made until the investigation is concluded - in order to prevent any possibility of tipping off the culprits and allowing them to attempt to cover their tracks - when the time comes, losing his job will be the least of his worries. By deliberately divulging confidential information about a patient, he's in flagrant violation of HIPAA regulations which is an automatic dismissal, as opposed to an inadvertant admission which usually warrants nothing more serious than a warning. Then, for the piece de resistance, there's the fact that he got paid for the information. That was documented both by the testimony of the undercover witness and copies of his bank records. Both Mr. Peabody and his co-conspirator obviously never expected anyone to tumble to what they were doing because no effort was made to conceal or disguise the transaction. Therefore, Mr. Peabody will not merely lose his job; he's guilty of a criminal act - a minor felony - and fiscally culpable as well. He could wind up serving time, and then facing a civil suit from you, should you decide to pursue it."

Brian's smile was slightly venal. "I like the way you think, Counselor."

"There's also a possibility that the SEC investigation into Hargrave and his cohorts could reveal a deliberate attempt to target you. That information wasn't included in these files, so we'll assume that the investigation is still in progress, and the data is not yet available for us. However, since you did not, in fact, lose money in that fund, it's unlikely that you could participate in any civil action that might develop against them. Still it's going to be interesting to learn the identities of the parties who might have been at the top of that pyramid - people who just happened to cash in and back away from the fund at exactly the right moment to save their asses. It may not turn out to be actionable, but you never know. And if nothing else, it may point fingers in pertinent directions, in trying to figure out who might have targeted you."

Brian nodded. "All card-carrying members of the United Brotherhood of Fag Haters, no doubt."

"Probably."

Brian folded his lips into his mouth and regarded the attorney with one brow lifted. "And you, Mr. Quinn?"

The attorney grinned. "Mr. Quinn was my father, and I was just about as fond of him as you obviously were of yours. So call me Liam."

Brian nodded. "Liam, then. Are you comfortable representing someone who's pretty much the antithesis of your God-fearing, Bible-quoting, marriage-focused uber-heterosexuals?"

Quinn smiled. "You surprise me, Brian. I would have bet good money that your gay-dar was damned near infallible. Why did you assume . . ."

Brian tossed back the last swallow of his brandy. "Because you never once ogled Justin's ass, and I've never met a queer who didn't drool over Justin's ass. And because you're so damned pretty that it's almost a cliché. I almost expected you to be a gun-toting, bear-hunting, redneck macho man, just because you so specifically don't look the part."

"Thanks," said the lawyer faintly. "I think. As far as Justin's ass is concerned, I'm just a lot better at ogling discreetly than most, and you're right. No queer who's worthy of the name would willingly ignore that. However, it's fairly obvious that - enticing as it might be - it's pretty much wearing a 'No trespassing' sign. As for the rest of it, I suppose the cliché does apply, with one primary exception, and that's what should matter to you in these circumstances. I am pretty, Brian. No point in denying that, but it's not quite the handicap you might expect. Especially when the opposition takes one look and decides to dismiss me as a 'pretty little thing' - with no teeth. It's a very effective camouflage for what I really am. And that's something that you need right now."

"I'm not sure . . ."

Quinn laughed. "Fuck it, man. I'm actually not hitting on you, although I'm pretty sure that's not something you experience often. I have a specific rule about that. I never fuck my clients, although I'll concede you're the first person I've come across in a long, long time who makes me regret that policy. Nevertheless, what I'm trying to tell you - and show you - is what I am in a professional sense."

"Which is what?"

"I'm a God-damned bulldog, Brian. And I do whatever is necessary to makesure my client's needs are met, which is what makes me worth every dime of what you pay for my services. For instance, the dynamic between you and Ms. Peterson's partner is very . . . interesting."

Brian grinned. "Interesting? It's been called many things - mostly by me - but never that."

"Can I ask a few pertinent questions?"

Brian shrugged and nodded. "You can ask, but I don't guarantee answers."

"Fair enough. Your son is what? Six now? Seven?"

"Six."

"And if I understand things correctly, you've been under the impression that you had forfeited all your legal rights as his father. Correct?"

"Yes."

"May I ask why you did that?"

"I thought he would be better off - better cared for and protected and nurtured - in a home with two loving parents. It never mattered to me that they were lesbians - only that they loved each other, and would love him, as he deserved."

"And have they?"

Brian did not answer immediately. "Not exactly," he said softly. "Not as I expected anyway. Melanie and I have never exactly made peace with each other, but I could have dealt with that since her acting in Gus's best interest was always more important than getting along with me. But I think she was the primary reason for the move to Toronto, and . . ."

"And?" Quinn was obviously not unsympathetic but seemed to think it was in Brian's best interest to express his misgivings.

"And I thought - hoped - it was for the reasons she gave at the time - wanting a better, safer place for all of them. Wanting to protect them from the threats of violence in Pittsburgh. But . . ." He took a deep breath. "But that's mostly bullshit, you know? Homophobia exists everywhere, even in Canada. It's just not quite as blatant or politically acceptable there as here in this country. And besides, over time I've come to believe their move had nothing to do with hopes for a safer life, and everything to do with getting Gus and Lindsey away from me."

"She really does hate you, doesn't she?"

"You figure that out all by yourself?" The tone of voice was mocking, almost acidic.

Quinn shrugged, refusing to be nonplussed by the tone. "You do know why, don't you?"

Brian did not answer, so the lawyer continued after a brief pause. "Is it pleasant for you?"

"Pleasant?"

"To know that even though you're a confirmed, unapologetic fag, you still have the power to inspire the lesbian mother of your only son to remain hopelessly in love with you."

Brian shook his head.. "Lindsey isn't in love with me."

"Okay. But she does love you. You don't deny that, do you?"

This time, the smile was gentle. "No. I don't deny that."

"And I suspect that Ms. Marcus isn't always able to distinguish between the two types of love. She's bitterly jealous of her partner's feelings for you, and she doesn't like the fact that your son seems to love you very much as well. As much as he loves her, at least."

Brian nodded. "I'm not sure I wouldn't feel the same, if the situation were reversed."

Quinn sipped at his brandy, his eyes taking on a speculative gleam. "You're a complicated man, Brian. Not many people would be so understanding. Nevertheless, am I correct in believing you want to reassert your rights vis a vis your son and making decisions for his future?"

"Yeah. You're right about that."

"I can make sure it happens, if you just say the word. While I know you have an attorney in Pittsburgh, I'd imagine he's one of those very dignified corporate types who don't like to get their hands dirty, who handles contracts and paperwork and copyright issues for you. Right?"

"Right."

"That's fine, for your corporate needs. But this is not corporate. This is personal, and you don't need an old-school, gentlemanly type for this job. You need a hit man, figuratively speaking. You need me."

Brian chuckled. "Well, you sure don't lack for confidence, and I do like that."

"Indulge me." The attorney leaned forward and helped himself to another splash of brandy. "Since his birth, how much money have you dished out for the support of your son?"

Brian leaned back and blew smoke rings, deliberately not meeting Quinn's gaze, which the attorney found quite intriguing. Why, he wondered, would the man be less than forthcoming in acknowledging his generosity toward his son? Another clue in the increasingly complex puzzle of Brian Kinney.

"Not sure."

"I'm not asking for a detailed accounting. Just an off-the-cuff figure."

Brian shrugged. "A hundred grand. Or so."

"Uh, huh. Luckily, your assistant keeps better accounts. It's closer to a hundred and sixty grand. That's a heck of a lot of money for a child to whom you have no rights and no legal obligation."

"I'd fire the bitch, if I didn't know I couldn't run the fucking company without her."

"I'm sure."

Brian's eyes grew cold. "If you already knew, why did you ask?"

"Just wanted to see what you'd say."

There was a brief pause as the ad man turned to stare at the attorney. "Are you analyzing me, Mr. Quinn?"

The lawyer laughed. "I'm an expert in reading people, Mr. Kinney, but I know a hopeless case when I see one. They could write textbooks about you - devote entire research programs to efforts to unravel your psyche - and never even come close to figuring out the man behind the mask."

Brian poured himself another finger of brandy. "Thanks. Open books are so boring, don't you think?"

A snicker of laughter from the shadows beyond the open door signaled a new arrival. "And while Brian Kinney is many, many things, " said Justin, strolling in and appropriating Brian's brandy - and lap - without asking or awaiting permission, "boring is never one of them."

"Why aren't you whale watching, little twat?" Brain asked, lifting his hands to stroke his fingers through hair like spun-gold silk.

"Willy is free, and Gus can barely keep his eyes open and wants his daddy."

"Can't imagine why."

"Me neither," Justin replied with a grin, but the look in his eyes said differently. "You want me to take him up and tuck him in? I can sleep on the couch down here or . . . "

But Brian immediately, firmly clamped his hand over soft, sweetly molded lips. "You sleep with me," he said gently. "With us."

"You sure?"

Liam Quinn felt a strange compulsion to fade into the woodwork, suddenly certain he was witnessing a very private moment. But neither of the principle characters seemed to notice or care, so he simply settled back to enjoy the view. "What?" asked Brian with a grin. "You think it's going to corrupt him to notice that his fag father is sleeping with his favorite twink? Need I remind you that he's been witnessing his muncher mothers in the sack together his whole life. If he's not already ruined beyond recovery, I think it's safe to assume he'll survive this too."

He lifted his head so he could bury his nose in the softness beneath Justin's ear before continuing in a near whisper. "Besides, he loves you. As much as he loves me, I think."

Justin's eyes were suddenly filled with a soft scintillant glow. "I know he loves me. But not like he loves you. I don't think he loves anybody, the way he loves you."

"Bullshit," replied Brian, his expression going very still as he seemed suddenly uncertain - almost embarrassed. Then he turned to look over toward the lawyer, who was making no attempt to appear oblivious to the interaction between the couple. "We done here, Counselor?"

Quinn grinned. "Unless the two of you are planning on a little PDA."

"Not tonight," Justin retorted, deliberately shifting so that he could turn around and straddle Brian's legs, bringing them virtually crotch to crotch. "You'll have to come to Babylon some time, to take advantage of the free show."

Brian sat back and looked up, almost losing himself in the crystal depths of blue eyes. "Hey," he whispered.

"Hey, yourself, Boss man. You done saving the world?"

"Liam," said Brian clearly, never looking away from the gaze that seemed to hold him locked in place, "I'd like you to go ahead with whatever you have to do to restore my parental rights, and check out whether or not I can legally prevent the munchers from taking him out of the country. Also, stay on top of the issue of Peabody and his cronies. I plan to enjoy the spectacle of watching that snake squirm when the timing is right. Hell, I might even sell tickets."

"And Schmidt?" asked the attorney, deliberately ignoring the fact that Justin was moving forward, obviously intent on burying his face in the soft, moist skin beneath Brian's jaw. But then the blond went very still before starting to back away, his face suddenly frozen and filled with misgivings.

"Ted? What about Ted?"

Brian's eyes were suddenly cold - almost glacial. "I'll let you know," he said with a nod toward the attorney, and without a nuance of emotion. The remark was directed toward Quinn; for Justin, he had nothing but a patented Kinney deadpan look, reflecting nothing.

Until he winced.

"Brian, you can't . . . It's Ted, for God's sake. You owe him. He's been there for you, almost from the first, and you can't . . .

"Don't." The voice was icy. "Don't fucking tell me what I can or can't do. As for Ted being there for me . . ." He paused, and there was no way from Justin to avoid seeing the darkness and the anger that flared in his eyes. "I seem to remember it a little differently."

"Well, I don't. I can't let you . . ." And he went silent abruptly, appalled by what he'd almost said.

But the silence changed nothing. Brian had obviously heard it all - what was spoken - and what was not.

He lifted his hand, and dragged it though his hair, and Justin found it a strange sort of gesture. Almost as if it was a reaction to some kind of . . .

And it was then Justin felt something catch deep in his chest - a quick clinching around his heart - cold and clammy. He knew what it was; he just didn't know why it was. There was plenty of motivation in this moment for feeling anger and resentment; frustration and impatience and exasperation. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out why he was suddenly filled with fear.

"Brian," he said softly, no longer sparing a thought for Ted. Brian would do what he would do, and Justin would choose to believe he would not be the sadistic, vengeful asshole the world frequently believed him to be. But for now, nothing was more important than the question he needed to ask. "What's wrong?"

Brian stood abruptly, managing to set Justin on his feet without actually dumping him on his ass. "Nothing. Why?"

"You sure? You just looked . . ."

The patented Kinney smirk was now firmly in place. "Perfect? Beautiful? Hot?"

Justin smiled. "All of the above, but not quite . . . right."

It was the cue for a classic Kinney eye-roll. "Justin," he said, with only a tiny nuance of impatience, "I have a headache. That's all. People get them all the time."

Justin relaxed. "I'm sure multiple shots of Courvoisier have eased your pain."

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

"Brian . . ."

"Justin. Stop nagging, and let's go get my kid."

A quick, rough kiss, and he was gone, nodding a good night to the attorney who was replacing files in his briefcase before heading out the door, but who paused to watch as Brian moved away, causing Justin to smile. Brian was walking almost normally now, stubbornly ignoring any weakness that might require the use of a cane or a crutch and exhibiting only a small trace of a limp, and it would take a gay man of exceptional strength and determination to resist the opportunity to observe that loose-limbed, sultry slink. Quinn was obviously not that man, and Justin's eyes were suddenly soft with shadows of his unique understanding of this unique individual who was so much a part of him, as he acknowledged that some small part of Brian's rapid recovery was undoubtedly due to a narcissistic determination to appear flawless in the eyes of those who could never resist watching him. Just more proof positive that Brian Kinney would remain forever intrinsically Brian Kinney, and God help anyone who deceived themselves into believing otherwise.

Justin hung back for another moment, looking out into the night and watching as Quinn made his exit and paused to exchange a few words with McClaren before proceeding to his car. Then he moved toward the den, and hesitated in the doorway to watch as Brian lifted Gus from the sofa and braced the child against his shoulder. Gus was not quite asleep yet, but he was well on his way, and Justin was struck with a thought that was old and familiar, yet somehow always managed to take his breath away.

There was literally nothing more beautiful in the world than the vision of Brian Kinney cradling his look-alike child in his arms, his face reflecting a vulnerability and a deep, abiding love that very few were ever allowed to see.

Beautiful and perfect.

Except . . . he'd said it was a headache. Just a headache, but Justin could not quite figure out why he'd been so sure that he'd seen something else in the depths of those beautiful hazel eyes. Something darker and colder.

Justin followed father and son up the staircase, deliberately ignoring the lump in his throat. Everything was all right. They had lost too much, paid too much, suffered too much, endured too much. He had to believe that nothing else could go wrong, for, somewhere deep inside him, he wondered if they could survive anything more.

Brian had assured him it was nothing, and he had to believe it.

It was nothing.

He shivered abruptly and wondered why the air around him suddenly felt so cold.

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

"When . . . when did you know?" Nicholas Avolar was sitting in the darkest corner at Woody's with his back almost pressed against the wood-paneled walls, his eyes sweeping the room continuously as he tried, without much success, to assume an appearance of nonchalance. In truth, he was just a couple of steps away from full-fledged panic, but determined to allow no one else to see it.

Jared Hilliard, of course, saw it all. It was a remarkably accurate replica of his own initial trespass into the land of queer-dom.

"That I was gay?" he replied. "I was younger than you are. Chronologically anyway."

The young man tried to stop watching - stop noticing the activities going on around him - stop seeing the table where Mysterious Marilyn was laying out her tarot cards to provide psychic input for the leather daddies sitting across from her and trying to decide on a destination for their honeymoon; or the handsome young stud in tight leather pants who was currently bending over the back of his trick of the night while said trick tried - without much success - to concentrate on sinking the 12-ball in the corner pocket; or the beautiful young redhead who was currently straddling the lap of a gorgeous blond man who was probably too old for the boy, though neither of them seemed to notice - or care; or the tall, slender, flamboyant figure who was sporting a bright tangerine-colored silk shirt as he enjoyed his cosmo, smiling and flirting with a muscular man seated at his side who bore a striking resemblance to some famous sports figure that Nicholas couldn't quite place.

"What do you mean?"

Hilliard's smile was not unsympathetic. "I lost my virginity when I was fifteen, Nicholas. But even then, I had known for a couple of years, at least. It gets to be pretty obvious, when you never have enough interest to try to cop a look down a girl's blouse or up her skirt. Doesn't it?"

"But what makes you think that I . . . My mother thinks I'm just a . . ."

"Late bloomer?" The smile grew a little broader. "That's a phrase almost every gay boy hears, sooner or later. It's almost the password for parental denial, along with the slightly more classic 'You just haven't met the right girl yet'. I assume you've heard that one a few times already."

Nicholas huffed a quick sigh. "You could say that."

"Look, Nicholas," said Hilliard softly, "it's your business whether or not you choose to declare yourself to friends and family. And nobody here is going to force you to do anything. In fact, one way or another, we've all endured the same thing." He looked up then to watch Emmett Honeycutt strut to the stage where he would undoubtedly go into his Aretha Franklin impersonation. "Most of us, anyway. But there's something else at stake in all this."

Very deliberately, while keeping a close watch on the young man who was still so completely petrified at the idea of being outed, he pulled a photograph out of the folder he'd brought with him from his car, and laid it on the table. "Do you recognize this man, Nicholas?"

Dark, expressive eyes glanced down, as if impatient to get this inquisition over and done with, but then could not quite manage to look away. The face of Brian Kinney, at its most perfectly beautiful, would always have a profound impact on any rational individual - even straight ones - but that, of course, was not the case with young Nicholas, even though he had yet to actually address his sexual preference. "He . . . looks familiar."

Hilliard smiled. "Yeah. He should. It's not the kind of face anyone can easily forget, and even more so if you happen to be gay. This is the infamous Brian Kinney."

Nicholas was looking more miserable by the minute, as if he wanted to close his eyes, to look away, to refuse to see, to refuse to be in this place at all. "Yeah. I think I've heard of him."

Jared Hilliard took a moment to rein in an impulse to call the young man on his disingenuous demeanor. He lit a cigarette instead, before once more gazing directly into the youth's face and speaking very slowly. "I'm certain you have, since it was highly-placed members of your precious club who were responsible for turning this" - he tapped on the photo still lying on the table - "into this." He then laid a second photo on top of the first - the tabloid snapshot of Brian as he'd looked when brought into the hospital on the night of his attack.

Hilliard almost felt sorry for the kid, as he watched the uneasiness in Nicholas' eyes morph into an expression of sick horror. There was no way any rational person could look at the before and after pictures without experiencing a surge of revulsion, along with a tremendous need to deny, to reject the notion that human beings could be capable of such blatant viciousness, especially if the human beings in question were not strangers, but members of a familiar group. But Hilliard knew that there was no denying this particular truth, and it was his job to make sure Nicholas did not find a way to evade the elementary issue of what had happened, and who had been responsible.

"That's . . . that's not possible." The denial was barely even a whisper. "They wouldn't. They couldn't . . . do somethimg like that."

Hilliard sat back. "Of course they couldn't. Not with their own beautifully manicured, lily-white hands. But they could hire somebody to take care of the dirty, bloody work, while they sat back and watched."

"No. They're too . . ."

"Too what? Too sophisticated? Too rich? Too sanctimonious and pious? That's bullshit, Nicholas." Hilliard shook his head. "Shit! Can I call you Nick? Don't you get tired of being 'Young Nicholas' sometimes? And . . ."

"You can call me Nick, but what do I call you?" Dark eyes were suddenly thick with speculation. "Because it's not 'Jed', is it? And you're not some homeless, shell-shocked war veteran. Are you?"

Hilliard smiled, realizing he had come to a point which all undercover operatives have to face, sooner or later - the moment of truth - or not, as he had to choose. He took a deep breath. "No, I'm not. At least, not the homeless, shell-shocked part of the equation. I am a veteran, but . . ."

"Are you even Shirley's brother?"

"No."

Nick closed his eyes. "In that case, she's not what she claims either. Is she?"

There was no time for in-depth analysis of the situation. There was only intuition and gut perception to call upon for guidance. Luckily, Hilliard had plenty of both. "No. Shirley is an undercover cop, and a very good one. And I . . ." He once more tapped the surface of the photograph. "I work for this man. It's my job to protect him and his family, and to find out who did this to him. You can call me Jared."

But Nick deliberately avoided letting his eyes rest on the picture. "What's all this got to do with me?"

Hilliard smiled. "Come on, Nick. You're not that stupid. Granted, it's just a case of you being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the truth is that these people are slick as eels. They've used money and power to cover their tracks so well that catching them requires finesse and a stealthy approach. They're covered in layers of deceit and camouflage so that almost no one ever gets a glimpse of who they really are." He paused then and leaned closer, his eyes aglint with determination. "But you have, haven't you? Not because they deliberately bare their souls for you to study, but because they tend to forget that you're there. You're part of the furniture; you told Shirley that yourself. Over time, they've simply forgotten that you might be paying attention, that you might see them for who they are."

"What?" snapped the younger man. "You think they just sit around the table and gloat about how they hired thugs to do this?" He touched the tabloid photo with a fingertip, but still did not look at it. "You think they'd spell it all out and laugh about it, in front of me? You think . . ."

"I think," Hilliard interrupted, "that you're a hell of a lot smarter than they ever realized. And no, I don't think they would have provided chapter and verse, but I do think they would have been too fucking pleased with themselves to keep it all tucked away and hidden inside. I'm not asking you to draw us a copy of their master plan. I'm asking you to tell us what they might have said, and - more importantly - who among them might have said it."

The young man clasped his hands in front of him and pretended to stare at them, but it was obvious to Hilliard that he was really seeing something else, remembering something else, and realizing  he was effectively backed into a corner from which there could be no escape. But he was not slow or mentally deficient; he was also sifting through thoughts of what any disclosure he might provide could to to his life, or his mother's life. It was obvious there was more at stake here than a job or material needs. There was also the matter of loyalties, long ago bought and paid for.

"I can't give you much," he said finally, a shadow in his eyes suggesting he had finished his evaluation of his options and come to some kind of decision - a decision he was not particularly happy about, but figured he could learn to live with.

"Maybe I can help you out a bit," said Hilliard, taking a sip of his beer and assuming a relaxed, non-threatening demeanor. "It's not like the FBI hasn't spent a shitload of time working on profiling the perps." A quick glance at young Avolar confirmed what he had expected. The mention of the powerful federal agency had caused the youth to flinch and draw a quick, rough breath. "Among the members of your famous club are a former police chief whose mayorial campaign was sabotaged by our young Mr. Kinney, as well as Craig Taylor, who blames Kinney for his son, Justin, being 'converted' to homosexuality. Also, there are a couple of members of the Hobbs family, father and grandfather to one Chris Hobbs, who almost certainly blame Justin Taylor - Kinney's lover - for getting their pride and joy exposed as a violent, homophobic bigot." He paused then, and regarded Nick with soft, patient eyes. "How'm I doing so far?"

Nick took another deep breath before looking up to meet Hilliard's gaze, noticing, as he did so, that the eyes in question were incredibly beautiful, which did not make anything easier as he felt a stirring in his groin that he would have preferred to ignore. "Okay. I . . . I did hear a few things." He took a moment to swallow around the lump in his throat and consider his words carefully, the ones he could say, albeit reluctantly, and - even more important - the ones he couldn't.

"Go on," Hilliard urged, not quite able to mask his growing impatience.

"Stockwell and Taylor and Randolph Hobbs, Jr. - they . . . one night over brandy, they talked about Kinney 'only getting part of what he deserved' and how something ought to be done to make sure he paid the full price. Then they talked about his loft - and something about a plan to target his business." He paused again, and closed his eyes, and Hilliard understood that the next part would be particularly difficult. "They laughed about how it was satisfying to actually see the 'reward' - not just have to hear about it second-hand - like the last time."

Hilliard had lifted his glass to take a swallow of his beer, but froze when he heard those words. "The last time?" he repeated slowly, his eyes fixed on the beer in the certainty that the intensity of his gaze might scare the younger man into silence if he noticed it. "Do you have any idea what that meant?"

But Nick was in a state of hyper-awareness, and he sensed the change in his companion's demeanor without actually seeing it. "Not . . . really."

Hilliard waited, finally looking up to stare at the younger man's face. "Come on, Nick," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "This is not the first time they've laughed about something happening in the gay community - is it?"

Nick picked up his beer and took a deep draught before answering. "What do you want me to say, Jared? That they laugh their heads off every time some drag queen gets the shit beat out of him? They do. That they donated buckets of money to the Prop 14 organization? They did. That they supported Stockwell's campaign to restore 'family values' and shut down Liberty Avenue? They did. That the motherfuckers who killed Matthew Shepherd are heroes to them? They are. They're queer-haters, but they're not exactly alone in that, are they? Half the fucking country seems to agree with them. So why do you think I . . . I don't want . . ."

Hilliard waited a few seconds, to allow the young man to continue if he should decide to do so. He didn't.

"The difference," said the undercover operative softly, "is that half the country - no matter how homophobic or insular or just plain stupid they might be - doesn't pay thugs and assassins to maim and kill people. And that's what your Club members did and will undoubtedly do again. Unless someone steps up to stop them."

He paused again, considering how to proceed before deciding it was best to lay all the cards on the table now, as he wasn't entirely sure he'd get another chance. "Let me guess," he continued. "Last year, when the explosion at Babylon killed all those people, your patrons were . . . what? Overjoyed? Jubilant?" He paused again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Congratulating themselves on their success?"

Nick's eyes grew huge then, as he cringed away from a realization he had been denying for a very long time. "No," he moaned. "No, it can't be. They wouldn't . . ."

Hilliard lit another cigarette. "You know better than that, Nick." He took a deep drag before once more fixing his gaze of the youth's face. "Somebody's got to stop them. And you know that too."

The young man clasped his hands on the table in front of him and braced his chin against them. "I'm no hero, Jared. I'm just a glorified waiter - a kid from the streets who lucked into a job because it's a family thing. I don't know anything for sure. Shit! You should get Cap'n Henry to spill his guts. He's been handling the money at the Club since the fucking Civil War or something. But you're asking me to give up . . . everything - to betray my family, betray the people that made it possible for us to earn a living, to turn my back on . . ."

"I'm asking you to do what's right, Nick. I'm asking you to help make sure that this . . ." again he tapped the photograph . . ."doesn't happen to anybody else. Look at him, my young friend." He fished out the original picture - Brian Kinney before - and held it up so the young man could not avoid seeing it. "They called him the Stud of Liberty Avenue; you can probably figure out why. I doubt there was a queer in the state of Pennsylvania who wouldn't have sacrificed his left nut for a chance to get fucked by him. Just one time. And he certainly tried to oblige them all. It's what he did - what he was known for. He never made excuses, never pretended to be anything other than what he was, never apologized for being himself." He then picked up the other snapshot, and shoved it into Nick's face. "This is what it got him. And you know who did it, Nick. You have the power to help me make sure it never happens again."

"No, I . . ."

"Or," Hilliard interrupted, his voice cold and sharp, "you can just turn around and walk away and pretend it's none of your concern. Go back and live in your closet and deny who you are. Maybe even enrol yourself in one of those psycho-babble, cultural-immersion, blitzkreig courses that are designed to save you from yourself, and turn you straight." He smiled then. "Courses which never work, by the way - although some ignorant assholes are weak enough and sufficiently subject to manipulation to claim to be cured and live a lie for the rest of their lives."

He took a swig of beer. "It's not a choice, Nick," he said finally. "And there's no changing it. Easier to change the world, and that's what you have a chance to do. That is a choice, and it's one you have to make right now, because we're running out of time."

He fell silent then, knowing there was nothing more to say. It was up to Nicholas Avolar now, and if he hadn't already been convinced, he never would be.

"I've told you what I know. What else do you expect me to do?"

Hilliard took a moment to compose his thoughts. "The thing that the cops and the FBI hope to avoid - at all cost - is showing their hand prematurely. These are wealthy, powerful people we're dealing with, and any hint that the game might be afoot . . ." He offered up a little scapegrace grin. "Forgive my Sherlock Holmes reference. I 've always wanted to say that. Anyway, that could send them running for parts unknown. Parts where their money could buy them political refuge, and non-extradition treaties with the U.S. would make it almost impossible to get them back here to face a trial. So the point is that we need to gather everything we can, to put the pieces of evidence together so tightly that the investigation is a done deal by the time the authorities decide to make their move."

Nick nodded. "So?"

"So . . . I'm not a cop. And no cop has asked me to talk to you about this, so there's no question of the cops - or the Feds - violating the rights of the suspects. For example, if I suggest to you that it would be very beneficial to the investigation if we could obtain DNA samples from each of the group in question, and you decide that the decent thing for a concerned citizen to do is to get such samples - by, perhaps, impounding the glasses they drink from during one of their luxurious dinners and making sure that those glasses - appropriately labeled and sealed up in plastic bags to preserve the DNA and fingerprints - get to me where I can turn them over to a crime lab . . . "

"You want me to . . . steal their wineglasses?"

Hilliard shrugged. "Or their cigarette butts. Or their linen napkins, if they use them to wipe their lips. Whatever you can find. I'm not particular."

Nick shook his head, his breathing harsh and uneven. "And when it's all over? What happens to me then? Will I have to get up on a stand and . . ."

"I don't know, Nick," Hilliard replied. "Maybe. But can you really just turn around and walk away from this? Because - think of it another way - if they continue with their efforts to get to Brian Kinney; if they eventually succeed in killing him, then your knowledge of their involvement makes you an accessory. Not to mention, you'd spend the rest of your life knowing that the man died because you were too chicken-shit to do the right thing."

"You don't know what you're asking." It was almost a snarl, and the anger was suddenly radiating off the young man in almost visible waves. "You don't know . . ."

"Yes. I do know. But I also know that, if you decide that you just can't handle this - that you have to look out for yourself and your family and the hell with what might happen to anybody else - then you're going to have to live with that for the rest of your life. One day, you're going to look into a mirror, and see what you allowed yourself to become."

Hilliard rose then. "I don't envy you that." He pushed his chair in and stood for a moment, looking down at the young man who refused to meet his gaze. "I'm sure you can find your way home, and I don't think it's necessary to tell you what will happen if you say anything to your high-and-mighty patrons, about Shirley and what you've learned tonight. You're smart enough to figure that out all by yourself."

He turned then and walked away and was almost at the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a quick glance around the bar revealed the smiles from fellow patrons indicating that everyone who witnessed the gesture assumed that he'd just gotten lucky, and the admiring stares at the lovely young face of Nicholas Avolar suggested that - in their eyes - he'd gotten very lucky indeed. Which was very good for whatever version of his cover he was using tonight, if he was even using a cover at all. Sometimes, it was hard to remember.

"When," asked Nick in a slightly breathless voice, "do you want me to do this?"

"Yesterday would be good."

Nick thought for a minute, mentally reviewing his schedule. "I'm off until Sunday. Come by my place that night around midnight. I'll get what I can."

"Good man," replied Hilliard. Then he glanced toward the bar where a couple of young, handsome hardbodies were standing, staring at Nick's physique with hungry eyes. "Now would you like to check out . . ."

"No." The answer was quick and sharp, but without anger. Then Nick offered a slightly rueful smile. "I need to take this one step at a time. Today I betray everything I've ever known. Maybe tomorrow, I can stick my nose out of the closet."

Hilliard grinned. "I hate to tell you this, Friend, but it ain't your nose they're interested in."

The two made their exit then, and found that the night had turned chilly during their visit to the bar. "Shit!" said Hilliard. "I should move to Atlanta. Or New Orleans. Or fucking Havana. Anywhere where winter is just another foreign word."

Nick stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. "Yeah. Pittsburgh sucks, but it's home."

Hilliard started to turn away then, to let the younger man return to his car for the drive home. Then he paused. "By the way, do you know anyone named 'Brad' in the Club? Or Bradley, maybe. Something like that."

Nick thought for a moment. "No. Can't think of anyone. Why? Is it important?"

Hilliard shrugged. "Not sure. But if you do think of someone, let me know."

Nick nodded, and then hunched his shoulders inside his jacket as a freshet of colder air swirled around them. "See you Sunday night," he said, before turning away and hurrying down the block and into the alley where his car was waiting, its freshly polished paintjob gleaming in the light of a sputtering street lamp while Hilliard, in full street-person camouflage, wandered off in the opposite direction, wondering how to suss out information about someone called Cap'n Henry - a name he had never heard before.

Nick, meanwhile, slid into his car, and, while waiting for the heater to warm the interior, he thought about the things he'd heard that night, and the things he'd revealed himself. He wasn't exactly proud of himself, but he knew where his duty lay. He had given up Stockwell, Taylor, and Hobbs without too much reluctance; in spite of the fact that they were all Club members who expected perfect service from him and were generous with their gratuities as a result, he had seen no reason to endanger himself or flaunt his defiance of a police investigation on their behalf, and it mattered not in the least that 'Jared' was not - officially - a member of the police force. Whatever the man might have indicated, he was operating under the auspices of legal authorities, the Pittsburgh PD being the least of them. Thus, Nick reasoned, he had done what he had to do. But, at the same time, he had remained resolutely silent about the one central figure who had not been mentioned by the undercover agent - the one individual to whom Nick and his mother owed a debt which could never be repaid.

He hoped, when everything was done, he would not be identified as a source of information for the authorities, and things would go back to normal. Maybe having 'Shirley' - he was sure that wasn't her real name - turn out to be an undercover cop would allow him to avoid being named in the investigation. Once the excitement died down again, it should be possible to return to the old ways - the traditional ways of the Club. After all, Stockwell and Taylor and Hobbs were not really old school members; they were mostly latecomers - second generation at best - and thus, expendable. Not like some others. But, when they were gone, when they were prosecuted and convicted and imprisoned, maybe then things would go back to the way they used to be - before flaming homophobia had become such a constant within the cultural and physical retreat of the Club. Then, in the calm after the storm, he might even be able to let down his guard a bit and prove to the primary Club members that their prejudice was misplaced, that not all homosexuals were abominations or perverts. Maybe he would even . . .

He clamped down hard on that thought, recognizing it for the pipe dream it was, and eased the Camaro into gear, enjoying the throaty growl of the engine. Time to concentrate on the now, instead of the maybe-someday.

As he pulled out into the street, he remembered Jared's last question, and was struck by a sudden thought. Brad - surely the man had not been referring to Bradford. Because that was just silly. First of all, that hadn't even been the name he'd preferred to use for himself, although it was the name the members had used for him. And secondly, more importantly, he was long-gone by this time - had been gone for over a year. And finally, there was the undeniable truth that he'd never been a member of the Club, of course. The idea was silly, although Nick wondered if the man might have had some such notion, at one time or another. But if so, he'd certainly been shown the error of his ways, so he'd realized he wasn't a candidate for membership. Not unless . . .

But no. That was ridiculous. Bradford was long gone - somewhere down South, he thought. His mother had mentioned a rumor once, about him relocating to Florida or Georgia or some equally southern location.

The car was still chilly, as Nick idled at a redlight, and he spent a moment wishing he too lived somewhere down South, where the spring was not constantly interrupted with resurgent drafts of winter. Then he thought a bit more about the burly individual whom he had not seen in more than a year; not since a few days after the bombing at that gay night club.

No, Bradford couldn't be the person Jared had inquired about. He was old history, and couldn't possibly have anything to do with the attack on Brian Kinney. As for what he might have had to do with that infamous bombing, well - that was something that Nick had no way of knowing, now did he? And it was also a question Jared had not asked.

Besides, he had other things to worry about, like . . . how the hell was he going to manage to steal Baccarat stemware from the Club without looking and feeling like a common thief? He recalled an incident in which a fellow employee - a recently hired busboy - had stumbled and dropped a tray carrying a couple of the champagne flutes; the kid had been escorted off the premises with dire threats to his life and his manhood if he ever dared to show up there again. Not so surprising, Nick guessed, since the fucking wineglasses retailed for upwards of $150.00 a pop. He shivered in the cold, as he drove off into the night, still pondering the important issues, figuring out how to get away with his not-so-petty theft, and giving no more thought to the idle speculation.

Despite his misgivings and his reluctance to be drawn into an awkward situation which felt like a conflict of interest, Nicholas Avolar was a decent young man with a conscience, and, one day, the memory of this night would come back to haunt him.

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

"Jesus Fucking Christ!" Michael was almost snarling by the time he got to the bottom of the stairs and stumbled across the foyer to reach the front door. A glance at the clock on the wall near the entry confirmed what his addled brain had already told him; it was the middle of the fucking night. So who the shit was it who was leaning on the doorbell, obviously refusing to take "Fuck off!" for an answer?

When he thumbed off the dead-bolt and opened the door, he had to blink a couple of times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. It took almost a full minute to realize that he wasn't.

"Melanie. What the shit are you doing here at . . . whatever the fuck time it is?"

"Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep," she retorted, obviously not really sorry at all as she pushed her way into the house without waiting for an invitation, or for Michael to step back to signal agreement to her entry, "but this is an emergency."

Michael shook his head, trying to clear his mind, before reeling back under a rush of pure panic - the kind only a parent could understand. "J.R.'s okay, isn't she?" he demanded. "Where is she, and what . . ."

"She's okay, for the moment," she replied, turning to stare at him with cold, almost feral eyes. "She's with her sitter in Toronto. But she won't be okay for long, unless we find some way to get your 'best friend' to back off and stop acting like an asshole."

Michael rubbed his aching head with thumb and forefinger. "Mel, I don't have any idea what you're talking about. It's two o'clock in the morning, and I'm a little . . . confused. Couldn't we talk about this tomorrow? When I'm actually awake instead of walking around in my sleep? I mean . . ."

"Well, there's a problem with that," she snapped. "Since the Mighty Kinney had me thrown out of the hotel room I was sharing with my wife, and then demanded that if I wanted to confront him about this whole investment fiasco, I had to come back to the Pitts to be granted a face-to-face video audience with His Majesty, here I am in the middle of the fucking night with no place to go."

"I thought you were staying with Ted and Blake." Michael wished he could clear his mind so that he could put together a coherent thought, but he wasn't having much luck in that department. He did wonder, briefly, if things - in general - could possibly get any weirder. He would soon realize that they could.

Melanie did not quite snort, but it was a near thing. "That was before Teddie caved in under pressure from his lord and master, and left me hanging out to dry."

Michael blinked. "Mel," he said quietly, "granted I'm not particularly up on current events at the moment, I still know Teddie wouldn't do that to you. He cares about you and Lindsey. He always has."

She flopped down on the sofa, dropping her purse and a carryall and a laptop onto the floor at her feet, and heaving a sign of relief. It looked as if she felt like she'd been carrying the world on her shoulders and had only just found some tiny measure of relief. Michael sighed. "Look, Mel, we can talk about this in the morning. Hunter isn't here tonight, so you can sleep in his room, and maybe things won't look so bleak then"

It was her turn to blink. "You think a little sunshine is going to fix this colossal mess, Michael? Well, let me just disabuse you of that notion, and tell you what your fucking bosom buddy is doing. He's stepped in and done what he always meant to do, what he's always wanted to do. He's fixed it so that Lindsey is walking away from our marriage - and from our daughter. Our daughter, Michael. Yours and mine and hers. And he's also taking Gus away from me."

Michael simply stared, and felt his headache intensify. "What the fuck are you . . ."

"He's reclaiming his parental rights to Gus, and he's made it clear that he's not going to allow him to leave the country again. And Lindsey . . . well, Lindsey is doing exactly what you'd expect, isn't she? She's playing the sweet little WASP princess and bowing down to his demands, just like always. So you figure it out, Michael. If she refuses to go back to Toronto, that leaves me to either give in to what he wants and come crawling back to Pittsburgh with my tail between my legs, or . . ."

"Or?"

"Or to accept that my marriage is over, that Gus is lost to me, and . . . and that I'll have to find a way to raise my daughter alone."

Michael felt a hitch in his breathing as he realized what she was saying, and found himself incapable of uttering a single word. Fortunately, there was someone else on the scene, someone who had been watching in silence from the shadows of the stairwell.

"You know that's not true, Melanie," said Ben, coming into the room to stand at Michael's side. "J.R. is Michael's daughter too, and we will always do whatever we can to . . ."

"And what's that, Ben?" she snapped. "Send a stuffed animal or two every month? Or a few comic book t-shirts to replace the ones she outgrows? Or . . . oh, yeah . . . fork over a hundred bucks or so every once in a while, when you're flush? Let's be brutally honest here, OK? And believe me, if there were any way to deny it, I would. But the simple truth is that it's Brian's money that's always made it possible for us to live in relative comfort. Because I can't practice law in Canada until I go through retraining, and I have another year of graduate classes until I can apply for my license. Meanwhile, Lindsey's job at the Windhaven Gallery has paid the bills - sort of." She drew a deep breath. "Actually, that's not true. If we'd had to live on her salary, we'd have been holed up in a shithole tenement apartment, scrambling to find some needy old lady to keep our kids while we worked and went to school. Instead, we have a sweet little house and . . . well, I'm sure you see the point. And it's Brian's money that made it possible."

Ben could not quite resist a smile. "Bet that hurt, didn't it?"

You have no idea," she admitted, and suddenly, she wasn't so much enraged as just exhausted. "I never wanted . . . I wanted to be free of Brian. For Lindsey to be free of Brian. I was willing to do anything to achieve that. That was the primary reason behind our mo . . ." She paused, but it was too late. Both men realized what she had almost said. "But it was never going to happen. She was never going to be free of him, and Gus . . . beautiful Gus, my beautiful Gus . . . loves that motherfucker like a . . ." She swallowed around a lump in her throat. "Like a father. Or, even more, like a daddy. How the fuck did everything get so screwed up? And now, now . . . it's all over. Lindsey's never going to forgive me, and he's going to make sure of that."

Ben dropped into an armchair and studied her face. "Actually, Mel, I'm not sure that's true. While Brian and I have had more than our share of issues . . ." He paused to reach out and grasp Michael's hand. "In some ways, he's more capable of forgiveness than anyone I've ever known." Then he offered her a lopsided smile. "It's just that he hides it beneath that asshole persona so successfully that no one even notices."

"Oh, puh-leeze," she groaned. "Please tell me you're not buying into this whole Saint Brian crap."

Michael grinned. "Nobody - including Brian - would consider him a candidate for sainthood. But he is very good to the people in his life, even when he's pretending total indifference. Mel, do you really think he didn't realize that the money he provided for Gus wasn't only for Gus."

"And you know this how?" she demanded. "I'll bet he loved gloating about how the munchers couldn't survive without his charity."

"He's never said a word," Michael replied. "Actually, it was Lindsey who mentioned it."

Melanie nodded, her hands clinching in her lap. "Of course, she did. I shouldn't be surprised, should I? When has she ever done anything but sing his praises?"

"Mel," said Ben slowly, almost gently, "I know it's difficult, especially at a time like this, to be objective, but don't you think your memories are a little . . . selective. I remember plenty of times when Lindsey read Brian the riot act, which he sometimes deserved . . . and sometimes didn't. I also remember that the two of you never seemed to have a problem calling on him to step in and resolve your problems, while - in return - you both appeared to be eager to interfere in his life and try to derail his intentions."

"What the fuck are you talking . . ."

Ben took a deep breath. "You and Lindsey had a great deal to do with Justin's decisions in relation to Brian. Not just once, but repeatedly. When you convinced him that it was hearts and flowers and fairy tale romance that he wanted - instead of what Brian offered to give him; when you suggested that Brian allowing him the freedom to choose his path was a sign that he didn't care about him. And ultimately, when you - and Lindsey - made him believe that he could never be an artistic genius unless he deserted the cultural wasteland of Pittsburgh in order to flourish in the elite atmosphere of New York."

"He needed to go," she insisted. "He was never going to achieve anything here - with Brian running his life."

Ben laughed, which caused Melanie to glower at him. "When," he asked, "did Brian ever run Justin's life? When did he even try, or when would Justin have allowed it? It makes me wonder if you ever knew either of them at all."

"Why are you defending him? What's he ever done for . . ."

"Brian," said Ben firmly, "is a narcissistic, arrogant, hard-headed, sarcastic, self-centered, cynical bastard who probably wouldn't bother to spit on me if I was on fire . . . except . . . except that he'd actually go to any length to protect me because he knows what I mean to Michael. Whatever else he might be, he's my husband's best friend, a friend who has been there for him - to help him, to defend him, to stand up for him . . . to love him - his whole life. Just as he's done for other people that he cares about - including your wife. And he's also a man who had to develop his own methods for dealing with a lot of shit that you and I probably can't even begin to comprehend."

He paused then, struck by a strange gleam in her dark eyes. "But you already know all that, don't you? You've known it for years. It's part of the reason you hate him so much, because you've realized that the people in his life - no matter how much they might claim otherwise - have learned the truth about him. That they love him . . . because he deserves it. Because he earned it, which means that you're never going to be able to turn them against him. Ever."

"I don't fucking believe it." Melanie stood up and began to pace. "Here we go again with all this noble Brian bullshit. He's not some goddamned hero. He doesn't deserve the kind of loyalty that you're all so determined to give him."

Michael had been silent throughout this exchange, but he'd been thinking about what she'd said when she first arrived. "What did you mean, Mel?" he said finally.

"What?" She frowned, obviously confused. "What are you talking about?"

"You said that you had to come back here to confront him because of this 'investment fiasco'. What did you mean?"

Melanie sat down again, biting her lip and obviously not happy to be reminded of whatever it was that had brought her back to the city. "He didn't tell you?" she asked, sounding strangely subdued.

"I haven't heard from him in a couple of days. So . . . what did you mean?"

She drew a deep breath. "Have you heard about this mess . . . with the Hargrave - Correll Fund?"

"The Ponzi scheme," said Ben. "Yeah, of course. It's all over the news."

"Yeah," she said with a sigh. "The whole fucking world is standing around, congratulating themselves that they dodged a bullet. If they did."

Michael moved closer, his eyes growing huge, and darker than usual. "Don't tell me that Brian . . . Jesus! Hasn't he had enough shit to deal with? How could he . . ."

"Save your sympathy for St. Brian," she snapped. "He's fine. He had people watching his back for him. He, as usual, has come through the crap smelling like a fucking rose."

Ben regarded her wearily. "Unlike some other people. Right?"

Melanie took a deep breath. "Ted was in college with Marshall Hargrave, and his old friend offered him a chance to make an investment. It looked like a huge opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime chance, since the Fund has made incredible profits over the last few years. The only stipulation was that the minimum investment was . . . two million dollars."

Michael and Ben exchanged confused glances. "Where" asked Michael, "would Teddie get two million dollars? I mean, I know Brian pays him well, but not that well."

She nodded, once more clinching her hands against her knees. "You're right. Teddie couldn't come up with anything like that amount on his own. But . . . "

"But he did have access to Brian's money," said Ben, absolutely certain that he was guessing correctly.

"Yeah," she admitted. "He thought . . . he honestly believed he was doing the best thing for Brian. That his strategy would wind up making Brian a very rich man. He wanted it to be a big surprise - a done deal when Brian found out about it. Only it didn't quite work out as planned. Brian lost nothing, in the end, but only because the FBI had already decided to monitor all his financial holdings, just in case someone tried to target him for fraud or embezzlement. Whatever. At any rate, the FBI stepped in and prevented the funds transfer from Brian's account. Apparently, they'd had some advance warning about Hargrave, so they did what they had to do to protect Brian. But Teddie and I . . . we sort of topped off his investment with whatever we could scrape together, and that part of the transfer did go through, since the Bureau had no interest in protecting anyone besides Brian. So, when the Fund crashed, we lost everything we put into it."

"How much?" asked Michael.

"Teddie put together $200,000.00. I only managed $40,000.00." She leaned forward then and buried her face in her hands. "I used Gus's college fund, and I borrowed the rest from my parents. It was . . . it was going to be my way to prove to Lindsey that . . . that we didn't need Brian Kinney any more - that we could do just fine without him. That way . . ."

"That way?"

She looked up, and there was no misinterpreting the icy gleam of hatred in her eyes. "That way I could convince her that we should cut him out of our lives and out of Gus's life. We don't need him and all of his shit."

"No," said Ben very softly. "Just his money."

Melanie leapt to her feet. "Well, that's history now, isn't it? Since he has no connection and no interest in our daughter, he's sure as shit not going to volunteer anything for her, is he? Gus is the only one he ever cared about - probably because he thinks he can turn him into a perfect little replica of himself. What a wonderful future for the kid, hmm? And maybe you should also keep something else in mind, Michael. I now live in Canada, and so does J.R., and since you contribute virtually nothing in the way of support, it's unlikely that the courts are going to grant you any custodial rights, that involve crossing borders. So, while Brian may have succeeded in getting rid of me and reclaiming Lindsey and Gus, he's also managed to get rid of your daughter. How do you like that?"

"Mel," said Ben quickly, noting the flare of alarm in Michael's eyes. "I seriously suggest that you think very carefully before you go on. Threatening us is not going to accomplish anything, and . . ."

"It might," she retorted. "Since he might be willing to listen to Michael. If, that is, he really loves your husband the way you claim he does. Surely, he wouldn't want to be responsible for Michael losing his daughter."

Michael looked up then, staring at her face, and Ben had to look away quickly, wondering why she didn't recognize the stirring of rage in those dark eyes. "What do you expect him to do?" Michael asked, his voice almost without inflection.

She sat back and gazed up into nothing for a bit. "I need to consider that," she said finally. "Ponder what it would take to make it up to me - to mend what he's broken and restore what I've lost."

"Let me get this straight," said Ben, not quite able to disguise his disbelief. "You and Teddie concoct a scheme to invest a shitload of Brian's money - without his permission - in a fucking Ponzi scheme that goes belly up, and tack some of your own cash on to take advantage of the opportunity to make huge profits. Then, when the scheme goes south, and Brian winds up untouched by it, you blame him for the loss - just as you blamed him for getting bashed and almost murdered and God only know what else over the years - and you expect him to replace the money you lost and repair the problems in your marriage. Does that just about sum it up?"

"It's not that simple," she retorted. "He's been screwing with us for years, interfering with our lives, with Gus's. It's time Lindsey takes a stand and tells him to fuck off."

"Melanie, I don't think . . ."

"I don't want to hear it, Michael," she snapped. "You've spent your whole life defending him - except for that little while when you actually grew some balls and stood up to him - and I'm not in the mood for . . ."

"Stop, Mel," said Ben quickly, sensing that this conversation was only going to go downhill from this point. "It's neither the time nor the place for this. And I suggest that you think twice - maybe three times - before you start lobbing threats at us. I think I just mentioned that Brian - whatever faults he might have - has always loved and cared for Michael. So, while you're probably right to assume that he's not going to bend over backwards to do anything for you, I wouldn't be so sure that he wouldn't take action on Michael's behalf. As he's so fond of reminding us, money talks. And - as you've just pointed out - one thing he doesn't lack for is money. You might want to think very carefully about whether or not you're actually willing to go one-on-one with Brian Kinney in protective mode."

He leaned forward then and picked up her carryall and slung it over his shoulder. "As for the rest of this conversation, I think it would be wise to save it for the morning, when cooler heads might prevail."

"I don't need your fucking charity," she snarled, jumping up and grabbing her purse.

But Michael did not flinch away from her anger. "Oh, I think you do. For the moment, anyway. You just admitted that you have no place to go. And whether I agree with what you've said or not, you're still the mother of my daughter, so I don't want to see you wandering the streets at this hour. So go on up to Hunter's room, and we'll continue this tomorrow."

It was uncertain which of the three of them was most surprised when she stood for a moment, obviously undecided, before turning, grabbing her bag from Ben, and making her way upstairs without another word.

Once the bedroom door closed behind her, Ben turned to study his husband's face, trying to find the right word to offer comfort and solace and to ease Michael's troubled mind.

"It's okay, Ben," said the younger man with a weary smile. "Go on up to bed. I'll be there in a minute."

"Can I fix you a glass of warm milk? Or something a little stronger maybe?"

"No. I'm fine. Just . . . go on up, and I'll be along."

"Michael, don't worry," Ben said softly, moving forward to drape his arms around his husband's shoulders. "Don't let her scare you."

"Too late," Michael replied with a rueful smile.

"It's going to be all right. She can't . . ."

Michael drew a deep breath. "We don't know that, Ben. Melanie is . . . she can be very . . . brutal when crossed. I need to know . . ."

"Know what?"

Dark eyes were suddenly aglint with an odd combination of anger, fierce determination, and quiet courage. "That we aren't in this alone."

Ben sighed. "You're going to call Brian."

Michael laid his head against Ben's shoulder. "Not . . . if you'd rather I didn't."

Ben dropped a kiss on his husband's forehead. "What are friends for except . . . Michael, it's the wee small hours of the morning and - unless I'm remembering incorrectly - he's got Gus there with him, so it's unlikely that he's dancing or fucking the night away. He's gonna be majorly pissed."

"He'll forgive me." The smile was quicksilver. "He always forgives me."

Ben smiled and touched Michael's face with a gentle hand. "I know. When you're done, come to bed, and maybe I'll think of a way to take your mind off your troubles."

Michael managed to dredge up a small, lopsided grin. "I should have known it would happen - sooner or later."

"What?"

"After all this time, Brian is finally rubbing off on you."

Ben laughed, but did not argue, and, after one soft lingering kiss, went to bed as Michael settled on the sofa and picked up the phone.

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

"What are you wearing?"

For a few seconds, the silence on the line was deafening. Then, when the answer finally came, it was neither a snarl nor a hiss - but something with elements of both.

"Novotny, it's - shit! - it's three AM, my kid is asleep in my bed and so is Justin, which accounts for the fact that I'm horny as hell and can't do shit about it. And you're calling me for phone sex? Are you out of your fucking mind? I am sooo going to beat the shit out of you when . . ."

"Brian?"

"What?"

"Can I . . ."

The silence this time was softer, filled with something exquisitely gentle but clandestine, something that was real and vital but didn't necessarily want to be seen. "What's wrong, Michael?"

"I need to talk to you. Can you . . ."

"Yeah. Hold on. Let me just go in the other room, so I don't wake anybody up."

"Too late," came a soft, drowsy murmur from the other side of the bed. "What the fuck . . ."

"Go back to sleep, Justin."

"Who the hell . . ."

"It's Michael."

A brief pause and a sigh. "Oh. That explains it then."

"Go back to sleep."

Another, briefer pause. "Okay. Tell him I said . . . he's going to get crow's feet if he keeps fucking around in the wee hours every night."

Brian grinned. "Yeah. I'm sure that's the favorite pastime of Stepford fags. I'll be sure to let him know."

"Brian?"

Brian was trying his best to disentangle himself from the duvet and climb out of the bed without waking Gus, but he paused long enough to respond. "What?"

"I love you." It was barely a whisper, barely coherent, and shouldn't have counted for much in the grand scheme of things. Yet - somehow - it did.

"Go to sleep, Twat."

"Ummmm." Easily done, thought the blond, since he had found sleep impossible for a long time after climbing into bed after their trek up the stairs. He had really tried, but he'd been unable to resist staring at the vision of Brian with Gus nestled in his arms, with the boy's back cradled against his father's perfect chest, the two breathing in unison, with Brian's long fingers stroking the child's silky curls in a soothing gesture whenever Gus would stir. Justin had been content to watch for more than an hour, and had felt something shift and catch in his throat as it had occurred to him to wonder if anyone had ever demonstrated such love and tenderness for the child that Brian had been. Somehow he doubted it - and mourned the loss.

He moved closer to Gus as the child instinctively reached out to regain the lost warmth of his father's body. A quick shifting and a wordless grumble seemed to indicate that the six-year-old was less than satisfied with the substitution, but then he settled back into the softness of Brian's pillow, apparently content with the lingering scent of his father's skin. Justin moved closer, glad to inhale the mingled warmth of father and son, and spent another moment wondering if he had ever been happier in his life. A whisper in his mind admonished him for finding joy in a situation resulting from the brutal attack on his lover, but he could not really summon up a sense of guilt. Nor, he knew, would Brian tolerate such nonsense.

They were together. Brian would live and would be himself again. Gus was with them, and the future was beautiful.

Justin drifted down into the soft embrace of sleep with a smile on his face.

Brian, however, was not smiling. He knew Mikey too well to be sanguine about what their conversation would entail. While his childhood friend might occasionally indulge in a drama queen-out - okay, not so occasionally - he rarely allowed notes of true desperation to creep into his voice, and he generally managed to confine his flaming exhibitions to a relatively small geographical area during reasonable hours. A phone call at three A.M. spanning a distance across five states did not bode well.

Ultimately, in the hope of allowing other residents of the cottage to sleep without interruption, Brian hurried downstairs and out to the deck, sinking into his favorite lounge chair before lifting the phone to his ear again.

"Okay, Mikey. What's wrong?"

"Tell that little shit to mind his own fucking business."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. The Mikey and Justin show and its perpetual 'Brian-loves-me-more' focus. And I am his business." The faintly acerbic tone of voice was meant to put Michael in his place, and it worked perfectly, as always. But then, Brian smiled, and allowed it to show in his voice and his manner. "Just like you are my business. Now, why the fuck are you calling me in the middle of the night?"

Michael grinned, slightly consoled by the familiar tone of voice, in spite of the worry that he could not quite manage to put aside. "I remember a time when this would just count as the shank of the evening for you. You know - two tricks down and another waiting in line."

Brian huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Those were the days. But now . . ."

"Yeah," Michael agreed, his sigh suggesting volumes of unspoken words, but now, he knew, was not the time to speak them. "Melanie's here, Brian. She just showed up at the front door about an hour ago. And . . . she's upset."

"Upset?" Brian echoed, making no attempt to disguise the amusement in his tone. "Just upset? I was hoping for something a little more extreme, like a global meltdown. And it couldn't happen to a nicer person."

"I know how you feel about her," said Michael softly, gripping the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger in an attempt to ease the headache throbbing there. "And I can't blame you. After the things she said and the things she did, most of which I just found out about - you'd have to be a saint not to resent her, or want payback against her. But . . ."

"But what?" Brian prompted, reining in the anger that was pushing him to tell Michael that there was nothing anyone could say to convince him that Melanie deserved mercy or compassion, especially when she had shown herself completely incapable of granting it to anyone else.

"But . . . Brian, she has J.R. She has my daughter, and if I don't . . . if you won't reconsider . . ."

Brian was silent for a moment, mind reeling a bit under the implications of what his best friend was telling him. "Let me get this straight," he said finally. "Lovely Melanie - the mother of your child - is threatening to take J.R. away from you, if I don't take action to make it up to her and make sure she's forgiven for everything she said and did. To . . . what? Force Lindsey to forgive her and take her back? To relinquish any claims I have to my son and allow her to take him back to Canada and keep him from me? Is that about the size of it, Mikey?"

Michael drew a deep breath. "That's pretty much what she wants. Oh, and for you to, um, compensate her for her losses. Financially. She seems to feel that the fact that she and Ted invested money they couldn't afford to lose in a pyramid scheme that you didn't invest in - because the FBI prevented it - somehow makes you responsible for their loss."

Brian paused a bit, looking out toward the ocean where he saw a dark figure - one of his security patrol, no doubt - standing at the edge of the waterline gazing off into the night. "And you're supposed to convince me to do this," he said finally. "She expects you to use our friendship to make sure I give her what she wants. Is that what you want to do, Michael?"

Another deep breath. "No. No, I don't want to do that, Brian. She's using J.R. as a weapon - against you. That's what this boils down to. She keeps insisting that the courts are not going to grant me any access, because . . . because I've never been able to provide much financial support for her. And I don't know that she's not right about that. They may not be interested in anything I have to say, or any defense I might offer. But I do think it's interesting that she admitted that the only reason they haven't been living in poverty was the money that you provided, to support Gus. So it's not a stretch to realize that she's figured out that, if Lindsey and Gus are gone, the money goes with them. So this is . . ."

"It's okay, Mikey," Brian said softly. "I understand. This is her way of punishing you - and me, by extension. Of forcing you to try to manipulate me into giving her what she wants."

"Yeah. It is. And what I can't figure out is why I never realized it before. She loves J.R., Brian. I know she does. But she also . . . uses her. Like leverage, to get what she wants."

"Yeah. I think she did the same with Gus. But . . . listen, Michael. Are you listening?"

When Michael responded, there was a very faint but very welcome vein of laughter in his voice. "Yes, Asshole. I'm listening."

"Look, there's no way of knowing how all of this is going to turn out. The investigation is huge, and getting bigger and more complex every day, and lots of things are going to change by the time it's over." He smiled then and paused to light a cigarette. "But a few things are never going to change, and one of them is the fact that you're my best friend, and I love you. Always have and always will. And I'm not exactly going to wind up as a pauper living in a grass shack on some backwater beach somewhere. I'm Brian Kinney, and my money doesn't just talk; it sits up and sings fucking grand opera. So I want you to stop worrying about this, Mikey. Am I going to give in and give the Mistress of Manipulation what she wants? Hell, no! Lindsey is a grown woman, and she makes her own decisions - even if I think she's nuts sometimes - but if she's finally seen the light about her so-called significant other, I'm not going to step in and try to change her mind. I'm more likely to buy a fullspread ad in the Times, offering my congratulations and an observation that it's about fucking time. And I'm not going to change my mind about Gus; he's my son, and - for some unfathomable reason - he seems to love me. I'm going to be a part of his life again, and Melanie is just going to have to accept that. Whether or not she remains in his life is up to her - and Lindsey."

He hesitated for a moment, listening carefully to gauge Michael's state of mind, but all he could hear was the sound of breathing, faintly uneven. So Michael was still unsettled, still determined to do the right thing - but scared out of his wits, nonetheless.

"So here's what's going to happen," he said, careful to use his most persuasive, most soothing vocal tones. "Just today, I met a man who knows the legal system and how to navigate through it as well as I know Justin's ass - and that's pretty damned well, you know. He's my new lawyer - a specialist in criminal law, but also a master of taking care of all the nasty details that come up in the course of this kind of investigation. Now our little Melanie has always been a pretty good attorney, at working the system to her advantage. But trust me, Mikey. Compared to this guy, she's a fucking goldfish facing off against a barricuda. You're J.R.'s father, and there's nothing Melanie can do to change that. And you've never even considered giving up your parental rights, and I'm pretty sure that no arbitrary geographical division - like the U.S./Canadian border - is going to change that. It's not like she's living in fucking Uzbekistan, now is it?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

"But what?"

"But all that sounds really expensive, Brian. You know, I don't have that kind . . ."

"Mikey, when I was fifteen years old and wound up bloody and beaten and damaged on your doorstep, did you - or your mother, or Vic - stop and consider how much it would cost to clean me up and put me back together again?"

"No, but . . ."

"And when Jack would get pissed off and throw me out of the house for days, sometimes weeks at a time, did you or any of your family stop to count how much it would cost to feed me and keep me warm and give me a roof over my head until the motherfucker decided to forgive and forget, until the next time?"

"No, but we're not talking nickels and dimes here, Brian. Whatever it cost to take you in and bandage you up, it was nothing compared to . . ."

"It was never 'nothing', Michael. It was . . . everything, then. So whatever I can do for you and J.R. now? In the grand scheme of things, it's nothing."

Michael sat back in the corner of his sofa, warm and relaxed as he felt something easing within his chest, a cold, rough-edged something that he had not even been entirely aware of until it was crumbling into nothingness, and he wished he was standing face to face with the young man who was still, in some ways, the center of his existence as he realized that moments of truth - like this one - were exceedingly rare. Not to mention, exceedingly precious.

"I love you, Brian," he said, barely whispering.

"I know," came the expected response, accompanied by a smug little laugh. "Now listen up, Mikey. In the morning, I'm going to get in touch with this guy - his name is Liam Quinn, by the way - and have him call you. I want you to think about this, and decide exactly what you want, exactly what kind of arrangements you want to make. You discuss it with him, and he'll take it from there."

"But . . ."

"And if you mention what it's going to cost one more time, I'm personally going to kick your sweet little ass until it's black and blue, which is not going to make Zen Ben very happy. Now do you really want to have to watch your musclebound husband beat the shit out of the only true love your life, or are you going to shut up and do as you're told - like a good boy?"

"You're fucking unbelievable," Michael laughed.

"I know. So . . . are we clear?"

"Yeah. We're clear."

"Oh, and one more thing," said Brian, tongue firmly in cheek.

"Yeah? What?"

"If you get the chance, feel free to piss in her cornflakes."

Michael was still giggling when Brian disconnected.

When a soft laugh erupted from a tall figure standing at the edge of the darkness behind him, Brian shifted abruptly, uncomfortable to realize that he'd been completely unaware of the new arrival.

"Okay," said Chris McClaren. "Maybe I'm not entirely clueless about why anyone would want to consider you a friend."

Brian grinned as he looked up at the FBI agent, who was little more than a silhouette, backlit by the silver pallette of the moonlight. "Should I feel flattered?"

McClaren settled into the chair to Brian's right. "You've never felt flattered in your entire life. You always think you deserve any accolades that come your way."

"True." Brian closed his eyes, and enjoyed the silken feel of the warm air against his skin. "What the fuck are you doing out here at this hour?"

"Just making rounds." It was flatly stated, with no inflection. Nevertheless, Brian heard something beneath the words, and turned to regard the agent with narrowed eyes, prompting McClaren to swallow a smile and wonder how many people knew how intuitive the ad man really was. Not many, he was pretty sure.

"That's different. Something new? Something I don't know about?"

"Not really. Just a precaution."

"Which you never bothered with before. What's . . ."

"Nothing for you to worry about. Just leave it, Brian."

Brian's laugh was just a snicker. But it spoke volumes. "Do you not know me at all, McFed? Have you learned nothing about . . ."

McClaren sighed. "All right. But it really is nothing. Mostly. Got a tip - from an undercover in the Pitts - about a possible connection. To someone in this area. No names yet. And nothing substantial. Just better safe than sorry. You know?"

"And when were you planning to tell me?" There was no way to ignore the bright bite of anger in the question.

McClaren turned then to meet the gleam of resentment in Brian's gaze and refused to flinch away from it. "When there was something to tell. What's the matter, Brian? Don't you trust me?"

"You know what's at stake here," Brian retorted sharply. "Especially now. So why should I . . ."

"Because I do know what's at stake. Don't I?" The FBI agent shifted then and leaned forward abruptly, to claim Brian's lips with his own, to pour everything he was into the kind of kiss that is so much more than just a meeting of mouths; the kind that is more like a touching of hearts, a fleeting brush of souls. Then he drew back quickly and regarded the face of the man who was looking at him with so much pain and need and rage and fear exposed in eyes that almost never allowed anyone to see what resided behind the mask.

"And because you know what's at stake - for me."

He rose then and walked away into the night, and Brian was left to look up to stare at the stars, ignoring the liquid sting in his eyes as he realized that he did know, and that those few words were as close as the lawman would ever come to confirming a truth that was too rare and too precious and too deeply felt to verbalize. As declarations went, it didn't count for much, lacking in eloquence and style and passion, but it lacked nothing in substance and honesty, and they were both fully aware of what had been said, along with what never would be. Ultimately, it made no difference, as they understood it perfectly just the same.

Brian didn't linger; he rose and went into the house where Gus was waiting, where Justin was waiting. Where his life was waiting.

He knew it, and so did the man who was rapidly walking away into the night.

 

 

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