Chapter 48

Timeless


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When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.

-- Dylan Thomas

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With the coming of the new day, everyone in residence at the beach-house was kind enough to pretend not to notice that both Brian and Justin were semi-sleep-deprived and drowsy to the point of having to stifle yawns repeatedly. Well - almost everyone. Neither Chris McClaren nor Cynthia bothered to hide an occasional smirk at the expense of either of the two, when one or the other of them would assume an entirely too complacent expression at finding himself the object of a slightly smug, not altogether platonic leer from his partner in crime. Gus and Katy, of course, sensed nothing and saw no reason to lower the volume of their shrieks of joy as they raced out to greet the morning tide while the rest of the household seemed unperturbed, taking it in stride as just another day existing in the periphery of The Life of Brian.

But it wasn't really just another day, of course, and they were all painfully aware of that particular truth. This was the day when Brian was sending everyone away, except for those charged with his security, and Justin, in particular, was torn between a desire to spare his lover the trauma of unnecessary conflict and a determination - a need - to retain his place at Brian's side. He knew Brian was right - logically. He really did have things he needed to do in order to prepare for the life they would build together. He had an apartment - or a 'dump' as Brian called it, sight unseen - to clear out and possessions to ship and a gallery owner to schmooze into working with him on new commitments. He still had projects to complete and contracts to fulfill and fences to mend.

And then there was the question of where the two of them would live, not exactly an urgent priority but pertinent nonetheless.

Justin loved the loft, recognizing it - occasionally almost sanctifying it - as the site of his initiation into the relationship that would prove to be the most important in his life, and he was fundamentally grateful that Brian would never even consider selling it. For him, it would always hold special significance in that it was the place where he had been 'deflowered' - a term that would have inspired a sarcastic smirk from Brian, who would forever refuse to romanticize the occasion, in that he still referred to that night as their 'first fuck and rim job', and he probably always would. But Justin knew the truth; in that beautiful setting, in that lovely, ridiculously plush bed with its 1000 thread-count sheets, he had gladly given up his virginity and taken the first step on a journey that would ultimately lead him here - to this man who was the nucleus of his existence. Furthermore, he was almost certain Brian knew it too, even though he would never admit it. In addition, it was the place - more than any other - that embodied the individual who had created it, designed it, built it, and filled it with the essence of who he was. In many ways, the loft was Brian - beautiful, unique, elegant, passionate, exclusive, private, and more than a little unfathomable - and it would always be home to them both. On the other hand, it was simply not large enough to accommodate all their needs, especially if Brian was determined to play a larger role in Gus's life, which appeared inevitable at this point.

In addition, Justin would need a studio of his own, a private place where he could paint or brood or express himself or work out occasional bouts of anger or frustration - inevitable in a relationship with Brian Kinney - a place which would either be a part of their home or close enough to allow him to use it at odd hours and have access whenever inspiration struck.

Thus, there were lots of arrangements to make and changes to research and details to investigate, so he had retrieved a notepad from Brian's desk and was constantly jotting down cryptic notes to himself, in the loopy, distinctive scrawl Brian had once dubbed 'Taylor-glyphics' after an unsuccessful attempt to decipher a perfectly simple grocery list. Perfectly simple, that is, from Justin's point of view. Brian would beg to differ.

At any rate, Justin was very busy, muttering away, Google-ing everything from real estate listings in Pittsburgh to art reviews of his show to moving services. At odd moments, he also checked his email, which was how he discovered that two more of his paintings had sold at premium prices, and the gallery was delighted and already hinting about another show in the autumn.

Still, he would celebrate later. Right now, he had important stuff to do.

Brian, on the other hand, was looking particularly relaxed, seated at the head of the table, clad in the casual elegance of perfectly fitted Seven jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger shirt that reflected sparks of green in his eyes as he listened to Trina explain why he should forego his usual dietary constraints and indulge in eggs Benedict and buttermilk biscuits with home-made peach butter. He was listening, but he was also favoring her with his characteristic sardonic smile, so that any half-way perceptive tout would review the evidence at hand and advise betting against the house in this case. The ridiculously rich, succulent, savory eggs would be enjoyed by many members of the household this morning, but Brian Kinney would not be among that number.

Instead, he enjoyed a visual feast as he watched Gus and Katy dig into stacks of golden pancakes, adorned with swirls of butter and puddles of maple syrup, as they giggled at each other, unaware and uncaring of dribbles and crumbs collecting in the corners of cherubic mouths and clinging to sweet little chins. At the same time, Justin had temporarily put aside his constant listing and compulsive Googling and was indulging his normal voracious appetite, sampling everything Trina served him and rolling his eyes in appreciation, while Brian sipped at his espresso and continued to watch. Cynthia, savoring her own breakfast, did not fail to notice the fleeting glimmer in her boss's eyes - a glimmer that might have indicated nothing more than the joy of the moment, or the satisfaction of being in the perfect place to observe such sheer beauty. Might - or might not.

She took another bite of her eggs and tried to ignore a strange uneasiness rising in her belly. Maybe she was wrong; she hoped she was wrong. There shouldn't be even the tiniest nuance of incipient heartbreak in his eyes. Because the worst was over. Wasn't it?

"The plane will be ready at noon," announced McClaren, fresh from his morning briefing and taking a seat at the bar to accept his own plate of eggs along with a cup of industrial strength poison from Trina. "So you'll need to be packed up and ready to go by 11:00. Just in case the traffic sucks."

"Brian," said Cynthia, turning to study his face and not bothering to try to conceal the misgivings she was feeling. "We could . . ."

"No," he said firmly. "You're going. You're all going."

"But that's . . ." That was Justin - of course - who understood why he needed to go, but still couldn't bring himself to agree with the command without offering some kind of resistance. Thus he fell silent, frustrated with his inability to find words that might convince Brian to reconsider.

For his part, Brian sighed, his eyes soft with regret and understanding as he regarded first his lover and then his assistant with feigned patience - patience that would not prove to be infinite, as they both knew. "Look, this is non-negotiable. You don't need to be here, and I don't want you here. I have this one last procedure to endure in Dr. Mengele's Chamber of Tortures, and then a few more days of therapy, and I won't have time to spend with any of you while all this is going on. You've both got better things to do than sit around and listen to me bitch. Which I will; you know me well enough to know that. Then I'm done, and it's back to beautiful, downtown Pittsburgh where I would prefer not to walk in to the kind of chaos that your presence there would prevent. So let's just do the reasonable thing here. You go do what you need to do so I can come home without having to face a shit-load of problems when I get there. It's best for everybody."

"But . . . "

"Justin!" And just like that, the patience was gone, and Brian was no longer smiling, as his eyes narrowed and grew cold. "I'm not going to argue with you. For once - just once - just do as I say."

"Once?" scoffed Justin. "You gotta be kidding me."

"No. You're getting on that plane. You're all getting on . . ."

"But, Daaaddddeeeee!" It was rather amazing that every single adult in the room was instantly focused on something - indeed on anything - except father and child, as they all attempted to suppress smiles. There was no possibility that anyone who had ever dealt with a child on a mission - determined to have his way no matter how adamant the opposition - would fail to recognize the perfect execution of the little boy's protest, in a ploy designed to produce the greatest possible chance of success. Nor would they fail to realize that the process would almost certainly prove to be a prime example of the old irresistible force/immovable object dynamic.

"Gus, don't . . ."

"Daddy, please don't send me away. Please. I want to stay with . . ."

Brian rose quickly and moved to kneel at Gus's side, as Katy shifted slightly to make room for him, and some of the other adults in the room took up a new subject of conversation to allow some semblance of privacy between father and son. "Gus," he repeated, firmly but very gently, "I know you want to stay. And I know you've been having a wonderful time with Katy and Gramps and Justin, but . . ."

"And you," Gus interrupted, looking up into Brian's eyes and allowing just a hint of a tremor to touch his full lower lip, and Brian had to bite down on an urge to smile in acknowledgement of the truth of the old adage - like father, like son. The kid definitely knew how to play to his audience, and, in one way, had even surpassed the achievements of his father in that he had learned how to manipulate his old man, something that Brian himself had never actually managed to do no matter how much charm he'd employed in the effort.

But the charm itself was identical.

"And me," Brian conceded, touched - but not budging. "But it's time to go home. I'll be busy all week long so I wouldn't have time for you. And it's not like you're not going to get to spend more time with Katy. In fact, if Cynthia agrees, I'm pretty sure we could arrange a trip to Katy's parents' farm sometime soon. And guess what - they've got horses."

"Horses?" A quick flare of interest was enough to momentarily dispel the shadows in the child's eyes.

"Yup," said Katy, licking a big dollop of syrup off her spoon. "Even a pony that would be just your size."

Gus turned to look at Cynthia, obviously still unconvinced. "Really?"

Cynthia grinned. "Would your daddy lie to you?"

Gus cocked his head and thought for a moment. "Yep. If he had to."

Her grin became a laugh. "You are most definitely your father's son, Little Man. But in this case, he's right. They do have horses, and there's a lovely pinto pony named Rascal that would be just perfect for you. And yes, I will ask when I take Katy home if you can come for a visit. I'm sure her parents will love to have you." Then she looked up, and there was a glint of something deeper, something unvoiced but very real in her eyes when she spoke to Brian. "And I think it goes without saying that you'd be welcome to come and stay as long as you like, Brian. I assume you know that."

He nodded absently, maintaining his focus on his son. "So does that sound all right with you, Gus?"

The little boy was looking down again, deliberately not meeting his father's gaze. "Yeah. It's okay, I guess."

"But still not exactly what you were hoping for, right?" Brian leaned down and touched his lips against the nape of Gus's neck. "So . . . aren't you missing your mommie? Because I know for sure that she's missing you. Don't you think she'd be happy to have you home?"

Gus sighed. "Yeah. I do miss her. Only . . ."

"Only what?" Brian was very careful to keep his tone soft and sympathetic, but Gus simply shook his head, unsure of how to respond.

Brian took a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. "Only you don't miss some of the things that have been happening at home lately. Right?"

Gus nodded. "Daddy?" The little voice was - if anything - even smaller and more tentative than before, and Brian felt a heavy, smothering ache forming deep in his chest.

"Yes?"

"Am I . . . are we . . ."

Small, perfect teeth bit down on a generous lower lip.

"Come on, Gus," said Brian, leaning closer, close enough for a whisper to be heard. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. Don't you know that by now?"

The boy nodded. "It's just . . . sometimes, I'm . . . I'm not supposed to ask, but . . ."

Brian waited, but the child seemed unable to continue without a bit of prompting. "But what?"

Suddenly, Gus turned and buried his face against his father's chest, tiny hands clutching in the soft fabric of the designer shirt, expressing a desperation he seemed loathe to verbalize. He murmured something so softly that even Brian could not decipher it.

"What? Come on, Gus. What do you . . ."

"I don't want you to be gone any more." There it was then. Spoken in a broken gasp, filled with need and determination and fear, like a terrified cry in the darkness of the night. "I . . . I hate it when you're not there. When I'm not there."

Brian's smile was achingly tender and almost successful in covering up the combination of deep, almost physical anguish and towering anger in his eyes. "You mean when you're in Toronto?"

But the effort to speak of his dismay had taken the boy's last trace of courage and strength, and he could only nod now, already wondering if he should have spoken at all.

"It's okay, Gus," said his father, gathering him close and stroking his hair. "You're not going back. I promise. You're not going to have to go back - ever."

"Hate T'ronto," the child admitted.

"I know. Me too."

"But what about Mommie?"

Brian lifted his eyes and saw Ron Peterson watching him, waiting for him, allowing him to set the terms by which Lindsey would be bound. It was not, of course, politically correct by any stretch of the imagination, but - under these circumstances and in defense of this child - it was the right thing to do.

"Mommie won't be going back either," Brian said firmly, his tone allowing no possibility of doubt. "In fact, I'm pretty sure that Mommie is busy looking for a new house right now. In Pittsburgh."

"Close to you?" Gus was still buried against Brian's chest, still not daring to look up.

"Yeah, Sonny Boy. Close to me."

The child stirred then, and lifted his eyes to stare deeply into those that were almost a mirror of his own. "Is that . . . okay with you? Mama always says that you . . . that you didn't . . ."

"That I didn't what?" Once more, the calm tone was almost successful in camouflaging the harsh vein of resentment that ran beneath it.

"That you didn't want me around too much. That I'm too much trouble and I . . . cramp your style. I don't know what that means, but I . . . if you really don't . . ."

"Gus, I will always want you around - the closer the better. Now, maybe it won't always be possible, and maybe, when you're all grown up you'll be sick of having your old man anywhere near you, but I won't ever stop wanting you close to me - close enough for me to always be able to get to you quickly so I can help you fix your toys, or dry your tears, or find you if you're lost, or kill the monsters under your bed or . . . whatever. Understand?"

Gus nodded, and shifted so that Brian had to settle onto his backside to allow his son to crawl up into his lap, but the look in the child's eyes still whispered of something more - some question not yet asked.

"What else, Gus?" Brian asked, settling into the corner so that his son could nestle against him more comfortably.

The child edged still closer to his father, reaching up to wrap his arm around Brian's throat. "Mama said that I . . ." He stopped then, and struggled to swallow, and Brian could easily hear the catch in his voice and sense the uncertainty in his manner.

"That you what? Come on. You can tell me; I promise I won't be mad at you."

"She said that I'd have to choose - some day. That I'd have to choose between you and them, and that it was going to hurt Mommie real bad - that she would get her heart broke if she didn't make me understand that you . . . that you don't really care about me. That she had to make sure that I'd choose them, because you . . . you wouldn't . . . you'd never really want me, or give up anything for me. That I was just . . ."

"Gus." Firm, unyielding, but still - somehow - filled with love. "Do you believe that?"

The little boy looked up again, meeting his father's gaze directly. "No. I never did."

Brian nodded, and Gus wondered for a moment why his daddy's eyes were suddenly shining so brightly. "That's good then, because you are not just anything, and you never will be. I would never force you to make a choice like that, and I'll make sure that nobody else ever does either. I promise. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

"No more buts, Sonny Boy. You will never have to make that choice."

"You promise? You really promise?"

"Yep."

"Pinky swear promise?"

"Yep."

"Cross your heart and ho . . ."

"Yep. And I need you to remember something for me, OK?"

"OK. Like what?"

"Like I never - never - make promises I can't keep."

He paused then, carefully studying his son's beautiful face, knowing that there was yet one more question that needed asking, even if the answer might prove to be extremely painful.

"Gus," he said finally, "what about your mama - and J.R? I want to help you, to make everything better for you, but I need to be sure that you can deal with whatever might happen, if things don't go exactly as planned."

The boy looked down, obviously reluctant to meet his father's gaze. "I don't know what to say. I don't think . . . I think Mama doesn't like me much any more. She did once, I think. She used to, but it's like J.R. is the only one that matters to her now. I think she used to . . ."

"Used to what?"

"Used to love me. Before J.R. and before . . . before I started to look so much like you."

Brian nodded, once more threading his fingers through his son's hair. "I'm so sorry, Gus."

But the child was too smart to accept a too easy solution and looked up with a lopsided smile. "Why? You didn't do anything to be sorry for. And I'm glad I look like you."

It was a lovely moment between father and son, and if there was the tiniest little sound - like an almost breathless gasp of disbelief from someone who realized that Brian Kinney had just broken one of his own cardinal rules - nobody bothered to notice.

Brian simply nodded, and pulled his son tight against his heart, and there was a solid beat of silence then, before Gus threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged tightly enough to begin to cut off Brian's breath. Still, Brian just held him, content to wait for the boy to feel comfortable enough to let go.

Which he did, if only just in time to prevent Brian from gasping for air, and it was at that juncture that Brian took note of the steady flow of conversation around them and realized he was a very lucky man. The exchange between him and his young son had been painful for both of them - and would have been even more painful, in retrospect, for having happened under intense scrutiny. But Cynthia and Mathis, Trina and McClaren and others among the security staff had all pitched in to make sure that hadn't happened, as they had all carried on a spirited discussion, debating the quality of the beachfront here as opposed to those of other locations, and the merits of local seafood and whether or not it compared favorably to that of the Chesapeake or the Gulf and the properties of maple syrup as it contrasted to the local cane variety.. He was pretty sure, nevertheless, that every one of them could probably have quoted the private conversation verbatim, if necessary, but he was equally certain that none of them ever would.

Only Justin and Ron Peterson, both involved - to different degrees - in the inner circle of the situation, had remained quiet, listening carefully, but never intruding, and the glossiness of Justin's eyes as he watched Brian cuddle his son to his chest indicated that he had clearly understood the importance and the subtler meanings of all he'd heard.

"Hey, Gus," he said brightly, stepping forward and lifting the child from his father's lap, "if you're finished eating, why don't we go and search for a few more shells, to top off your collection. And when you guys get all settled in your new house, Daddy and I will come and help you fix up a display case for them in your room. Okay?"

Gus looked to his father. "Okay, Daddy?"

"Okay, Sonny Boy. Take Beau with you, but make sure he doesn't wander off. The pilots of that private jet wouldn't like it if they had to wait for us to find a run-away mutt."

Chris McClaren opened his mouth as if to dispute the suggestion that such a thing might even be possible, but then he thought better of it and chose not to speak at all.

Ron Peterson was less reticent, but waited until Justin had persuaded Katy to join him and his little companion on their shell search before voicing his concerns.

He remained silent until Brian reseated himself at the head of the table, accepting a coffee refill from Trina before turning to regard his son's grandfather with an air of expectancy, as everyone else suddenly remembered some urgent chore that required their presence elsewhere. Except for McClaren, who continued to enjoy his breakfast and his coffee. He did not turn to look at the two men now seated at opposite ends of the table, but his posture and demeanor said - as clearly as any spoken words could have - that he was not going to excuse himself or pretend not to listen, and that the two of them would just have to deal with it.

Brian took a deep breath, but did not allow himself a sigh of impatience. "Let me guess," he said as he met Peterson's gaze. "You think I shouldn't interfere between Lindsey and her . . . whatever the fuck Melanie is."

Peterson gave a slight shrug. "I'm more concerned with you making promises that you might not be able to keep. You can't guarantee that he won't have to make that choice - someday."

"Yes, I can."

"I won't allow you to coerce my daughter, Brian. She has the right . . ."

"Coerce?" Brian interrupted with a venal smile. "You think I'd have to coerce her? Or that I'd be able to? Tell me something, Mr. Peterson. Do you fucking know your daughter at all? Because it doesn't sound like you do. If I had any doubts about what she'd do - which I don't, by the way - but if I did, all I'd have to do is inform her about the conversation I just had with my son, and that would be the end of it. I know she loved Melanie; maybe she still loves Melanie, but that won't change anything. She is not going to stand by and allow Gus to be hurt by Melanie's psychotic need to control their lives."

Peterson chose not to meet the challenge in Brian's eyes. Instead, he looked down at his own hands, clasped tightly on the table. "And if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"But if you are?"

Brian did not answer immediately, waiting until the older man turned to meet his eyes - and flinched just slightly. "You know what, Mr. Peterson? The world, in general, and bigots with narrow minds and inflated opinions of themselves specifically, often assume that men like me, fags, queers, pansies, cocksuckers, perverts - call us whatever you like - are a bunch of frightened little pussies that run from trouble. And maybe that's even true - of some of us. But it's definitely not true of all of us, and if they're smart, the bastards will learn to think twice before they cross a line that can't be uncrossed."

"I'm sorry. I don't quite know . . ."

"It's simple," Brian replied very softly. "I take care of my own. No matter what. Meaning that nobody is going to get away with harming my son - or his mother. So . . . we clear on that?"

"Even if that person is . . ."

"Nobody." There was not a single nuance of uncertainty in Brian's voice.

He finished his espresso, rose and made his exit, stopping to speak to Cynthia in the hallway before continuing out into the brightness of the morning, to spend a few last moments with his son and his lover, leaving Ron Peterson to think about what he'd said..

Lindsey's father continued to sit for a while, trying to regulate his breathing, trying to tell himself he had no real cause for concern. But he was still worried. He knew he had not been the father Lindsey needed him to be, knew he had fallen far short of her expectations. And now - now he would probably not have time enough to right the wrongs he'd done, so he was left with a bit of a quandary. Maybe Lindsey would not need to be protected; she was strong, after all, and determined and very smart, and fiercely protective of her son. So maybe she'd be fine without a protector.

But what if she wasn't? What if she found herself in need of a white knight to stand beside her, to defend her and her child?

Could he trust Brian Kinney to be that defender? And how was it that he was even considering that possibility? He had spent years resenting this individual, and blaming him for what he and his wife always termed 'Lindsey's affliction'.  If Kinney had done the right thing, the honorable thing, then he and Lindsey would have been man and wife, and . . . and . . .

And both completely miserable. He wondered abruptly why he had never realized that before.

Belatedly, he noticed that Chris McClaren was still sitting at the bar, pushing bits of food around his plate but mostly just gazing out through the kitchen window overlooking the bright open space where Gus and Justin and Katy were just visible at the edge of the surf.

"Do you think he meant that?" asked the older man, certain that the FBI agent would understand what he was asking.

McClaren's eyes were uncharacteristically dark. "I think he always means it."

"And how far do you think he'd go, in order to keep his promise?"

"As far as he had to." Again, there was no trace of doubt in the man's tone.

Peterson took a deep breath. "So what do I do? How do I . . ."

"You have to trust him, Mr. Peterson. If your daughter and grandson need protecting, that's the man who'll do the job or die trying."

"But he's . . ."

"Queer?" The laughter was there in the timber of his voice, beneath the vein of irony. "So am I, in case you haven't noticed. But you should be aware of one thing, Sir. In a dark alley, with precious lives at stake, you really don't want to come up against either one of us."

"You trust him?"

"I do."

"Whatever he does - will it be legal?"

Now the grin was forming, as light finally erupted in eyes sparking with silver glints. "Mostly. Probably. If possible."

"And you're all right with that? Aren't you supposed to be all about law and order?"

McClaren's grin shifted slightly, and became a sardonic smile. "A logical assumption, but slightly off-target. Law and order is certainly a good principle to strive for," he replied. "But right and wrong is the primary concern."

"And if he breaks the law?"

"He's already had plenty of cause to do that, and he hasn't. Not really. So I think we can assume that he won't - if he has a choice."

"But . . ."

McClaren drained the last of his coffee and stood up. Then he turned to study the older man's face, and Peterson was suddenly quite sure that he had no secrets which this enigmatic young individual had not already discovered. "All things considered," the FBI agent said slowly, "don't you have more important things to worry about? He'll do what has to be done. That should be enough for you."

And Peterson suddenly felt all the fight, all the resistance drain out of him. He had done all he could to make things right and was nearing the end of his road.

Now it would be up to Brian Kinney to continue the journey on his behalf, and the elderly man - thinner with every passing day but still not showing overt signs of the disease which was consuming him - thought that maybe - just maybe - he would be able to sleep well from now on, for as many nights as he had left, and he was only slightly amazed to discover that he owed that sense of peace - of rightness - to the outrageous, relentless, completely incomprehensible young scoundrel who had fathered his only grandson.

Holy shit! Who would ever have believed that he could consign his precious daughter and her amazing son to the tender mercies of Brian Kinney? Holy shit!

Now - where had he put his sandals? He was already packed and ready to catch the plane, so there was no reason why he could not spend his remaining hours here at the beach, enjoying the combination of the lovely sunlight and the lyrical sound of the children's laughter as they cavorted across the sand, playing with Brian and Justin and the ridiculously happy puppy while Peterson bagged lots of shells to add to his grandson's collection.


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It was a blustery morning in Pittsburgh, but, then again, most mornings in Pittsburgh were blustery, except for those in the deepest part of high summer, when the air would be thick with the smell of sweat and hot rubber and local humidity. In the past, the entire city would have been forced to hunker down under the caustic metallic tang of molten metal and steel all year long, whether wind-driven or thick and still, especially during July and August; that time, however, was long gone. All in all, thought Debbie, blustery was probably better.

The city was cleaner these days, quieter and less polluted, but sometimes it still felt a little strange, like a changeling had slipped in during some long night and replaced an old, familiar, slightly grimy acquaintance. There were even those who claimed that it was now exceptionally beautiful - a showplace of a perfectly evolved American city. Most of the older residents would listen to such observations with a subtle eye-roll. Yes, there was much to be said for the progress of recent years, but it was only the very young and the late-comers to the area who either never knew or chose to ignore the fact that the changes had not come as a result of deliberate enlightenment but as a dire consequence to economic upheaval and the death of a narrowly-focused industrial way of life.

So, it was all well and good to wax lyrical about the beauty of the city and the benefits of its new direction, but it felt a lot like a betrayal to fail to pay tribute to the sacrifices made to achieve it. One might, after all, find beauty in a cemetery, but that did not change the reality of what lay beneath the surface. So . . . beautiful? Yes, but not without a measure of melancholy, a sober awareness Debbie usually chose to ignore. But now, today . . .

She sat at the kitchen table, stirring two big dollops of sugar into her coffee, debating whether or not she really wanted to take up a serving fork and fetch herself another generous slice of monkey bread, while she listened to the whistle of the wind racing down the alley behind the house, rattling garbage can lids and metal fencing as it tore along its path toward the greater openness of Liberty Avenue. Dust and tiny particles of stone gave rise to a constant staccato rhythm against the rear windows, as if attempting to gain access, and Debbie shivered at the repetitive clatter. It was not a pleasant sound, and she was almost dead certain it was only the first symptom of a morning that was not going to be any more pleasant than that intrusive bluster.

She continued to sit, almost motionless, slightly lost in memory, recalling days when she and her brother, Vic, had spent mornings raking up dead weeds and leaves and cleaning up the clutter of the tiny yard that overlooked the alley, and sometimes - when he was still very young - Michael would join them, although he generally spent more time taking running leaps into the piles of leaves than actually doing any work. But the memories were very sweet, nonetheless, as were most memories of Michael. He had always been a sweet child, which - of course - had proven to be part of the problem, when 'sweet' had turned out to be 'too sweet for his own good'. At which point, as if by some divine intervention, Brian Kinney had stepped into the picture - Michael's savior and his nemesis. Vic had recognized both aspects of the role the newcomer would play in her son's life even before she did. Brian Kinney - hero and villain, all wrapped up in one luscious, young body. And how long had it been, she wondered, since she'd bothered to remember both sides of that coin rather than concentrating on just the one - the dark one?

Vic had been dead for several years now, and where, she wondered, had the time gone? How had she - Debbie Novotny, of the bright copper hair and the scarlet nails and the brilliant lipstick and the colorful, vulgar clothing - stopped being the vibrant young thing who always managed to light up every room she chose to enter, and become this . . . this shadow of the person she'd once been? And when had she begun to develop an ability to see only those things that she wanted to see and ignore everything else?

It had come as a shock to realize that she didn't care much for the woman she had become, the woman who had answered the phone earlier that morning and listened to the caller's shrill ranting and allowed herself to be bullied and pushed and manipulated into a place she hadn't wanted to go, even though, in the end, she hadn't exactly adhered to the letter of her instructions, so maybe she wasn't - quite - a total wimp . . . yet.

"Should have just said no," she muttered to herself, reaching out and breaking off a thick chunk of the sticky monkey bread and never mind the subtleties of knife or fork. She took a big bite and slurped a strong draught of coffee and considered getting up to turn the TV on. Maybe a bit of the Lifetime channel would help to soothe her nerves and put her in a more receptive frame of mind for dealing with . . . Shit! She wasn't even sure what to call it. Melodrama? Soap opera? Greek tragedy? Farce?

She suddenly thought about Brian Kinney and pictured the expression on his face if he should overhear her musings. Then she managed a shaky smile, as she had no doubt how he would characterize this whole debacle.

But Brian wasn't here. For the moment, even Michael wasn't here - with or without reinforcements. For now, to face the first stage of this situation, she was all alone, although she allowed herself a small hope that some faint trace of her brother's ghost might just take a moment to settle on her shoulder and take her hand. She could really use a guardian angel right now.

She thought again that she should have just refused to co-operate, but that would only have served to delay the inevitable. Thus she had done everything she could to hedge her bets - to take all possible precautions to assure that everything didn't just collapse around her ears, as her soon-to-arrive visitor had no doubt intended.

She poured another cup of coffee, and wished - for just a moment - that she had one of Brian's uber-expensive joints. Then she debated dumping a jigger or two of brandy into her cup, and never mind that it was still only mid-morning. Nothing like a bit of false courage to see one through a crisis.

Then she took a deep breath, wondering - again - when she had become this tremulous mass of uncertainty - a quivering, vulnerable target who could not figure out how to defend herself.

When the doorbell rang fifteen minutes later, she was still wondering, and still no closer to figuring out an answer.

As she opened the door and observed the individual waiting on her porch, she was forced to acknowledge that her own weakness and uncertainty and need were only underscored by the contrast of the blatant aggressiveness of her visitor. She was so anxious that she found it difficult to look the new arrival directly in the eye, choosing instead to study the surface of her door and note that the red paint once so carefully applied by Emmett had begun to fade and blister in the aftermath of a string of grueling winters.

"Well? Did you call him?"

Debbie barely managed to suppress a sigh. "Yes, Mel. I called him."

"And?"

Debbie stared at the young woman who was the mother of her granddaughter - very possibly the only grandchild she would ever have - and knew that it was only a trick of the skittish morning light and uneasy shadows from nearby tree limbs twisting in the wind that made Melanie's eyes look like restless, bottomless pools of dark water. But it was unnerving, nonetheless. "Come in and have some coffee," she said finally, moving back toward the table, striving to regain some measure of self control.

"I don't have any time to waste, Debbie" snapped the attorney. "Is he . . ."

"Yes, I'm sure he's on his way. But . . ." The redhead heard the note of desperation in her own voice and paused, deciding suddenly that she was tired of playing the spineless cowering weakling that other people seemed to expect her to be. "But I'd like to speak to you first, Melanie. Please. Sit down and have some coffee."

If the lawyer was surprised by the sudden resolve in the older woman's tone, she gave no sign of it. But she wouldn't, of course. Melanie had many years of practice in manipulation and the art of confrontation, and she would not give up any advantage without a fierce battle. "So speak," she answered impatiently, as she took a seat and accepted a chipped mug adorned with multi-color stylized tropical fish. She drank the coffee black - of course.

"Why didn't you bring J.R.? Where is she?" Debbie asked, folding her arms and staring at her visitor.

"Where she's safe." The response was every bit as deliberate and cold as Debbie had expected it to be. "Where she'll be cared for, as she needs to be."

"And when," Debbie said as she leaned back and studied the face of her visitor, "has she ever been less than cared for, when she's here?"

"Oh, I don't know." Melanie's voice was thick with sarcasm. "Maybe whenever Lord and Master Brian decided that she was taking too much attention away from him and his little clone."

Debbie could not quite suppress a startled gasp. Surely, she'd heard incorrectly. Surely, she'd been mistaken when she'd understood Melanie to refer to the little boy who had spent his entire life loving her as his mother, as a clone, and when she'd identified the emotion underlying that term as bitter resentment.

"That's not true, Melanie," she said slowly but firmly. "God knows, Brian Kinney is no saint, and I've been the first to say so, many, many, many times. But he's never done anything to try to hurt J.R. He wouldn't. No matter that he's . . ."

"That he's what?" It was almost a snarl. "A cold-blooded, swaggering, self-centered, heartless, narcissistic scumbag who cares about nothing or no one but himself? Someone who uses the people around him and then just throws them away when he doesn't need them, when it's not convenient to have them around any more? Would that be an accurate description? Because most of those terms are quotes of things you've said about him, Debbie. I'm only repeating your words. So . . . what? Tell me if I'm wrong. Tell me he hasn't done everything he can to wreck my marriage. And to interfere in J.R.'s life too. You want to know where my daughter is? She's in Florida - with my parents - where she'll be treated like the princess she deserves to be, instead of like the poor little step-daughter - unwanted and unnoticed because she doesn't carry those perfect Kinney genes."

Debbie closed her eyes and felt a huge black sense of dread rise within her. She knew that Melanie was not exaggerating. She herself had - on many occasions - made similar accusations against Brian. She had never been shy about raising her voice and trying to bull-doze her way through every occasion, to force him to follow her lead, and she had been viciously vocal in her criticism every time he had defied her; had refused to behave as she dictated he should; had stood up to her and taken her verbal abuse, usually without any response except for a cold glint in his eyes or - sometimes - with an enigmatic smile that she'd never quite managed to translate.

At the same time, she had hardly ever stopped to explore the reasons behind his actions or to understand his motivation. She had always believed she was right in her judgments and his selfishness was a part of who he was; she'd been convinced that the times when she'd seen him act in a way that defied explanation, that seemed to contradict the arrogant, egotistical character he usually displayed - the times when he'd stepped in to defend Michael, for example, or to stand up to a bully, or to prevent some extreme miscarriage of justice - had been flukes . . . exceptions that proved the rule. And if such things had happened a lot more times than anyone ever bothered to acknowledge - well, that was all part and parcel of the identity he wore like designer clothing, wasn't it? It didn't change the character of the man he had grown to be. Did it?

She took a big swallow of coffee and tried not to hear the tiny voice in her mind that was laughing at her now and reminding her that she had often prided herself on the unfailing accuracy of her bullshit detector, the very same one that she now felt compelled to ignore.

She could not bring herself to discount the fact that there was another truth here - one that had to take precedence, no matter what anyone else might claim. Though Michael was J.R.'s biological father, Melanie was a lawyer; more than that, she was a legal barracuda, according to everyone who'd ever had to deal with her on a professional basis, and Debbie was certain that the woman's threats to take J.R. away and remove her from Michaels's life were very real, leaving Michael with no legal recourse. Thus, his daughter - and Debbie's only grandchild - would be forever taken beyond their reach, unless they could find some way to placate Melanie. She wanted to believe there were alternatives, but she could not quite bring herself to release her fears.

Losing her granddaughter was something she could not endure, for herself or for her son, and if that meant that Brian had to be thrown under the bus . . . She swallowed a sigh, as that obstinate ugly little voice reminded her that it would certainly not be the first time.

"Please, Mel," she said softly, cringing away from the sniveling sound of her own voice, but willing to try anything - anything at all - to avoid the nightmare looming before them. "You know how much J.R. means to Michael . . . and to me. Please don't take her away from us."

Melanie's smile was slightly less cold and smug as she interpreted what she was hearing as a confirmation of her expectations. She had always known how to push Debbie's buttons, and controlling Debbie was the key to controlling Michael. "You just don't get it, do you? Listen, Debbie. I know you love her, but that - by itself - is just not enough. I need help here. That's what you guys don't seem to understand. Brian is taking everything away from me - my wife, my home. My whole life. If something isn't done, if nobody steps in to fix this mess, then I won't have any choice. Without Lindsey and Gus and . . . well, without . . . alternative resources, I won't be able to stay in Toronto. I won't even be able to stay here, not by myself. The only practical choice for me will be to go back to my family and start over. To take my daughter to Florida permanently and re-establish my profession there, and depend on my parents to help me rebuild my life - for me and her. Unless, of course, Michael can come up with the wherewithal to help me provide for her, which we both know isn't going to happen. He's never going to have the means, and I won't have her growing up in a ghetto, playing in the streets around Liberty Avenue, just so you and your son can have access to her. Not while Lindsey comes out of this smelling like a rose and able to give everything to her . . ."

Debbie took another deep breath, and felt the darkness shift within her again. She had told herself she must have imagined it - that the venom she'd sensed in Melanie's voice when she'd referred to Gus as 'Brian's little clone' - had been a mistake; that the woman could not possibly feel such vicious resentment toward the child who had - until recently - been a central, beloved part of her own family. But there was no way to fool herself now. Melanie had not quite completed her sentence and called Gus whatever ugly expletive she'd intended to use, but the intent and the bitterness had been clear.

It was a huge risk, and she knew it. But she couldn't just remain silent. "Lindsey and her . . . what?"

The rage that flared in Melanie's eyes was towering. "Her little Kinney heir."

"Is that . . ." Debbie had to pause to swallow around the lump in her throat. "Is that all he is to you now?"

If Melanie had been paying attention at all, she might have heard the first faint tinkle of ice in that tone - the first faint suggestion that she might have stepped too far over the line - but she wasn't. She was much too intent on her own agenda and much too focused on concentrating the maximum amount of acid into her tone. "St. Brian is buying them. He's using that big, fat checkbook to take title of their lives, and Lindsey's letting him do it. So what do you suppose comes next? That's pretty obvious, isn't it? First, he's going to find her a perfect little cottage, on a perfect little street, where she can play at her perfect little job in some chic little studio featuring pretentious artists painting avant garde, expressionist drivel. Then he'll make arrangements so she can send her kid - or rather, his kid, because that's the only thing that will really matter - to a perfect, exclusive, little school, while mother and son spend their lives expressing their undying gratitude and worshipping at the feet of the Mighty Kinney. He'll use his money to make sure he owns them, while she forgets all about me and our daughter. While we're left out in the cold, with our lives falling apart around us, standing on the outside looking in and wondering whatever happened to the life we used to share."

Debbie's eyes were huge, by this time, filled with both despair and disbelief. "Melanie," she said softly, reasonably - or so she thought, "you're an attorney. A smart, educated, successful woman, so don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration? And while it's true that Michael may never have the kind of money Brian has, he'll do his very best to make sure that . . ."

"That what? That I can shop at Wal-Mart to buy her clothes? That I can send her to some run-down, inner city public school where she can rub elbows with slum kids, and make sure her grades are good enough to get her into some community college when the time comes so she can get a job as a data entry clerk in some grimy little office? Is that what I'm supposed to settle for, for my daughter? Like you settled for Michael? And meanwhile, Lindsey and Gus shop at Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue, and he gets the benefit of a private school education and a degree from Princeton, if that's what he wants? Is that how it's supposed to work?"

Debbie found that she couldn't think of a rational way to answer that question; for one of very few times in her life, she was completely speechless, with no idea of what she might say next. But then she realized that she didn't have to fumble for a response, because, suddenly, there was someone else in the room, someone more intimately involved in the conflict but less driven by desperation and less intimidated by the level of vitriol in the tirade.

"So," said Ben, as a swirl of rough breeze punctuated the swift opening swing of the door, "let me see if I understand this correctly. The issue is less about providing for J.R.'s needs than it is about making sure that Gus doesn't have any material advantages over his sister?"

"She's not his sister," Melanie snapped, turning to face Ben and Michael as they stood side by side in the entryway. "Lindsey has made that very clear. Gus is the son of Brian Kinney and Lindsey Peterson, which definitely means he is no relation of mine."

Michael moved forward abruptly, and Ben watched him closely, noting that his knees were trembling so violently that he desperately needed to sit down - to avoid falling down. "I thought you loved Gus," said the young biological father softly as he dropped heavily into a chair. "I always believed you thought of him as your son."

"I did," she retorted, "until Brian took that away from me. He's the one who . . ."

"Who what?" asked Ben, genuinely interested. "What exactly is it that you think he did to make it impossible for you to continue to parent Gus?"

Melanie's face went very still, and her eyes were suddenly bright with rage. "He drew his line in the sand, and Lindsey walked across it like she was marching down the aisle. Which, in a way, I guess she was, because that's what he always was to her - the one that got away; the one that she'd always run back to, given half a chance."

But Ben was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Mel, but I don't believe that. Granted, I was never as close to the two of you as Michael or Emmett or Ted, but I always thought she loved you very much. That she . . ."

"But not enough," she snapped. "Not enough to stand up for me against motherfucking Brian Kinney. Not enough to take my side - and my daughter's side - when he . . ."

"When he what?" Michael had been hunched in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands, but now he looked up, gazing directly into her face, and his eyes were filled with an uneasy blend of despair and revulsion, an emotion so intense that it was gradually overcoming the nauseating knot of fear that was still clinched in his gut. "When he didn't just lie down and die after getting brutalized and mutilated? When he refused to knuckle under to the vicious bastards who tried to kill him? When he stood up to defend himself against the scheming and manipulations of all his so-called friends and buddies who saw their chance to jump in and take advantage of him when he was injured? Is that what he did that you find so impossible to forgive? Tell me the truth here, Mel. Is it really Lindsey and her help that you need so you can build a life for J.R. - or is it just the money she gets from Brian that lets you live the lifestyle you think you deserve? Isn't that really what this is all about?"

"How dare you!" she snarled, leaping to her feet and noting with a savage surge of satisfaction that Michael flinched away from her as she moved. "You think you can to speak to me like that, and then expect me to have pity on your sorry ass and allow you anywhere near my daughter? You know what . . . Mikey?" The sneer was deliberate. "I hope you took lots of photos the last time you saw her, because you're never going to get another chance. I was really stupid, I guess, to think that it would do any good to ask you to see me here. I was just hoping we could talk together - reasonably. Without getting Brian's high-priced mouthpieces involved. Because . . ." She paused and hitched a coarse breath. "Because I thought we used to be friends. Because we've shared J.R., and it's just wrong for it all to end like this. If you'd just listen to what I tell you, and realize that you're being played. Brian is using his influence and your affection for him so he can take away the things that should matter to you. The people you should love. You know me, Michael. You know I've always done my best to protect you, and to make sure J.R. knows and loves her daddy. That's why I wanted to meet you here, in a place that's special to you - special to all of us. That's why . . .

"You know, Ms. Marcus," said a steady, slightly sardonic voice from the area just outside the still open doorway, "you really need to work on your communication skills. The pattern gets a little old, when you start with all that sturm und drang and threat after threat after threat, which might work perfectly well in an attempt to frighten children or intimidate those who have no familiarity with the rules of law, but then, when you begin to see that you're not succeeding in terrorizing your audience as much as you hoped, you change horses in midstream, and it's suddenly all about how much you've done for them and what a devoted friend you've been." A tall, slender figure in an impeccable Ralph Lauren pinstripe suit stepped into the room out of the brittle morning sunlight and stood studying her with a relaxed smile, while a stray sunbeam flashed copper-gold in his hair. "On the other hand, in the process of speaking to someone who is capable of finding his own behind with either hand, you might want to dial your stridency down a notch and consider a more . . . eloquent approach. You might also want to make certain, when you're trying to sneak around in the shadows and coerce individuals into accepting your own version of legal conclusions, that they don't have legal counsel around to argue your claims."

Liam Quinn moved into the room and settled himself at the table, his smile remaining bright and steady. "Just in case you haven't figured it out, I'm . . ."

"I know who you are," she almost snarled. "You're Brian's legal lapdog."

Quinn's smile remained unperturbed. "Charmingly put, but accurate enough. But then, you already know that, don't you? Unless you're going to try to plead ignorance and claim that you were never presented with the appropriate documents to advise about a hearing which is scheduled for day after tomorrow, in Judge Falterman's court. Because not having received such documents would be the only reason to claim you didn't know that I not only represent Mr. Kinney in his dealings with you vis a vis your relationship with his son. I also represent Mr. Novotny, in whatever capacity he might need representation. And I think we both know what that will entail. While it's true that those documents were not presented in the form of a summons, they were nonetheless delivered into your hands, in the presence of other staff members of the law firm where you are currently employed - legal clerks who could be compelled to testify - under oath - if necessary.

"So let's be frank, shall we? Before you bother to launch into an explanation about why you summoned Michael here - to a clandestine meeting in his mother's house, where he would have no access to counsel - let me suggest that you save your breath. You brought him here to try to make him believe that you've already got everything rigged to make sure you're the only person whose rights are going to be upheld in a court of law, and to muddy the waters concerning Canadian regulations, so he'll think you have advantages he can't hope to overcome." He turned to smile at Debbie, and was relieved to note that the ice he had previously noticed in her eyes was beginning to melt. "But we both know that's just a bluff, don't we? Much as you might like to believe otherwise, there's nothing you can do to prevent Michael from having his day in court, along with others more peripherally involved, and the simple truth is that neither you nor your daughter is a Canadian citizen, which entails something else you never bothered to tell Mr. Novotny - mainly that any change of citizenship in her case would require his specific, notarized agreement."

"Now just wait . . ."

"No, Mel," said Michael, taking a deep breath and rising to his feet and trying very hard to stop trembling. He was still enormously frightened, and that wasn't something he was going to be able to conceal from anyone in the room. But he and Ben had talked about this very thing in the course of their walk to his childhood home. Actually, it had been Ben who had done most of the talking; Michael had been too panicked to string together consecutive thoughts into orderly sentences. And he still was, but he knew that Ben had been right. If they didn't step up now and take action to control Melanie's attempts at manipulation and browbeating, there would never be an end to it. It was time for action. "No more allowing you to set all the boundaries. No matter what you think, you didn't make J.R. on your own. She's not a clone of you, any more than Gus is a clone of Brian. She's a person, and she's our daughter too, and if you can't or won't accept that . . ."

"What?" Melanie's face was a mask of raw rage. "You really think you're going to beat me at this game? You really think you're strong enough to . . ."

"No," Michael replied firmly, coldly. Then he turned to gaze at Liam Quinn, hoping for some sign of support and reassurance - and getting it. "But he is."

Melanie went very still; then she turned to study the other attorney's expression, and she felt a tiny nuance of unease as she correctly interpreted the look of supreme confidence in his eyes.

She smiled as she picked up her purse and turned away, not bothering to look at him to gauge his reaction. "You run a good bluff, Quinn. I'll give you that. But we both know nothing is that simple. You've convinced these amateurs that you're already in control, but, unless you happen to be carrying around a restraining order that you can serve on me, as an officer of the court, that's not going to fly, is it? You've got nothing, and, by the time you do, well . . . let's just say that I don't plan to hang around to give you an opportunity."

Then she moved toward the door, her smile remarkably reminiscent of a cat in cream.

"No, wait," shouted Debbie. "Melanie, you can't . . ."

"Sorry, but you just fucked yourself over for good, Debbie, and don't say I didn't warn you."

"Quinn?" That was Ben, who wasn't staring at Melanie in horror - like Debbie - or in sick dread, like Michael. He was staring instead at Liam Quinn who was . . . smiling?

"Actually, Ms. Marcus," said Quinn, just as Melanie pulled open the door, "you might want to . . . rethink your exit line."

The smile on Melanie's face faltered, as she came face to face with a member of the U.S. marshall's service, who was just standing there on the porch, apparently waiting for her to make her exit. She was momentarily confused, but not for long, as she looked down to stare at the sheaf of legal documents he was holding.

The officer, a healthy, robust individual with rosy cheeks and a surprisingly friendly smile, tipped his hat and handed her the small pack of papers. "Ma'am," he said politely, "you've been served. If you like, I'll be happy to explain the meaning of each of these items, so there are no misunderstandings."

"I'm a lawyer, you . . ." She did not - quite - call him a name, but they both knew that it was a near thing. "I know what they are."

The officer remained unperturbed. "Yes, Ma'am. I'm sure you do. You have a nice day."

And he turned and strolled away, whistling under his breath.

"It's Sunday morning," Melanie muttered. "How the fuck . . ."

But she didn't really need an answer. She had used the phrase often enough herself, in listing all the reasons why Brian Kinney and his minions could do things that nobody else seemed able to manage.

"Money talks." She was still muttering, as she shoved the papers into her handbag and moved to step out into the roughened wind, wanting nothing more than to get away - from the Novotny's household, from that bastard lawyer, from Pittsburgh, and - most of all - from the shambles of her life. But it was not to be - not quite yet.

"Just to make everything perfectly clear," said Liam Quinn, stepping out onto the porch behind her but carefully maintaining the minimum distance that most people would define as personal space, "I suggest that you actually look over what you were given. That's not just a subpoena. There's also a restraining order preventing you from moving your daughter across state lines or international borders until a custody hearing can be held and any dispute resolved by the court. Also - just in case you're wondering - a similar order has been served to your parents in Miami. For the time being, Jenny Rebecca is to reside in their home, pending final resolution of these issues."

"You can't do that," she snapped. "The courts wouldn't . . ."

"Yes," he replied steadily, "they would. When there are strong indications of the possibility of flight to avoid legal action. Not to mention questions concerning adjacent custodial matters and efforts by either party at coercion. Furthermore, the fact that J.R.'s location was known to us should serve to make you aware that precautions have been taken to make sure that she's safe and sound and not in danger of being whisked away into the night. I promise you - that's not going to happen." He paused then, and leaned forward so he could speak privately, but there was no trace of uncertainty in either his voice or his eyes. "And you might want to think about one more thing. This is not going to be a simple matter, Ms. Marcus. While Mr. Kinney has never made an issue of how the support he provided for his son was used, don't make the mistake of thinking that there are no records concerning the use of those funds. The records are very detailed and very revealing. And that, by the way, is not an assumption. I've already seen them. So you might just want to reconsider your position in all this. Being an attorney can certainly be a big advantage in a case like this, but it also carries certain responsibilities, doesn't it? Because it makes it a bit difficult for you to claim that you didn't understand the significance of how that money was used. Doesn't it?"

"How do you know about all this? Who . . ."

"Does it matter? The only important thing is for you to consider your options carefully. Don't you think?"

She looked up at him then and was momentarily startled by the beautiful glimmer of his eyes, but only for a split second, until her fury overwhelmed any other impression: the fury of impotence, of helplessness, of frustration, and - most of all - of the recognition of betrayal, as well as the identity of the traitor. There was, after all, only one person with the intimate knowledge to have provided the necessary information. "Just so we're totally clear on this, are you threatening me, Mr. Quinn?" Her voice was as hard and frigid as polar ice.

If she expected him to cower away from her rage or be disconcerted by her accusation, she was in for a big surprise. Instead, he laughed. "You bet I am, Ms. Marcus. And you'd be smart to pay close attention."

"You can't do this to me." It was almost a primal scream.

"Yes, I can," he answered with a smile, "and it'll make no difference to me. I get paid either way." The smile became a wolf's head grin. "Do you?"

Then he stepped back into the house and closed the door in her face, only then turning to face the three individuals who were watching him with huge, frightened eyes.

His smile was comforting - not to mention beautiful - and they were all relieved to see it, but it wasn't bright enough to assuage every trace of concern.

"Quinn." Michael was not quite successful in keeping his voice steady. "Are you sure about this? Is everything really going to be all right?"

"Michael, I . . ."

"Don't do that," snapped Debbie. "Don't launch into some patronizing bullshit that's meant to make us believe there's nothing to worry about. This is not nothing. This matters, and Brian might be used to playing in the big leagues and taking risks like this, but we're not, so . . ."

"Ms. Novotny," said the young attorney firmly, "you've got to make a choice here, and no one else can make it for you. If you allow Ms. Marcus to dictate the terms of any future you might share with your granddaughter, you're choosing to drink the Kool-Aid, and, once it's done, it's done for good. Then there's really nothing more anyone can do for you. Not even Brian."

He smiled then, and his eyes were filled with a glint of gentle warmth - warmth that pledged his best efforts but refrained from making guarantees. "On the other hand, Brian trusts me. Now, you're going to have to decide for yourself whether or not you feel the same."

For a moment, everything in the house went still, weighted down by a heavy chill with only the unsettling rattle of the wind to break the silence. Then Michael turned to look up into his husband's eyes, seeking - and finding what he needed there. He simply turned back to face Liam Quinn and offered him a small smile. "So . . . can you find your ass with less than two hands?"

The lawyer laughed and lifted a single forefinger, and Michael told himself that it was reassurance enough. It really wasn't, of course, but - for the moment - it would have to do.

"What is it about Pittsburgh?" Quinn asked, shrugging slightly against the chill. "Do you guys have to do everything at the crack of dawn? I'm starving. Any chance of a bite of breakfast?"

Debbie broke out laughing. "Does this look like a diner to you?"

"Everything in Pittsburgh looks like a diner to me," he retorted.

"God! Brian must have loved you."

"Yeah, he did." Liam was happy to admit it as he moved back to the table.

Debbie paused, and favored him with a speculative grin. "Literally?"

"Ma!" Michael was regarding her with characteristic irritation, before turning to grin at Quinn. "You'll have to excuse my mother - the world's biggest fag hag."

"Hey," she retorted. "I'm just curious. It is Brian, after all. How many times you know him to turn his back on an irresistible ass like that?"

Quinn laughed. "Well, my ass thanks you for the compliment. And if I had to guess at an answer, I'd say never - not, at least, until a certain other irresistible 'ass' - of the blond persuasion - came along to distract him."

It was Ben's turn to smile. "Oh, I see you've met Justin."

Michael grinned. "Bet he loved you."

Quinn stared down at the plate Debbie set before him, and wondered if anybody could really eat such a huge piece of . . . whatever gooey concoction it was that he was being offered. "Actually," he said finally, "other than the obligatory glare - which translated to a shorthand version of 'Private property, keep out'- he didn't pay much attention."

"Justin?" Debbie was obviously skeptical. "Our little Justin?"

The lawyer smiled, and Ben noticed that there was a pale element of melancholy in his beautiful eyes. "I think he was just . . . "

Michael laughed. "Horny. You can call it whatever you like, but that's the bottom line. With Justin and Brian, it always is. Neither one ever able to get enough of the other."

Quinn merely nodded and picked up his fork, offering no verbal response, but Ben could still see a faint vein of longing in that charming smile, and he wondered - not for the first time - how it was that the people who claimed to know Justin and Brian best actually often seemed not to know them at all.

He could not quantify or qualify whatever it was that Liam Quinn had seen in the interaction between Brian and Justin, but he was willing to bet his last dollar it had not been anything as simple or shallow as lust. Lust, after all, did not inspire the kind of gentle yearning that had glimmered so sweetly in those gem-stone eyes.

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The opalescent fragments of morning mist had burned away completely by the time the travelers assembled to make their departure, and the sun was a huge disc of beaten gold as it soared upwards beyond the remnants of a cloud bank. Out beyond the breakers that were flinging themselves at the sward of golden beach, a trio of cormorants wheeled across the bright reflection of the water, taking advantage of the lift of a fretful wind to make their way toward the cliff face and the nests concealed in the crevasses of its broken surface.

Gus and Katy were currently enthralled with the birds and the powerful rhythm of their wings, laughing together as they discussed how it must feel to swoop through the air like a roller coaster without rails or wheels. Both had already said their farewells to the household, and Katy had been a godsend in keeping Gus from brooding too much over being separated from his father. Well, Katy . . . and the brand new state-of-the-art handheld game module that Brian had dropped into his son's hands as he'd knelt to wrap that small, sturdy body in his arms while simultaneously burying his face in the sweet warmth of the boy's throat.

The toy had certainly served as a distraction, but, if Brian had counted on it to dissipate every trace of the anguish arising from the prospective separation of father and son, he'd been ridiculously optimistic. The crisis was past by now, and there were only tear tracks remaining on the young boy's face to give evidence of the sobs and soft wails that had reduced Gus to a quivering mass of misery when he had thrown himself into his father's arms and begged to be allowed to stay. It had taken many minutes of soft reassurances and patient recitations of all the reasons why his staying would be a very bad idea before he'd reluctantly conceded defeat. But he had refused to smile until Katy had pulled him out into the sunlight to follow the flight of the majestic sea birds.

Only Brian had been quick enough and perceptive enough to notice the fleeting V for victory gesture she'd flashed him when Gus had finally deigned to smile, and he had rewarded her with an enthusiastic, albeit discreet thumbs up. But then he'd realized someone else had noticed, after all, although she'd given no overt sign. Katy's Aunt Tink always noticed, which was only to be expected since there were very few things about Katy that Cynthia failed to monitor - a condition that was both an inherent, changeless factor of Katy's world and a source of infinite comfort to both woman and girl.

"He'll be fine," Cynthia said softly, trying to peer through the dark lenses Brian was wearing, but her attempt to gauge the look in his eyes was futile. His face was smooth and almost without expression, and the hazel depths seemed opaque and filled with shadow.

"Will you?"

"Yep."

"Brian, what is it? What's going on?"

Brian tilted his head down and peered over the top of his designer glasses. "Cynthia, listen to me. Are you listening?"

She glared at him. "One of these days you're going to ask me that, and I'm going to punch you right in the nose. Of course, I'm listening. When have I ever not been listening?"

"In that case, you need to stop over-analyzing everything, and get the fuck back to Pittsburgh, where I expect you to do things exactly the way I want them done! Okay?"

"And how, exactly, am I supposed to figure out just how you want them done?" she snapped. "Check my horoscope? Read tea leaves? Or maybe I should just read your mind."

"Why not? You do it all the time."

"But not with your blessing," she retorted, wondering briefly if he knew how adorable he looked when he bit his lip to keep from smiling. Then she almost rolled her eyes in response to her own naiveté; of course, he knew. He was Brian Fucking Kinney, after all. "You know, if I'd even hinted at such a thing a couple of months ago, you'd have had my head on a plate. Look, Brian, I know why I'm good at the job you pay me to do. I'm smart, and I'm energetic, and I'm thorough and pretty much fearless, not to mention bold as brass. And I never forget a thing, but what I'm not is the one thing you've never wanted me to be. I'm not intuitive, because I don't have to be; you don't rely on my intuition, because you always rely on your own. So why - now - are you . . ."

But he didn't allow her to finish, leaning forward and touching his forehead to hers as he lifted his hand to cover her mouth, silencing her words. "Maybe it's just time for you to grow up, Tink. Kinnetik is growing by leaps and bounds, and there's no way that one person - even with Einstein-caliber intuition - is going to be able to run it all. So . . . just take my word for it. Sometimes, I'm going to need a little help. Okay?"

By virtue of a truly Herculean effort, Cynthia managed to limit her physical response to a single blink and thus avoid betraying her degree of shock and dismay over such a casual declaration.

Brian Kinney had just admitted that he could not continue to run his company by virtue of the exercise of his own immaculate instincts; Brian Kinney had just conceded that he needed help, despite the fact that the Brian Kinney she had known throughout her adult life would have literally, until very recently, cut out his tongue before making such a concession. She had been concerned before, sensing that something unexpected was lurking beneath the surface of his customary self-confidence, but now she was no longer concerned. Nor was she disturbed, or alarmed, or dismayed, as she had skipped over all those stages to get to this ultimate emotional point; now, she was petrified.

But she could not let him see that. That, she knew intuitively - and wasn't that the height of irony - would be a huge mistake. She had to hold on to her aplomb and cling to an air of serenity.

So she just nodded, and if something stirred in his eyes to suggest he was not quite as convinced as she'd have liked to believe, she managed to ignore it and summon up a sardonic smile.

"Now," he said firmly, "if you could just help convince Gus to get in the car so I can have a few minutes to say good-bye to Justin . . ."

She nodded again, grateful that no verbal response was necessary since she was pretty sure she could not come up with a single spoken word. But perhaps, she thought - mentally grasping at straws - she was just over-reacting. Maybe she'd imagined those undercurrents that were triggering red alerts in her mind, but a quick look around only served to confirm her suspicions, as she zeroed in on the frown on Chris McClaren's face and the shadows in his eyes. She knew then that she wasn't the only one sensing trouble, but still, she realized that, all things considered, she should consider herself lucky; it was a stroke of good fortune that no one other than the FBI agent had overheard and interpreted the meaning of Brian's comments. If it had been Justin, no power under heaven would have been sufficient to compel him to swallow his concerns and get on a plane to go back to Pittsburgh.

Cynthia watched as Brian's young lover finished collecting the last of his art supplies and packing them away into his portfolio, pausing just once to gaze out toward the morning glitter of the sea before turning to lose himself in contemplation of the man who was the focus of his existence. Obviously, for those two, there was suddenly no one else on the planet. There were only Justin and Brian, alone within the infinity of their shared moment.

Determined to give them an opportunity to explore their moment of privacy, Cynthia walked to the edge of the deck and down into the yard, moving around the corner of the greenhouse in order to summon the two children and their canine companion away from their enthusiastic and energetic birdwatching. All were reluctant, preferring to continue their bobbing and weaving across the sand in pursuit of their visual prey, but they obeyed nonetheless, albeit in fits and starts. She smiled as they moved toward her, and suppressed an impulse to urge them to hurry when they stopped beside the equipment van where Jackson was pulling out a collection of metal weights and calibrated bars - new 'instruments of torture', according to Brian. The therapist paused in his efforts just long enough to exchange good-byes with the kids, and Cynthia noticed that he looked very different today. Ordinarily, sometimes several times a day, depending on Brian's therapy schedule, he arrived at the cottage dressed in dark-colored scrubs, or other equally casual togs. But today, he was in uniform - dark trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt bearing a company insignia. He looked very nice - tall and well-built and tanned, with a pleasant, youthful face and a semi-shaggy thatch of thick, dirty blond hair - and she wondered, for a moment, why she was only noticing his good looks now. But it was only a quick, idle speculation, and, in the process of rounding up the children and finishing preparations for departure, the observation slipped her mind.

For his part, he went on unloading his equipment after wishing them all a safe journey.

There was a considerable amount of hustle and noise going on around the cottage, as luggage was loaded, and last minute checks were done to make sure nothing had been left behind and Trina presented boxes of treats to make sure no one went hungry during the flight, and never mind that there was almost certainly a fully stocked kitchen on the plane. But in one small area, away from the confusion and turmoil, there was only stillness, and the soft, slow, lingering touch of bodies and lips and fingertips.

At the entrance to the greenhouse, Brian and Justin stood pressed against each other, rediscovering that they had little need of words; verbal language had never been particularly important to their communication. Their bodies spoke quite eloquently.

But, in the end, there were a few things that needed verbalizing.

"I could wait, you know." Justin's voice was barely more than a whisper. "I could wait until your treatment is done, and then you could come with me to New York - to help me pack up and make the transition to Pittsburgh."

Brian rolled his lips before nuzzling against a thick swatch of bright gold hair. "I need to concentrate on getting past this," he said softly. "And I can't concentrate on anything when you're around, except how much I want to fuck you through the floor. You're a distraction that . . ."

"But I could replace Jackson." Justin's grin was brilliant. "Want to bet that I couldn't find ways to make your therapy the highlight of your day? Every hour of the day?"

"I never bet against a sure thing," Brian laughed.

"You know, you could, at least, take off the sunglasses. I want to see your eyes."

Brian smiled, and readjusted the expensive shades

"Too bad," he retorted. "One of those anti-inflammatory concoctions I have to take a hundred times a day makes my eyes super sensitive to light, so - for now - you'll just have to take my word that they're just as gorgeous as ever."

And it was Justin's turn to grin. "Modesty becomes you so," he observed.

Brian snickered, before wrapping his arms around Justin's waist and bracing his hands against the sensuous swell of that spectacular ass. "I know you don't want to go, any more than I really want to let you go. But I need you to do this for me, Sunshine. There are already too many distractions, too many loose ends that need tying up and too many risks I'm not willing to take. If I know you and Gus are safe, then McFed and Company can concentrate on catching the bad guys and making sure they don't succeed in getting another crack at me. So please, Justin, please - I'm asking you to do this. For me. And for us . . . and all our bright tomorrows. The ones I was never able to believe in, until now."

"I hate you," Justin whispered, not even bothering to try to conceal the tears welling in his eyes. "You don't play fair. You tell me this now? When you're packing me up and shipping me out, like I'm the hired help that needs to go open up the summer house, or something. That's when you decide to say this - to finally admit that we might actually have bright tomorrows? I hate you."

"I know."

"Tell me." That, at least, was not a whisper; in fact, it was almost a bark. "I need to hear it, to have it to keep with me when I'm all alone."

Brian laughed. "Now who's not playing fair?"

"Please." Back to the whisper.

Brian leaned forward, threading his fingers through thick blond locks, and touched his lips to soft eyelids. "I love you," he murmured. "I will always love you, and I need you to always remember that."

Justin nodded and turned his head to join his lips to Brian's, in a kiss that started slow and sweet and slowly, inevitably became so much more.

"Do you need to hear it?" he asked finally, pulling away just enough to be able to speak.

"Always."

"You're my life, Brian. Without you, there's nothing. I'll love you forever."

He was suddenly wrapped tight in Brian's arms, with his face cradled in the soft darkness beneath that sculpted chin, and thus he did not see the quick, there-and-gone flicker of anguish that flared in the depths of hazel eyes. By the time he pulled back to look up to trace the lines of that beloved face, there was only love and adoration looking down at him, wrapped up in an almost perfect serenity.

"Now go," Brian said firmly. "Go, while I can still let you."

Justin reached up to press one more kiss against the soft skin below Brian's jawline before starting to back away.

"No," Brian called softly, his voice no longer quite steady. "Not like that. Don't back away. Just . . . go."

And Justin went.

Brian, on the other hand, did not move. Did not even breathe, as Chris McClaren walked around the side of the house and paused briefly, understanding somehow that this was a moment that deserved to go uninterrupted.

But he was also a realist, knowing that few things in life work out as they should.

"Brian," he said softly, "Turnage is on the phone. He says it's urgent."

Brian's smile was tremulous. "Or course, it is. But . . . " He shifted then to regard the FBI agent with a defiant glare. "I need a minute."

He turned quickly and hurried toward the back of the house, entering through the kitchen door and racing up the back stairs, until he reached the small balcony that ran along the upper hallway. It was in shadow at this time of the day, and if he remained near the doorway, he would not call attention to himself as he looked down over the driveway and the individuals loading up for their departure.

Only then did he remove his sunglasses, taking a moment to rub his eyes and blink against the glare of the morning before allowing himself to stare at the young man who was now standing alone, looking out toward the sea. Everyone else was caught up in the rush of the moment, but Justin seemed isolated, untouched by the bedlam and lost in his own private thoughts. Lost in his memories, Brian was sure, for he could see where Justin was gazing - at the places where they had shared kisses and lovemaking and danced together and laughed together. Loved together.

From his private vantage point, he studied every feature - memorizing the shape and depth of those incredibly blue eyes and the thick sweep of lashes, the not-quite-cleft of the chin and the lovely elongated dimples, the sensual plumpness of silken lips, the way the sunlight stroked through the thatch of golden hair and emphasized the ivory pallor of the perfectly balanced face, and the angular curve of the jaw emphasizing the sweet shape of the mouth as it settled into that exquisite little half-smile that was not quite a pout. Then hazel eyes drifted lower, to feast on the long, elegant lines of the torso and the luscious perfection of the patch of pale skin that peeked out from beneath the tail of the shirt, providing hints of the treasures that waited beneath layers of clothing.

Brian stood there, motionless, watching. Watching while Justin finally turned and waved good-byes to the staff, with a hug for Trina. Watching while he and Gus and Katy mock-wrestled over who would sit where. Watching while his young lover took a deep breath, looked around once more, and climbed into the car.

Watching even as the small motorcade drove away.

And watching still, even when it was gone.

"Brian." McClaren was not prepared to force the issue, but knew they could not sit idly by and allow Brian to continue to delay the inevitable.

"Yeah."

"Turnage is still holding - and not happy about it."

"Tell him to join the crowd."

With an impatient shift, the FBI agent stepped forward and grabbed Brian's biceps, pulling him around so that he had no choice but to look him in the eye. "What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded. "You're acting like you're never going to see him again. Why would you . . ."

But he never finished the question - found that he couldn't bring himself to do so as he watched this incredibly brash young man, this man who had defied the odds and fought back against every contingency, simply crumble against him.

He didn't understand how or why, but he did realize one thing. However brash and thoughtless his comment had been, it had not been the wild, ridiculous shot in the dark he had intended it to be. For whatever reason, Brian Kinney believed that his speculation had been perfectly on target - that it was perfectly possible that he might never see his Justin again.

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


Justin tried not to stare back at the house like a lovesick kid, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look away. He'd hoped he might be able to catch another glimpse of Brian before leaving, but he hadn't, and now he was trying to find consolation by telling himself that Brian had not come out to watch him leave because it was just too painful.

God knew it was painful enough for him, so maybe that wasn't too far-fetched.

Cynthia was busy trying to convince Gus and Katy to quiet down, but Justin's silence and the look in his eyes was intense enough to grab her attention and prompt her to offer him a gentle smile, as she leaned over to touch his hand. "He'll be back soon," she said softly. "And it's not like we won't have plenty to do until he gets home. It's all going to be . . ."

"Cynthia," he interrupted, still looking back over his shoulder and speaking very softly, "you know Brian better than almost anybody. In some ways, maybe even better than me."

She nodded. "We've been together for a long time."

He turned then, and she almost flinched away from the flash of pain in his eyes. "So tell me the truth. Something's wrong - isn't it?"

"What makes you say that?" It sounded weak, and she knew it, but she needed to play for time, to try to figure out how to answer, without really answering.

But he surprised her and smiled. "Spoken like his faithful Girl Friday. You don't have to tell me; I already know. Something is wrong. I just don't know what, and neither do you. Maybe nobody does, and I'm not sure that's not the scariest thing of all."

She turned to look back toward the cottage, not bothering to deny what he'd said; she knew it wouldn't do any good, mostly because he was right. Something was wrong, but until Brian was ready to confide in them, there was nothing they could do but wait.

As the SUV pulled out into the road, she caught a glimpse of the beach house, caught in a flare of sunlight in high relief against the dark roughness of the promontory, with Jackson moving toward the deck, pushing a gurney carrying a plastic carry-all, and she felt a faint flicker of memory stir in her mind. But it was only a flicker, lost before it formed, and she didn't dwell on it since Gus chose that exact moment to wrap a chunk of bright pink bubble gum in a lock of Katy's hair, resulting in the kind of pandemonium children excel in creating.

The result was chaos,  but it was chaos threaded with laughter and the insouciance of childhood innocence, and provided some much-needed relief from darker musings.

As they drove away, all grew quiet behind them, although a distant shadow was forming on the horizon far out to sea, the first harbinger of a rising storm.

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