Chapter 50

Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.

-- Maya Angelou

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"Time to rise and shine, Stud Muffin. Wakey, wakey!"

"Fuck off!"

"Now is that any way to talk to the man who's going to make your day? Don't be rude."

"Okay. Please fuck off."

Jackson put his hands on his hips and stood for a moment looking down at his patient, debating the best way to proceed. It was a good thing, he reasoned, that he was not easily intimidated by pretty boy grumpiness and bravado.

And where, he wondered, had that thought come from?

Another look at the young man curled up in his cozy little quilt-lined nest, who had shifted to present his profile - not to mention the curve of his backside - to anyone rude enough to be watching, prompted him to realize there really was no way to deny that Kinney was 'pretty'; pretty enough to give rise to thoughts of what he might have looked like if he'd been born minus that very prominent bulge between his legs.

Pretty. Kissable.

Jackson's grin was more than a bit prurient. Eminently fuckable.

Dangerous.

It was just the luck of the draw that it hadn't worked out that way. Unfortunate, because that would, he thought with a small smile, have made things simpler for almost everybody.

"Come on, Brian. You know I can't just let you off the hook. I need to check you over, and you need to put in a few minutes on the machine, so that I can inform His Eminance, Master Turnage - honestly - that you're on the road to recovery and will survive to fight another day."

Brian's response was nothing more than a guttural rumble, expressing his bad mood perfectly but divulging nothing more.

The therapist wandered over to the window, watching as the security staff walked their predetermined beat, occasionally pausing to talk to each other as they constantly looked around, taking in everything and leaving nothing to chance. He had arrived at exactly the right moment, when both Trina and the senior field agent were departing, and just as Delia Perkins, under orders from her superior, was preparing to go into the house to stand vigil until Brian was completely recovered from his post-surgical stupor. She had seemed glad to be relieved of that responsibility when he'd driven up to the doorway, and he had favored her with a sympathetic smile. He knew such a posting must be difficult for a young, healthy, red-blooded, American woman with all the normal sexual urges of others of her age and gender, especially in the presence of a specimen like Kinney who was not renowned for either his discretion or his respect for other people's boundaries, as demonstrated by his tendency to stroll around in minimal clothing which left little to the imagination. As the only young woman in this strange, communal entourage, she must feel constantly tested in her ability to perform her duties and maintain a professional demeanor. Thus, it was easy to understand her preference to maintain her distance and join her fellow staffers in staring over toward the neighboring cottage where the young college crowd was finishing up their preparations for their evening cruise in a happy jumble of firm, tanned young bodies. Jackson glanced over that way to confirm that thought, just in time to watch a couple of shapely co-eds stripping out of cover-ups to flash bright bits of string bikini as they hurried forward to try to assist in getting their ride properly moored to the remnants of the old pier.

A very nice view, and it was fairly obvious that the individuals - most of whom were young and male - charged with the protection of Brian Kinney were equally enthralled. Not so much, of course, that they were actually neglecting their duties, but enough to keep them a bit preoccupied, a bit unfocused. Still, they were professionals, and they knew their jobs, so nothing untoward was going to develop on their watch, since none of them relished the idea of having to answer to the powers-that-be if something did.

But now that the physical therapist was in the house, each of them felt just the slightest easing of the pressure they endured constantly in maintaining their vigil. This had turned into a high profile case, and their actions - successful or not - would be closely scrutinized in determining their futures and assessing their competence.

So, with Jackson in the house, they could concentrate their attention on their patrol, and leave the direct supervision of their primary charge to the medical staffer.

The therapist turned away from his evaluation of the team deployment to reassess his patient's condition and take another look around. Trina was gone, and judging by the stack of canvas bags she'd been carrying when she left, it would be one of those mammoth shopping trips that took hours to complete. That, in itself, was not a big deal, as she was often out on her daily domestic errands.

But McClaren was also gone, and that was unusual. Jackson had no idea what had called the chief agent away, but he supposed it didn't matter one way or the other. It did, however, make a big difference in the work environment, since he had never before been alone with his patient. Not really. Oh, they had been alone in a room certainly; maybe even alone in the house for a few minutes here or there, but never really alone, without the possibility of someone strolling in unannounced at any moment. So this was a first - and maybe an only.

Maybe he could finally take advantage of the opportunity to have a little talk, he thought. Ordinarily, there was so little time. Of course, that was still true, but maybe, with a little luck, he could ask the questions that he'd been longing to ask every since he'd been given this assignment, and see if the answers would make any sense to him. Maybe. If he could get the man to wake up.

But he still had a few last minute preparations to make, so he'd let Brian enjoy his sleep for just a bit longer, to rest up for the ordeal ahead of him, for Jackson did not fool himself. The service he provided was necessary and beneficial, but it was not pleasant. Of course, today he could just . . . but no; that would be a huge red flag. Sticking to the regular routine would be the best course of action, with a few added embellishments.

He made some final adjustments on the CPM machine to set it at the right angle and strength level for Brian's workout, before opening his supply case to retrieve a massage oil that he thought the patient would enjoy. It was a new product, something that provided maximum benefit for easing muscles and tendons without the kind of flowery scent that Brian disliked so intensely - something that would ease Brian into a relaxed frame of mind following his work-out, ready to retreat back into the welcoming arms of restful sleep.

But that was for later.

For now, there was only one more thing he needed to do, and he hurried into the kitchen to prepare.

In a matter of minutes, all was ready, but still he lingered for just a moment, smiling as he paused to look into the depths of his canvas tote bag to make sure his preparations were perfect and that he'd forgotten nothing - that his big surprise was ready and waiting, exactly as he'd planned for so long and for which he'd waited so patiently.

Then he took a deep breath. Time to go to work.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*`


For his whole life, Simon Redding had led a peripheral existence.

Oh, that's not how he would have described it himself. He was, after all, a simple man who didn't spend much time contemplating philosophy or his place in the grand scheme of things. But he would have conceded, if pressed, that he'd circled around the edges of other people's perceptions, without ever making much of an impression.

Except once, but that was a story that was not for sharing. When he allowed himself to dwell on it - which he didn't do often - he usually consoled himself that the one meaningful connection of his entire life was completely private, unknown to any but its two principals. And for the most part, he was right. There were a few people who speculated a bit, who might think they knew the truth of it, but most of them were deluded.

Only Simon himself knew the whole truth, since he was alone now - the sole survivor of his story - and it was not a tale he ever intended to share.

Nevertheless, it was a story - a truth he carried within him constantly - a story that had a huge impact on his life and how he looked at the world. Particularly - to his own reluctant amusement - how he looked at Brian Kinney.

Simon did not understand homosexuality. It was not a part of the lexicon of his existence, although he knew full well how his parents, his siblings, and his extended family would feel about it. The word "abomination" was a term in rather common usage in Simon's world. So was the word "love", but somehow, he didn't think his interpretation of either of those words was the same as that of most of the people around him.

He had not been happy to be banned from the cottage where he had spent so much of his life, but, in the end, it hadn't really made much of a difference. He had no need for the physical reminders that the house provided; his memory functioned perfectly without prompts.

She was there, in every part of his life. She was always there - and always forbidden. That had been true during the tragically short years of her life, and was still true today. And that, he supposed, was why he couldn't find it in his heart to condemn young Brian Kinney for loving someone he wasn't supposed to love. Or even for taking action to have Simon banned from the beach house, for Simon understood that the young man was only doing whatever he had to do to protect those more precious to him than his own life.

Simon had to admit that - under identical circumstances - he would have done the same.

Of course, he missed being there, and he missed taking care of all the things that he maintained in memory of her. But he would go right on with his life, content to be peripheral to everyone else's existence, remaining always slightly out of focus, slightly left of center.

Only now, he found himself caught up in a conundrum, though he did not really know the meaning of that word. He would have described the situation as "being caught between a rock and a hard place".

There was a task that needed doing; he knew that. But it was a task that should not have fallen to him - a task meant for someone else. It had boiled down to a question of right and wrong, as opposed to a choice of speaking up to defend what many would find indefensible and standing aside to allow nature and fate to take its course.

He took a drag off a cigarette and stood at the end of the old pier at the southern edge of the marina, and pondered. He knew what needed doing; he just didn't know if he could do it, or even if he should do it. It was ultimately none of his business. Over the years, he had made sure to stay out of the affairs of all those who had wandered into the lovely ambiance of the beach house before wandering out again. Most of them, he had neither liked nor disliked, as they had never been real to him. They'd been ghosts, minor spirits engaged in minor hauntings of the place that was already so intensely haunted, for him, that he barely noticed any other presences, and he had no compelling reason to change that policy now. And yet . . .

Unbidden, an image formed in his mind - a vision of youth and beauty, but vastly different from the vision that usually defined those words for him. He had never thought of a man in such terms, so it was necessary for him to adjust his thought processes and expand his horizon in order to encompass a new range of possibilities. But one thing did not require any rethinking. He could easily visualize that young countenance and the permanent changes it would endure as a reaction to the horrors lingering now within the shadows of the hours rapidly approaching.

He drew a deep breath and turned to go to his truck. This incident would probably turn out to be an exercise in futility, for there was no way his protectors were going to let him get anywhere near the subject of his interest. He knew that. But he also knew he had to try, in order to be able to live with himself if future events developed as he expected.

No one had ever approached him about the task that needed doing. Never even mentioned the possibility. As always, he had remained below the radar, unnoticed, unconsidered. Peripheral, but now . . . perhaps the time had come to step forward, to claim a place within the light, even if he had no intention of remaining there for long.

The old GMC motor started easily, at first crank as usual, and he was almost disappointed that it was performing as expected. A faulty starter or a broken fuel pump or a malfunctioning clutch would have made the decision for him, taking it out of his hands. But the purr of the motor whispered to him, telling him that he'd just lost his final excuse.

He pulled out of the parking area slowly, careful to allow plenty of time for oncoming traffic to clear his path, his mind filled with equal parts dread and determination. He made it to the main highway just as the sun brushed against the horizon, bathing the world in a glow that seemed full of promise. But this particular promise was false; he knew that, and it was time to make sure that others learned it as well.

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

Justin and Cedric were beginning to feel the frustration of trying to deal with a crowd that was edging steadily toward hysteria, as the shadows of the poplars lining the hospital's parking lot grew longer, merging finally with the thick gloom of the area beneath the low bridge that curved around the side of the hospital to span a narrow stream that flowed west, to empty eventually into the Allegheny. The garish crimson brilliance of emergency lights continued to flash spasmodically, adding to the fingernails-on-a-blackboard sensations of the setting, as whispers and murmurs among the people milling around near the doors grew in volume, and were now rapidly becoming angry demands for information and shouts of resentment. When they had decided to go looking for Cynthia, rather than just standing near the front of the building and hoping she would find them, they had banked on the crowd thinning out as they moved away from the main entrance, but that had not happened. More and more panicky individuals were arriving with every passing moment, loitering and growing steadily more impatient as they were denied entrance to the building, and now there were vans from local television channels and a steady influx of emergency personnel of all persuasions adding to the chaos. Rumors were running rampant - toxic gasses, anthrax, terrorists on the freeways, poison in the water supply, aliens in the stratosphere - growing wilder with the approach of darkness.

After a few minutes of futile attempts to circumnavigate the throng, and one completely frustrating effort to forge a path through it, Justin elected to find a quiet spot and try to contact Cynthia via his cell phone only to discover that service was temporarily unavailable. The entire area appeared to be caught up in a bubble of disaster as the trauma of the incident at the bridge mushroomed and panic spread like wildfire through the city, resulting in overloaded cell towers and even a massive strain on land lines.

"Sorry, Cedric," Justin said gruffly, staring at the screen of his iPhone as if he'd like to smash it into microscopic pieces. "It looks like we're stuck, and there's no way to reach anybody. Unless we can work our way out of here and get to a spot where we can hail a taxi to get us to Kinnetik. God knows where Cynthia might be stuck in all this pandemonium."

But it was at that moment that he heard a familiar voice calling his name. Well, perhaps 'calling' was not precisely the right word. "Screeching' would have been more accurate.

"Justinnnnnnn."

"What?" he shouted, turning to watch Cynthia as she pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, in a totally uncharacteristic manner. "What are you doing, and . . ."

"Is your phone working?" she demanded, ignoring both his question and the look of shock on his face.

"No. I don't think anybody is going to have cell service for a while, given . . ." But he fell silent when he saw the sheer, raw panic in her eyes. "Cynthia, what the hell . . ."

"Listen to me, Justin, and listen well because I don't have time to repeat it. One of us has got to find a working phone line."

"And how do we manage that? Cynthia, there's no way . . ."

"Justin, for once in your life, just shut up and do as you're told, because when I tell you that Brian's life could depend on this, I'm not joking."

He would later reflect on how amazing it was that a man could go from being completely confortable at one moment and frozen to his core in the next, all because of a tiny string of random words, and for a single instant, he felt himself clutched in a vice-like grip of paralysis, unable to reason or move or breathe, as it struck him that she wasn't joking. He didn't understand what she meant, or how she could know whatever it was she knew, but realized that it didn't matter anyway. It was enough that she did know.

"Tell me what to do."

"Find a phone that works," she said quickly. "That's the only thing that matters. A land line is probably the best bet, so let's split up and double our chance of finding one. If you locate one, you need to get in touch with McClaren. You can try Brian first, but it's the FBI detail we really need, because they're the only ones that can protect him. And God help me, if I've remembered too late, I don't know how I'll ever . . ." She paused for a single second, striving for composure, and when she resumed speaking, her tone was coldly clinical and very precise. "Try McClaren's cell, or Delia Perkins, maybe. Or, if worse comes to worse, call Emmett and have him try to raise Trina on the beach house landline. He should have that number."

"And what do I tell them? Who is . . ."

She raised a hand to silence him. "Just listen, okay? Repeat it word for word, if you have to, because this is important. Someone is going to try to kill him, and I know who. We have to make sure that they know too."

And with that, she told him the rest, wasting no time on explaining the process of how it had come to her. The process was unimportant. Her memory - that remarkable, occasionally unbelievable eidetic memory - had kicked in, albeit belatedly, and Justin's blood ran cold when he realized the gravity of the threat.

"Cedric," he said when she'd finished sharing her revelation, "you need to find yourself a safe place where you can rest and wait for me. I'll find you when . . ."

But Cedric Lasseigne was having none of it. "Justin," he said firmly, pausing only to offer a tiny, encouraging smile to Cynthia, "do you know what I spent most of my time doing while I was in Rehab here?"

"Playing chess?" Justin guessed, his patience nearing exhaustion.

"No. Playing explorer. I familiarized myself with every nook and cranny, every store room, every back passage, and . . ."

"Yeah, that's good. But I gotta go. I'll find . . ."

"And," said the elderly man firmly, turning and heading back toward the hospital, moving with surprising speed and agility for someone his age, "every lounge area, conference room, auditorium, and administrative office complex where they still have public telephones."

Justin stopped arguing and eagerly fell into step behind his companion, pausing only long enough to flash a V for victory sign at Cynthia as she turned away to search for other alternatives.

There was no time for anything more.

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The air was warm and sweetly scented with a fragrance that called to mind sunsets on tropical beaches and deep scarlet blossoms trembling before gentle winds that would move on to caress perfect, golden, mostly bare bodies. White surf exploding in bursts of foam against stretches of crystal sand and distant laughter threading through the sound of the breakers.

Paradise - and never more so than when body to body with the slender figure pressed against him, every curve matching up perfectly to the flesh held close, every bulge couched perfectly in a corresponding cavity. A perfect match.

The sounds were like background music, and the aroma was pleasing, exotic - but not nearly so pleasing or exotic as the lovely stretch of skin beneath his exploring hands. He had no need to open his eyes, for his fingertips saw perfectly as they traced the planes of the sculpted chest, pausing to tweak nipples just hardening to fat nubs before moving onward and upward to touch the velvet softness of the hollows of the throat, and further still to trace the lines of that beautiful, perfectly symmetrical face and then drifting upward to stroke silky hair that would glint pure gold as the sun sank into the fiery brilliance of the sea's reflection.

The taste against his tongue was incredible, intoxicating like the finest brandy. He could feel the tremor of the skin beneath his lips as his lover swallowed, shivering slightly under the kisses being nuzzled into the dark hollows under that beautiful jaw line, and he felt himself harden - unbelievably even harder than before - and had to shift his body, to press himself more directly against the groin that was thrusting up against him, steel to steel, throbbing, pulsing, begging and demanding all at once.

"Justin!" He could barely form the word, his throat clinched tight with the intensity of his need, but he knew that it said enough, meant enough. That he needed say no more as his hands once more moved forcefully, deliberately downward, skimming over hot, willing skin, as a brilliant flare of light penetrated his eyelids, flickering with . . . wait . . . flickering? Since when did sunsets . . .

Brian opened his eyes and had to suppress a groan. "Why is there a fucking candle burning in my face?"

"It's not in your face," replied Jackson calmly. "It's half way across the room."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"To put it bluntly," said the therapist, "it helps with the smell in here. You could use a shower, Boytoy."

Brian shifted onto his back and stared up at the brawny individual looking down at him, nose wrinkled above a disparaging grin. "You are so fucking fired," he said wearily.

"Too late," Jackson retorted. "This is my last week. Now, if you can drag your mind out your wet dream long enough, you need to spend a few minutes on the machine, just to get the blood pumping and the muscles loose. Then, if you're a good boy, you're in for a real treat. I'm going to perform my superb, unforgettable, first class full body massage, and, believe me, I'm so good at this that, by the time I'm done, you'll be so relaxed you won't even remember the shape of Justin's ass for the rest of the day."

"Humph! Nobody's that good."

"On the machine," the therapist commanded. "And now would be good. I don't have all day, you know."

Reluctantly, Brian sat up and glanced toward the candle flickering on the table near the door. "What's that smell?" he demanded.

"Cinnamon, according to the label. There are a couple more burning in the kitchen and the lounge. I think Trina set them out. Apparently, she doesn't appreciate your body odor either."

Brian shrugged. "Yeah, well, all I smell is that sweet shit, and it's nauseating. So . . ."

"Just do your work-out," Jackson insisted. "Once you're on the table for your rubdown, I'll blow them out. OK? And I've got a surprise for you, if you behave yourself."

Brian was in the process of rising, but something in the therapist's tone caused him to pause and study the man's face. "What's up, Jax?" he asked with a small smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were flirting with me."

Jackson went very still; then his face reddened as he saw the bright gleam of amusement in Brian's eyes. "Asshole," he muttered.

"Don't worry, Buddy," laughed Brian. "Your virtue is safe with me."

Jackson chose to ignore the twinge of irritation as he helped Brian get in position on the CPM equipment and begin his repetitions. He remained silent for a time, but then reconsidered and decided to press what might turn out to be a momentary advantage. "How do you know?" he asked finally, as his patient continued for his work-out, muscles pumping now and a fine sweat breaking out on his face.

"How do I know what?" Brian asked, his breathing still natural and unlabored.

"That I'm not flirting with you."

Brian was quiet for a moment, and Jackson wondered if he might have gone too far already, and given offense too quickly. "It's called Gay-dar, Jax." When the answer came, it did not appear to be couched in any kind of resentment. "And nobody's is better than mine."

"But how do you know - for sure?"

Brian looked up then, and Jackson noticed a cold gleam deep in those hazel eyes, an icy spark that he found vaguely alarming. "In your case, it's easy."

"How do you mean?"

Brian smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes. "Most people like to touch me. Women, boys, fags. Even dykes and straight men - although not so much if they figure out that I'm gay. Probably makes them feel threatened. But you . . . you don't. I mean, you have to touch me, because of your job. But you don't enjoy it."

"You're right. It's my job." Jackson tried not to sound defensive, but knew that he wasn't entirely successful.

Brian concentrated on his work-out for a while, not bothering to offer any kind of response. But Jackson couldn't seem to leave it alone. "Does it bother you?" he asked finally. "That I'm . . . not interested, I mean?"

"I know what you mean - and no. It doesn't bother me."

The therapist made a couple of notations in Brian's chart and paused to adjust a setting on the machine as Brian continued in his efforts, apparently convinced that the conversation was over as the seconds passed.

"Why not?"

Brian paused abruptly, then slowly began to disengage from the equipment before reaching for a towel to wipe sweat from his face. "Why does it matter?" he asked finally. "Are you bothered by the fact that I'm not interested in you?"

"No. Of course not."

"Bu-u-u-u -t . . ." Brian drawled the word, as he leaned forward to be able to look directly into Jackson's deep green eyes. "What's this about, Jax? What are you really trying to ask me?"

The therapist took a deep breath. "That's enough workout for today. Climb up on the table."

"No. Not until . . ."

"Come on, Brian. I promise you'll enjoy it, and . . . it'll make things easier."

For a moment, Brian looked skeptical, but then he shrugged slightly and did as he'd been asked, settling onto the well-padded massage table and bracing his forehead against crossed arms. He flinched slightly when he felt the cool ointment pooling in the small of his back, but then Jackson began to work it into his skin and muscles with long, firm strokes, almost strong enough to be painful but ultimately pleasing.

"So . . . ask your question," he said after a few minutes.

"Just one?" Jackson chuckled.

"You only have one." There was no uncertainty in Brian's voice.

The therapist drew a deep breath. "Yeah. I guess you're right. So why don't you explain it to me. How does a guy like you, a guy that's got everything going for him - brains, looks, talent, money, nerve, every single fucking thing - how does a guy like that choose to be a fag - to take it up the ass from some other guy? I just don't . . ."

"No. You don't." Brian's tone was level, almost serene, and almost completely lacking in any sense of outrage. "And you never will. First of all, because you assume it's a choice. It's not a choice; it's a fact of life. A physical trait - like having hazel eyes. And secondly, there's the fact that - generally speaking - I don't take it up the ass. But that's more information than you want or need. So now it's my turn, and I only have one question for you. Why the fuck do you care what I do, or who I do it with?"

Jackson shifted to work directly on Brian's shoulders and was marginally pleased to note a certain tightness in them, indicating that his patient might not be quite as unruffled as he wanted to appear. But the skin remained firm and pliant, almost velvet soft, and Jackson surprised himself by realizing that it was quite pleasing to the touch. A thought he really, really didn't want to have.

"I don't," he answered finally, easily, "and to prove it, I've got a surprise for you."

Jackson gave a quick squeeze to the nape of Brian's neck before moving away. "Hey, is that all?" Brian protested. "I thought you were going to make all my dreams come true. Talk about premature ejac . . ."

He fell silent when something soft and fluffy hit him in the back of the head, before demanding, "What the fuck?"

"I brought you a present," came the answer, as the therapist moved back in and urged Brian to lift his head to accommodate a brand new, pristine, perfectly proportioned pillow, encased in a silky pillowcase. "I decided I'd heard enough of your bitching about the old one."

For a moment, Brian looked pensive, almost undecided. Then he simply smiled and buried his face in the pillow's lovely fluff as Jackson resumed his massage. "Better?" he asked, after a moment.

"Oh, yeah." Brian was almost purring. "I'm thinking I could spend the night right here, and it doesn't matter in the least that you're a homophobic prick, at heart."

He shifted again, breathing deeply, only slightly bothered now by the lingering fragrance of the candles, which seemed a bit stronger than before, but not disturbingly so. The hands on his back stroked steadily, coaxing him toward relaxation, toward sleep, sleep that was coming on quickly. Really quickly.

But he wasn't worried, because he had certainly earned the right to rest over the last few weeks, and right now, nothing else seemed so enticing, so intoxicating as the idea of slipping back into the comfort of sleep, letting the dreams take him again and sinking into the incredible warmth of his imagination where Justin was waiting, where there were no limitations, where everything was possible.

But now . . . something was different. He tried to ease back into to his beautiful dream, to taste and touch and feel the lust and the joy of it, but he couldn't quite reach it. He couldn't quite reach anything, because the light was fading. It was growing dark, and his body was so heavy - so heavy that he wondered if he could move at all.

Something felt . . . odd, different, but not completely unfamiliar. He'd felt this before, a long, long time ago, but he couldn't quite remember when or why. Something wasn't as it should be. Something was wrong, and he felt a cold chill touch him. He knew then. Only he knew just that much too late.

Distantly, somewhere - but he couldn't be bothered to figure out where - a telephone was ringing, and somewhere else there was a faint whisper - words that might have mattered, but he couldn't be bothered to listen. The darkness was there now, and he had fought it long enough. Time to rest, only he wished it weren't so cold.

Jackson watched carefully as his patient trembled under his hands, as dark, thick lashes closed, then fluttered slightly, then closed again one last time. For a moment, he was tempted to take it a step further, to finish it in this moment. With just a bit of pressure, a little weight applied in exactly the right place, it would be over. But then common sense set in, and he knew it wouldn't matter anyway. It was as good as done, and any extra investment of time right now would take away from his own margin of safety. Then he invested another moment thinking of reclaiming the pillow and tucking it back into his case, but that, he decided, was taking a little too much for granted. Best to leave well enough alone.

"Good night, sweet prince," he whispered, as he stepped back and regarded the product of his handiwork, shuddering when he had to fight off a weird urge - an almost irresistible urge - to lean forward and drop a kiss on that broad shoulder, and felt a deep sense of validation in realizing that such an impulse was proof positive of how potentially dangerous this man was. "Too bad for you, Fucker, because it does matter."

He turned and walked away then, pausing only long enough to depress the play button on the antiquated CD player on Trina's desk in the alcove near the kitchen, adjusting the volume to a level just loud enough to drown out any faltering voice that might be raised within the next few minutes, although he knew such an occurrence to be unlikely. He allowed himself a small smile as he recognized the singer and the song, finding it both suitable and ironic that the smoky, rough-whisky voice of Melissa Etheridge would be the last thing Brian heard before the darkness consumed him so completely that he couldn't hear anything at all. He didn't really know Brian's opinion of the lesbian's music, but he thought it pretty obvious that she would not be a favorite. Ultimately, it didn't matter anyway.

The daylight was going as he left the house, remembering to extinguish the candles as he went since they had already served their purpose, and hesitating for just a second to appreciate the lyrics that drifted through the shadowed house behind him.

I`ve been here sleeping all these years.
There comes a time we all know,
There`s a place that we must go
Into the soul, into the heart,
Into the dark*

He was careful to keep his movements casual and unhurried, thus making sure that Delia Perkins would have no reason to doubt his assurance that the patient was sleeping comfortably so there was no need for her to go rushing inside to see to his welfare. He even allowed himself a small smile as he saw her walk by the window and glance inside where Brian appeared to be luxuriating in the afterglow of a perfect massage.

At long last, this day - this long-awaited day, this day that he'd begun to think might never happen - was almost over.

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

Despite having a well deserved reputation as a diva/drag queen, Emmett Honeycutt only rarely allowed himself to devolve into an emotional mess, but he was at that point now, all-the-way there, intensely there, wrapped up tight in multiple layers of agitation and threatening to descend completely into blatant hysteria. And the really sad thing about it was that he had no rational idea why. Except that something was really, really wrong; that much he did know.

Justin's wild, static-filled, truncated phone call had been woefully short on facts but miles long with nuances of potential disaster a functional mind could not easily dismiss.

"Get in touch with somebody - anybody - at the beach house, and have them make sure Brian is all right and that nobody is left alone with him. Nobody - and that includes Jesus Christ Himself."

"But . . ."

"No buts, Emmett. You don't have to understand it; you just have to do it."

And with that, he'd been gone, leaving Emmett open-mouthed - but only for a second, for, in the end, Justin had been right; he didn't have to understand it. It was enough that his young friend had asked.

But it was not quite true that he didn't understand it. Somewhere in his gut, beneath the layers of rational thought and logic, he knew one thing. He had watched once as Brian Kinney fought for his life - and almost lost the battle. He would not stand by and allow it to happen again. And that was the bare bones of what was happening here; Brian Kinney was in danger, and nothing else was important.

And when, asked a sardonic little voice in his head, had Brian become so vital to his life that he would do anything, risk anything, brave anything, to keep that from happening.

And now, his frustration level was rising by the moment, threatening to engulf him.

He had tried Brian's cell first. Busy signal, four times, until it had gone silent. Then he'd dialed it again, and it had simply rung for a moment before going to voice mail. He hadn't bothered to leave a message, knowing instinctively that it would be a useless gesture.

Then he'd tried the land line, which rang and rang and rang. Six tries.

Then he'd switched and tried Chris McClaren's cell number. Busy - over and over again.

And back to the land line, which was still ringing in his ear.

And he knew, somehow - just knew that the ring was pealing out in a house where no one was there to hear it . . . or able to hear it.

When the ring count reached fourteen, he picked up a crystal paperweight - Lalique, he thought - and flung it against the wall where it shattered into fine splinters. It made a nice, satisfactory hole in the raw silk panel - but it didn't do a thing to ease his frustration. Nothing, as it turned out, could do that - not even the luscious body of his beautiful partner bounding through the door to see what the hell was going on with his significant other.

There was simply no solace to be found for Emmett. Not until it was over. Not until someone answered that God-damned phone.

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

Five minutes. Chris McClaren would never have dreamed that such a short time could feel like eternity. It would take him five more minutes to reach the beach house, but an annoying, relentless little voice in his head kept insisting that it was already too late - that it had been too late when he'd begun the journey. The light was fading rapidly now, night coming on with a vengeance as the last brilliant burst of sunlight flared from the western horizon, and stars sprang into sharp relief out over the sea.

He had taken too long to review the tapes, too long to spot the anomaly which, of course, seemed so obvious now. And now . . . he took the curve onto the beach road on two wheels and then had to fight for control of the BMW as the tires spun in drifts of loose sand along the edge of the lane.

Everything was coming together now, but it would mean nothing if it all fell into place just minutes too late.

He'd been fielding calls since he'd torn out of the parking lot at the discount store, and everything he'd heard had confirmed his suspicions. But nothing had served to ease the hard thump of his heart against his rib cage; not since he'd recognized that face on that tape, and especially not since Delia Perkins had answered his frantic call.

"Where's Jackson?" he'd demanded, not even bothering with a 'hello'.

"Gone," she'd replied, but her voice was strained and she was breathing heavily.

"How long?"

"Five minutes, I guess. Look, Boss, I can't talk right now. We've got a situation here."

McClaren had barely suppressed a gasp of horror. "Is he . . ." He found that he couldn't bring himself to say the word.

"I gotta go," she snapped, "or somebody's going to just give up and shoot the crazy bastard."

"What? Who?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," he'd shouted. But too late. She was already gone.

Then he'd tried the house phone and the gatehouse phone. Nothing.

Then Delia again. No response. But at that point, it didn't matter any more, because he was pulling into the driveway, only to be forced to stop short by the crowd milling around in the yard, all circling one central figure who was shouting and refusing to quiet down.

"Dammit! You don't understand. I need to get to him. You need to get to him."

When McClaren leapt from the car and raced across the yard, Simon Redding seemed to realize that the time had come - that the torch could be passed, as he met the FBI agent's hard gaze.

"You need to get to him."

McClaren didn't take time to respond, beyond a quick nod. Then he was sprinting toward the house, willing himself to move faster, willing time to slow down to allow him to be there earlier - to be there in time.

He crashed through the front door, with Delia Perkins at his heels, thoroughly confused but enormously frightened by the grim look on her boss's face.

Neither of them knew what to expect, and they paused just inside, eyes scanning for anything out of place. But there was nothing. The cottage was warm and peaceful, even welcoming with Melissa Etheridge crooning softly in the background.

Oh, you say you just don't feel quite right today.
Does that mean that you're slipping away?
How would I know?**

Otherwise, everything was silent, pleasant, almost soothing - a sensation that was emphasized by the warm, enticing fragrance that McClaren could not quite place. Familiar, but unexpected, and unexpected - under these circumstances - was cause for alarm.

"The office," he said quickly. "That's where he was when I left."

Delia didn't waste time trying to argue, although her expression clearly said that she had no idea why he was so disturbed. They had stopped Redding before he could get into the house, so there should be no cause for . . .

The thought died as McClaren threw himself across the room to get to Brian, who was lying stretched out on his belly on the massage table, his face partially buried in a thick, fluffy pillow. There should have been nothing alarming about his position; she often slept the same way herself, with arms tucked up under her pillow. But this - somehow this was different; this was . . . wrong.

"Oh, fuck!" McClaren didn't waste time trying to rouse Brian with words. He simply wrapped his arms around the limp torso and jerked him off the table, sending both of them crashing to the floor in a welter of sprawled limbs.

"What is it?" she demanded, struggling to speak around the lump in her throat. "What's wrong?"

"He's not breathing," he answered, shifting Brian to lay him on his back and clear his airway, and noting in passing that those incredible lips were not nearly so luscious when tinted blue.

Perkins took a deep breath. "But there's not a mark on him." That much was painfully obvious, given that the man was wearing almost nothing. "What do we do?"

McClaren paused for a moment, something tickling in his mind, something that might make sense of this. If Brian had been strangled, or even smothered with that pillow, there would be marks on his body. Bruises at the very least. Brian Kinney would not have gone down without a fight. Of course, there was the possibility that he'd been poisoned, in which case there might be nothing to be done.

But McClaren wouldn't accept that. Couldn't accept it. This had been done in a stealthy manner, right under the noses of the people charged with protection of the victim, and, if poison had been an option, why hadn't it been attempted before?

The answer, when it occurred to him, was not comforting. Nothing had been attempted because the perp had never before had sufficient access or time to be able to complete his clandestine assault.

"Call 911," he directed, his eyes moving around the room, looking for something - anything - that might help him understand what had happened here. "And check to see if that kid - the resident - is next door. Maybe he'll have some idea of . . ."

And that was when he saw it - sitting on the bookcase by the door, completely innocuous, nothing to draw attention, except that it didn't belong there. It was not the kind of thing that Brian Kinney would use.

The label was slightly garish, and the words were legible even at this distance. "Lucinda's Candles - Cinnamon Buns."

Brian liked candles; he probably had plenty of them tucked into nooks and crannies around his house. There were even some here, in this room. But the candles that he favored all had one thing in common; they were all unscented.

Scented candles were romantic, and that pretty much explained it all.

So why . . . McClaren sniffed to sample the air, and realized what he was smelling.

And then he realized why.

He grabbed the pillow which had fallen to the floor when he'd pulled Brian off the table, and held it up to his face, taking a deep breath. And there it was, camouflaged under the heavy cinnamon scent in the air, but recognizable enough if one knew what to look for.

"What is it?" demanded Perkins, rushing back into the room after completing her 911 call and sending a subordinate to search next door for young Dr. Halloran. She was still shaken, and obviously confused, but also certain that there was some point in what he was doing. Chris McClaren did not do things without a reason.

"Nuts," he answered, jumping to his feet and hurrying to the desk. "The pillow's full of peanut dust."

"So?" In the urgency of the moment, the younger agent couldn't quite grasp the context of the remark.

"He's allergic to peanuts. Violently."

Perkins flushed slightly, chagrinned to realize that she should have remembered that, but had forgotten in the extreme stress of the moment. She didn't spare a thought to how this would impact on McClarens's assessment of her performance during this assignment, but later on, she would remember it and regret her lapse.

"Oh, my God. What can we . . ."

By this time, McClaren was hastily opening the top drawer of the desk, scrambling inside, looking for what he knew was there, what he'd seen himself only a couple of days ago when he'd gone rummaging for a spare thumb drive for his laptop, what had to be there. Only it wasn't there, and he was suddenly certain that he knew why - and where it would be found, providing he ever got the chance to check.

No point in wasting time lamenting over what was obviously gone. Instead, he spun away from the desk and went sprinting through the doorway, down the hall, and up the stairs, hoping against hope that the person who had engineered everything had either not known about or hadn't had time to access the vital item that should be tucked away in the bedside table in Brian's room.

"What are you doing?" Perkins' shout was shrill with desperation as she knelt beside Brian, looking in vain for some indication that it was not too late. But there was no sign; he was not breathing, and her fingers, pressed into the hollow beneath his jaw, could find no trace of a heartbeat. Nevertheless, adhering to established procedures, she rearranged his body and started CPR compressions, just as she'd been trained to do.

Oh, God. Were they too late? And how could this have happened?

It was at that moment that McClaren raced back through the door, his eyes trained on the object in his hand as he attempted to prepare it for use.

"Epi pen," he explained, somewhat unnecessarily. "He always has a couple of them around, just in case."

He administered the injection quickly, efficiently, as Perkins continued her efforts. And it was at that moment, when he knew that he had done all he could, that Brian's destiny was now in hands other than his own, that he felt the cold chill expand inside him, rendering him breathless, almost frozen with fear. He was unable to resist the urge to reach out and grasp Brian's hand and clasp it tight against his own heart.

It was not the action of a senior FBI agent. It was not professional - but it was, nevertheless, the only thing he could do.

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

The drone of the jet engines was faint in the cabin, but steady. Even comforting in some primal way, like the heartbeat of a parent for a frightened child held close against the terrors of the night - a reassurance that it was safe to sleep and ignore the darkness.

Justin wished he could believe it, wished he could accept that reassurance and bury himself in the blanket that had been provided for him. But it was useless. He'd been trying - had even managed to nod off once or twice, but sleep, on this night, was not a refuge for him. Instead, it was the repository of harsh, jagged, broken dreams.

For the sixth time - or maybe the eighth, he wasn't sure - he sat up abruptly and threw off the velvety softness of the down-filled coverlet, and turned to study the face of the individual seated beside him.

He didn't think he'd ever be able to express his appreciation for what Emmett had done; he was virtually certain that there were very few people who would have been capable of taking such action at all.

It was undeniable that it took a ridiculously generous man to be able to drop everything - literally - at a moment's notice and sprint out of an office, down a staircase, out of Pittsburgh's hottest gay nightclub and into a waiting police car, to be driven at breakneck speed through the city in order to make it to the airport just in time to be bundled aboard an FBI jet already queued for take-off. Left behind had been such important items as clothing, personal effects, business commitments, not to mention one frustrated, semi-speechless boyfriend/life partner. Emmett had come with no luggage, no briefcase - not even a toothbrush. But he had managed to bring the things that Justin needed most - his affection and his lovely supportive spirit. But the day had taken its toll on him, and he was dozing now, slumped in the roomy, first-class style seat, with his head braced against the window, seatbelt snugly fastened. Emmett, despite a determined, carefully developed aura of sophistication, was not a blasé flyer, his nervousness undoubtedly a remnant of the events of one particularly memorable experience aboard a commercial airliner. Still, he had managed to calm himself sufficiently to grab a nap, and Justin was careful not to disturb him.

He stretched a bit and glanced over toward the only other person in the cabin. He was not surprised to find Alexandra Corey scanning through files on her laptop, and none too patiently if he was an accurate judge of her demeanor. Of course, he doubted that anyone could really read this woman with any degree of certainty, but the pinched set of her mouth and the hard gleam in her eyes would have discouraged a casual approach from anybody who happened to venture too close.

Like Justin, she glanced often toward the digital clock displayed on the front bulkhead, despite the fact that the time was undoubtedly displayed on her computer screen, not to mention the perfectly serviceable, moderately expensive watch she wore on her wrist. It was somehow comforting to realize that, in her own way, she was just as nervous, just as anxious as the young man who sat watching her.

Well - almost. He sighed and realized that his thoughts were bordering on stupidity. No one - anywhere - could possibly be as nervous . . . no, scratch that. Not nervous. Terrified. No one could be as terrified as he was now.

Twenty-seven minutes.

The amount of time remaining until they would touch down, having trimmed three minutes from the expected duration of the trip due to favorable tail winds. At that point they would scramble out of the jet into a waiting FBI vehicle to go tearing across the city to get to the hospital, with every single one of them hoping that they were in time - that they were not too late.

He wouldn't glance at that clock again. He wouldn't. He . . .

Twenty-six minutes.

Justin closed his eyes, regretting that he had gulped down a brandy when he'd come on board, under the misguided notion that it would calm his nerves. It hadn't. Instead, it was sitting in his stomach now, like a frozen ball of ice with no intention of melting. How long ago had that been?

Agent Corey had played hostess when he and Emmett had arrived and handed out snifters of the surprisingly fine liqueur, before settling into her spot behind a small, well-equipped workstation while nursing her own drink. They'd hardly spoken at all since then

Eighty-eight minutes ago.

Time, he thought, was behaving oddly, either not passing at all - frozen, interminable, infinite - or passing in great dizzying chunks, depending on what he was feeling and thinking. How long had it been, for example, since that terrifying phone call?

One hundred and twenty-nine minutes.

Or a lifetime, depending on how one looked at it. Chris McClaren's voice had been hard, unyielding, and he'd spoken only six words. "You need to get here - now!"

Justin thought he might have been more frightened at some point in his life, but he really couldn't remember when. Even when he'd flown back from New Zealand, not knowing what he might find at the end of his journey, he had not allowed himself to anticipate the worst. But now . . . Chris McClaren just didn't do panic. He was the man who would be cool in the face of Armageddon, facing down Satan's legions with cool logic and determination. But Justin couldn't deny what he'd heard in the man's voice: fear - blatant, full-out, over-the-top fear. As for Justin, he'd gone almost catatonic at the sound of those words, spoken in that tone, and it had been his enormous good fortune that it had happened in Emmett's office, so that he was able to trust his friend to manage everything - calling Alexandra Corey and insisting that she arrange the FBI flight and allow the two of them to accompany her, overcoming her reservations by sheer force of will; contacting Carl to arrange for a police transport to the airport; calling in Mathis and Cynthia for a security update and Drew to fill in for him while they were gone; handling everything, in fact - all completed while Justin sat motionless, dazed and lingering on the verge of incoherence.

Everything from the moment he'd dropped the phone, causing Emmett to have to leap forward to recover it, to the time when they'd actually boarded the plane now felt like nothing more than a blur.

They'd strapped themselves in, braced for take-off, and been advised by Corey that she had no new information. Brian had been found unconscious and unresponsive, suffering from anaphylactic shock, and rushed to the hospital. That was all anyone knew. Since then, it had been a waiting game.

Except for that one moment - as clear and pure and perfect as polished, faceted crystal.

Fifty-three minutes ago.

The look on Alexandra Corey's face had spoken clearly, even though she hadn't said a word when Justin's phone rang. The call should have gone to her, and they all knew it, but that didn't prevent Justin from answering on the first ring.

"He's alive. That's all I know for now. He wasn't breathing when we found him, but they managed . . . they managed to bring him back, but there's no way to know . . . Anyway, just . . . hurry."

And that had been it. McClaren had said no more, but, for that moment, it had been enough. Enough to allow Justin to regain a spark of hope, to cling to the possibility, to take comfort from the fact that Brian's heart was still beating, that blood still raced through arteries and veins and warmed that body - that he would be in time. That he would get to hold that hand while it was still warm and pliable; that he would get to kiss that mouth again, while it was still soft and tender beneath his lips; that he would get to whisper into those ears and plead not to be left alone.

If nothing else, that he would, at least, get to say good-bye.

Twenty-four minutes - and counting.

It occurred to him at that moment that he hadn't even asked who had done this, or how it had happened, and he supposed that he should be curious. That he should be demanding answers and explanations. But he wouldn't. Not now, although some tiny little corner of his mind whispered that someone was sure as hell going to pay for this later. But for now, it didn't matter. He didn't care who or how, or even why.

The only thing that mattered was the next breath, the next heartbeat - one more moment holding death at arm's length. Nothing else seemed important.

Twenty-three minutes - the blink of an eye . . . or forever, depending on how you looked at it.

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

Chris McClaren and Delia Perkins were standing outside the ICU cubicle where Brian Kinney was fighting for his life, although, Delia observed with a sigh, he didn't look like he was fighting. He simply looked beautiful - exactly the way he always looked beautiful - and how long, she wondered, had she been fighting to suppress that observation and see him as just any other man.

But she looked again, watching the slow rise and fall of that perfectly sculpted chest and knew that she had lost the battle. Gay or straight, metro-sexual, bi-sexual, or asexual, Brian Kinney was beautiful, and it simply wasn't fair that there were people who wanted to kill him for exactly that reason.

What kind of a world are we living in? And why was she suddenly so disturbed by that thought? It wasn't as if she hadn't known it before. She was an FBI agent, for God's sake. Highly placed and on the fast track for advancement, so she knew all about the vile, ugly underbelly of life. But this - this was different. This wasn't about greed for money or power or political position; it wasn't about personal vendettas; it wasn't even about religious differences - not really. This was just about hatred - unreasoning, irrational, baseless and bottomless - and she suddenly found herself questioning if she really had the spine and the guts to face up to this sort of thing. Then she took a deep breath, realizing something else; whether or not she had the strength or courage didn't really matter, because somebody had to do it, and she - apparently - had been elected.

Along with her companion. She sighed again. Another reason for lamenting the random luck which made some men available - and some not.

Chris McClaren was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and one foot - Nike-clad - braced against the door frame. Having adopted casual dress for the duration of this mission, he had not bothered to change into the dark suit and tie that was standard for most agency operations. The beach setting in general - and Brian Kinney in particular - was simply not conducive to any degree of formality. Nevertheless, the look in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw were clear indicators of his fierce determination to perform the tasks assigned to him and accomplish his goal of protecting the client in a completely professional manner. Tight Levis and a Banana Republic polo shirt did not change that and had the added advantage of making him look decidedly appetizing.

Perkins allowed herself a moment to appreciate the view, and tried not to think about what it would do to him if he should fail to achieve his chief objective. If Brian Kinney did not survive . . . She looked up quickly and was immensely grateful to spot a familiar figure racing toward them from the ICU entrance, with a couple of companions behind him, trying and failing to keep up with his headlong rush. Dealing with the arrival of Justin Taylor made it impossible to continue with her original train of thought.

Still, she was caught completely off guard when Taylor sprinted past her and crashed into the man at her side, wrapping his fists in the dark fabric of McClaren's shirt.

"I left him with you," snarled the young blond. "You were supposed to keep him safe."

"Justin," snapped Delia Perkins, reaching out and trying to jerk him away from McClaren. "He wasn't there. When it happened, he wasn't . . ."

"But he should have been." Justin was not about to be diverted from his primary target, as he continued to glare at the senior agent. "You should have been."

Emmett Honeycutt and Alexandra Corey arrived at that moment, both slightly out of breath from their attempts to keep Justin in sight. Both chose - wisely, thought Perkins - to keep silent and allow the conversation to play out without their interference.

For his part, McClaren did not argue. Instead, he simply nodded.

"When this is over," said Justin, his voice hard and hoarse, "you better have one hell of an excuse."

The FBI agent straightened up and squared his shoulders as he looked down at that angry young face. "No excuses. That would be inappropriate, wouldn't it? But I will explain it to you, as best I can."

Justin's eyes were ablaze with fury and an almost irresistible hunger to exact some kind of payback, and he lingered there for a moment, obviously fighting for a measure of self control. In the end, it was Perkins who managed to help him achieve it.

"Think about it, Justin," she said softly. "You're about to go to his side. Do you really want him to open his eyes and see you like this? So angry that you've practically got steam shooting out your ears? If you're the first thing he sees - when he regains consciousness - wouldn't it be better . . ." She fell silent, wondering if she'd overstepped her bounds when she saw a hard glitter of resentment in his eyes, but it was gone almost before it formed.

He swallowed hard, and looked down at where his hands were still clasped tight in the fabric of McClaren's shirt. Then slowly, deliberately, he opened his fingers and stepped away. When he shifted to look through the door, the rigid lines on his face softened, as all the bitterness and anger and impatience simply drained out of him, leaving only his fear and his need and - most of all - his love. He did not wait for permission to move toward the bed, and it was doubtful that anyone could have stopped him, even if they'd been foolish enough to make the effort.

But he did not, as might have been expected, throw himself upon the figure that lay still and silent in the hospital bed, attached to the myriad machines around him with a stunning variety of tubes and wires and coils and clips and . . . It was as if Brian was encased in a cage of metal and plastic and glass, none of it pleasing to the touch or welcoming to an invading hand. But none of that mattered in the end.

Justin fell to his knees beside the bed, and grasped the hand that lay loose and cool atop the blankets, careful to avoid dislodging the needles that were taped in place, buried in the veins, carrying the vital solutions that were serving only one purpose - to keep that heart beating, to assure that the next breath would be drawn. With infinite gentleness, the young man drew that pale, almost boneless hand to his lips and kissed each finger in turn, before turning it over and moving on to the palm, the heel of the thumb, and the inside of the wrist.

"Brian." It was just a whisper, meant for no one's ears except - ironically - the person who probably could not hear it. "I'm here, Brian. And I need you to know something. Just one thing, if you never know anything else. You have to stay with me, Brian. You can't leave me, because . . ." He paused then, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat and to draw breath that seemed to be fighting off his efforts to inhale. He laid his head down, infinitely tender, against the back of that motionless hand, and, when he spoke again, it was almost without sound - nothing more than a faint breath of words formed by lips gone dry and cold. "Because I can't make it without you. If you love me, Brian, you have to come back to me."

"Justin." The voice was hesitant, tentative, almost apologetic, but surprisingly firm. "Please be careful. One needle dislodged, one IV cannula tilted the wrong way, and . . ."

Justin straightened up slowly and turned to regard Kevin Halloran with pale, haunted eyes. "Did you . . . " He paused, barely able to summon breath to continue. "Did you save his life?"

The young resident's smile was pensive. "I wish I could take the credit, but I think I'd have been too late. It was McClaren who saved him, with help from Delia. He gave him the shot that reversed the effect of the allergen, and she got him breathing again. By the time I got there, he was comatose, but breathing."

"And now?"

The young man, who would one day become a renowned neurosurgeon, could only offer a small sigh. "Comatose - but alive."

Justin managed to get to his feet, so he could stand and look down at Brian's face, which was - somehow - more beautiful in this moment than he had ever seen it. "Will he . . ." He wanted to ask - really wanted to ask - but couldn't.

Fortunately, Kevin Halloran was merciful enough to spare him the necessity. "You should probably wait to talk to Dr. Wainwright. He's the chief of internal medicine who's in charge of his case. But he's not here right now, and - if you really want my opinion - I'd have to say that nobody can really give you the answer you're looking for, Justin. Not yet. We've done everything that can be done, and he's on every kind of monitor you can imagine. So far, there's nothing to suggest that the damage was irrevocable, but - in the end - it's going to be up to Brian."

"How long was he . . ."

Again, the young doctor didn't wait to hear the word that Justin obviously didn't want to speak. "No way to know for sure. A few minutes, we think. But it might have been longer."

"And if it was?"

Halloran took a deep breath. "A lack of oxygen can cause serious damage, Justin."

"You mean brain damage." It was not a question.

"Among other things."

"So . . . he could be . . ."

"He could," replied the resident, "but there's no indication of that. Not yet."

"So all we can do is wait." Again, it was not a question.

Halloran nodded. "Wait, and sit here and talk to him. There's no proof, of course, that he'll even hear you, or that it will do any good if he does, but . . ."

"But what?"

"But it can't hurt." The resident's smile was very gentle. "And if there's even a one-in-a-million chance that it might help, I'm thinking you'd want to take it."

Justin took a moment to glance around, noting the cold sterility of the cubicle and the faces of the small crowd staring at him through the glass of the doorway. "I thought there were rules about this kind of thing. In an ICU, I mean. I figured they'd throw me out. So why would you let . . ."

Halloran's smile became a quick, bright grin. "Because my mother is the charge nurse on this unit, and because . . ." He turned then to gaze down at Brian Kinney, and the expression of longing in his eyes was plain for anyone to see, although he was careful to mask it quickly. Then he looked up and met Justin's gaze squarely. "Well, just because."

Justin smiled and felt an unaccustomed urge to offer the young doctor a bit of sympathy, although he was careful to keep it to himself. One did not, after all, offer encouragement to the competition, especially when the competition looked like Kevin Halloran. Still, he was grateful for the resident's understanding and assistance. Blatantly ignoring the questioning looks from the group of observers assembled at the door, he pulled a chair from the corner and set it beside the bed, where he settled in to wait and - just in case - to say all the things he'd always meant to say to Brian but somehow never managed to screw up enough courage or find the right moment.

The moment, it seemed, was at hand.

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


He had been here before; he was sure of that. But it had been different then. He would have sighed if such a thing were possible, but he knew it wasn't. Wherever his body might be - in the moment or elsewhere - controlling it was beyond him for now. Maybe even forever. He wasn't keen to remember his last visit, although he did entertain a vague, barely coherent flicker of thought that wondered how often he would come here. How often he would die. Because that was the one thing he was certain of; he had died - again.

One day, it would stick. Maybe today.

Except . . . if this was hell, he probably wouldn't be feeling quite so laid back. He doubted that hell was supposed to be quite so relaxing, although he was vaguely aware of some measure of discomfort lingering below the level of conscious thought. He was also pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be cool, and there was definitely a stirring in the air, the caress of a soft breeze against his face that carried traces of faint chemical odors, but also a soft nuance of something pleasant, something familiar. Also, there probably wouldn't be music in hell either, although he could visualize the sturm und drang of Metallica, maybe, or Black Sabbath. That one might be particularly appropriate, but this . . .

He listened just long enough to identify what he was hearing, before reconsidering his judgment. He had always had a bit of a soft spot for James Taylor, even though he would never have admitted it to the rank and file of Kinney acquaintances. It did not really fit his public image, but then again, given his tendency to give less than a shit about other people's opinions, he realized it didn't really make any difference. He didn't, of course, like all of the singer's efforts. He remembered flinching at the ebullient treacle sweetness of "How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You" and the sentimental twang of "Country Roads", but he'd always had a particular fondness for "Something In The Way She Moves" - with gender adjustments, of course - but this one . . . this one he could endure, if only it weren't quite so evocative, raising memories best left unraised.

He was vaguely aware of shadows moving around him, of a world turning without his active participation, of life going on - leaving without him? - as the lyrics of the song, not quite disembodied and not quite distant enough, drifted across the surface of his mind.

"To love is just a word I've heard when things are being said;
Stories my poor head has told me cannot stand the cold,
And in between what might have been and what has come to pass,
A misbegotten guess, alas, and bits of broken glass."

The voice was mellow, at least, and if the lyrics were a tad bit sentimental for his taste, the delivery itself wasn't half-bad as the vocalist caressed the tender ballad with his voice and allowed visions of sadness and loss to permeate his performance. It wasn't ordinarily Brian's style; he was never one for the kind of love songs written by the broken-hearted. But still, this one managed to get under the protective shell he normally wore, so that he found it . . . okay, he guessed - less melodic wallowing than an appreciation of precious memory - so perhaps he could tolerate it, for a while.

"Where do your golden rainbows end,
And why is this song so sad?
Dreaming the dreams I dream, my friend,
Loving the love I love to love, to love, to love . . ." ***

But he had a sudden urge to push himself up and out of this vast, gray nothing as the meaning of those words touched him, thrusting into him with the force of a sword wielded by a bad boy knight of the Round Table; Mordred, perhaps, Arthur's nemesis - but, whatever the source, it made him come to an urgent halt and fight to achieve some distance from the path he'd been following. Whatever lay beyond this place might be bad - really, really bad - but he didn't think it could be worse than having to endure the thoughts those lyrics inspired. Only . . . it was just too hard - moving, holding himself closed and protected, stepping clear of anything that wanted to touch him - and besides, there was something else tugging at him, something else demanding his attention - something softer, sweeter, close and intimate and . . . impossible to resist.

" . . . standing there, under that streetlight, I watched you coming toward me, and , and I . . . oh, my God, Brian, how can I make you see it? How can I make you understand what you did to me in the first second I saw you. I know what I meant to you; I could see it in your eyes. It was lust. And that was all it was then - for you. But for me . . . it was the first time I ever knew that there was someone like you, someone waiting to send my whole world spinning . . ." The words grew softer, as if the speaker was pulling away, but he was pretty sure it was only in his mind. The speaker wasn't drifting into the gray nothingness. He himself was the one trying to fade away, to step back and disappear into the fog. And the speaker? The speaker would still be there . . . once he'd finished . . . doing whatever it was that he was doing. He thought he shifted, but probably not. The words were like a tone poem, illuminating dark corners of his thoughts, bringing light, bringing painful awareness, bringing . . . "my gateway into a new life. You were . . . you were my everything, Brian. And I knew it. I know - you think that's stupid. You think love doesn't happen like that. Hell, maybe you still think love doesn't happen at all. I mean, just because you're finally able to say it doesn't mean . . ." More drifting, mostly because the words were becoming a bit . . . tiresome. Not quite a whine - and he didn't know why that thought made him want to smile - but a bit of a complaint, and that was borderline remarkable, given the circumstances - that one could speak of love with such conviction, but still hang on to the right to express irritation with the beloved, that was . . . "but you never let me see it, do you, so I can't know for sure that you're feeling what I felt that very first night. And you don't have to say it; I know you still don't believe me. But it doesn't matter, because . . . because I believe me, Brian. I know the truth, I know you were always meant to be the one . . ." There was a natural cadence in the voice now, like a timed chorus, and he knew he shouldn't listen, that listening, hearing, understanding would take him to a place he probably shouldn't go, a place he would never want to leave. So he tried not to hear it. Maybe he'd start thinking about a trip to Australia, since he'd never actually managed to get there, because of . . . well, just because, and he'd heard all kind of stories about the beaches there and . . . Shit! Why couldn't he show some tiny little bit of interest in what he would find on those beaches, and why, oh why did that voice insist on . . ."hope you know it too, somewhere deep inside you . . . so you can hold on and use it to pull you back to me. Because . . . because without you, there's no me, Brian. I need you to know that. I need you to believe it. I can not live without you, you stupid prick. Haven't you seen that yet? Didn't you see what it did to me when you turned away from me and sent me running off to New York? And yes, just in case you think I never figured it out, I know that was what you planned to do. You think you're the only one who can figure things out, but I learned how to put together the puzzle of Brian Kinney a long time ago. So . . . what? You think I was happy in the Big Apple - that I was this big, bad, successful Picasso-wannabe - that I'd have been content to spend the rest of my life like . . ." He shouldn't be listening. This was the thing he had been trying to run away from - forever; the thing he couldn't let himself believe, because he knew he couldn't be the man he needed to be to earn that kind of loyalty - that kind of commitment. He just needed to sleep - just sleep. Was that asking too . . . "empty, Brian. That's what I am without you. And that's what you are without me, whether you want to believe it or not. So . . . so you need to just stop this crap. Stop daydreaming and fucking around in your x-rated porn fantasy. Because you don't have to do that. All you have to do . . . is open your eyes, and it'll all be there, waiting for you. I'm here. I'm always going to be here."

The voice fell silent, James Taylor stopped singing, and the gray emptiness settled around him, allowing him to slip back into the dark arms of sleep, hoping the worst was over.

He had absolutely no sense of time, but he was pretty sure his respite was brief. The voice came back. Of course, it did. Had he really expected anything else? He found he couldn't call to mind many details about his life or the people who filled it, but he did know one thing for certain: Justin Taylor never, never gave up on anything that really mattered to him.

". . . shouldn't worry about Gus. I talked to Lindsey before I left, and she thought it best not to tell him anything about this. Until you're recovered, anyway. Which should happen just any time now, unless you're planning to scare us even worse than we're already scared. Do you really want to do that, Brian? Imagine his face; imagine Gus, and how he'd feel if . . . I know you never intended to love Gus. You were just going to be the sperm donor, but life . . . it doesn't always work the way you think it will, does it? And you learned that . . ." And of course, with that kind of prompt, it was impossible not to call up an image of his son, accompanied by a not-quite-random speculation of whether or not he had looked like that - so innocent, so bright, so beautiful - when he was that age, and, if he had, why had it been so impossible for his parents to . . . No, he thought it would be easier to listen to the words, and that was a substantial surprise . . . "Emmett's here too, you know. Makes me wonder if you have any idea how much he cares about you. Just as much, I think, as you care about him, even though neither one of you would ever admit it. He's the one who got me here; I was so fucked up, so terrified and stunned and panicked I couldn't even think of who to call, or where to go, or how to reach you. But Emmett knew. Once all this is over, you need to make him a permanent employee - someone to help Cynthia, who works way too hard to try to do what you need done. You're not easy to work for, you know, with your prima donna attitudes and your demanding nature, and . . . well, you probably already know that, and don't give a shit, but you need to think about it. You . . . wear people out, Brian. They get so caught up in being what you need them to be, they forget how to . . ."

That, of course, was just flagrantly untrue, or - well, maybe not untrue exactly, but a huge exaggeration. He didn't demand more of the people around him than he demanded of himself . . . and why did that thought suddenly feel like an admission of guilt? And why couldn't he just drift off into sleep and not . . . "people who love you, and you have no idea, because you never let yourself know it. You never let yourself believe you deserve their love." The words were interrupted by a soft, barely-there sigh. "Just like you never let yourself believe you deserve my love. You do, you know, but I've almost given up on finding a way to make you believe it. So here's the deal: you don't have to believe it; you don't have to accept it. You just have to come back to me, Brian, because, whether or not you deserve it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that I love you - more than you will ever know. So much that I can not live without you, and I will never find a reason to be happy again, if you don't come back to me. It'll be all your fault, when I turn into a bitter, cruel, vicious old man, and . . ."

There was a sudden, faint beeping sound behind the voice, and then a soft succession of piano notes, before a new voice rose, singing a new song . . .

"Once in every life,
Someone comes along,
And you came to me.
It was almost like a song."****

" . . . my mother won't ever forgive you either, if I give up my art and my life to become a confirmed hermit and live . . ."

"Justin!"

Not enough, he realized instantly, as he hadn't really managed to make a sound - not even so much as a breath - just a tiny movement of his lips that failed to halt the flow of words that continued to . . .

". . . sitting and watching life go by, mourning everything we should have had - could have had. What we should have been together, you and . . ."

"Justin!" Still not much - just a tiny susurration of air, but better.

Still, it took almost five seconds for Justin to realize that the word - little more than a figment of his imagination - had actually been spoken, had actually fallen from Brian's lips.

"Brian? Oh, my God, Brian, what - what do you . . ."

"Just please, shut . . . the - fuck . . . up . . . and if you make me listen to any more . . . country music, we are . . . done. I am never . . . waking up again."

And with that said, he promptly fell back asleep, but it was really sleep this time, instead of the coma it had been.

He hadn't opened his eyes, hadn't really moved at all, but it was enough. It was Brian; no one hearing the sheer snideness of the words could have mistaken it for anything other than classic Brian-Kinney snark, and Justin thought he had never heard anything more beautiful.

He buried his face against the hand he was clasping, unable, for a moment, to summon up a reply as tears welled in his eyes and poured down his face. He was aware - but only vaguely - of medical staffers rushing into the room, probably in reaction to the bells and whistles sounding from various monitors arranged around the bed. He thought they might even have tried to convince him to move away from the patient, but that - well, that just wasn't going to happen, and he was pretty sure it was Kevin Halloran he had to thank for being left to his clinging.

It was a terribly long five minutes, as doctors and nurses and various technicians buzzed in and out to check and double-check the readings of the various instruments, and there was little Justin could do to help. In fact, he realized, his presence was probably a hindrance, but still he remained adamant. He wasn't moving. He could, however, do one thing to help. Shifting only a little, he retrieved the universal remote and switched off the piped-in music which was, apparently, a feed from a local radio station featuring a blend of soft pop and country music. Until Brian had pointed it out - in his own inimitable way - Justin hadn't even noticed it, as it was just background sound, played so softly it was barely even audible.

He grinned, as he realized he had inadvertently stumbled across the surest way of reaching through the dark levels of coma to awaken this wonderful, contrary, indomitable man. The key had been to get on his last nerve, and Justin wanted to laugh at the irony, but instead, he had to fight off another round of tears. In the end, it didn't matter; nothing mattered, except that it had worked, and he could tell, from the smile on Halloran's face, that the crisis was past. Brian was sleeping. Just sleeping, and the tiny smirk he was wearing was real, not just an accidental configuration of features.

Ignoring the staff members still gathered around the bed, Justin got to his feet and leaned forward to claim the lips that he knew to be his for the claiming, Brian's bad mood notwithstanding. The kiss was intense, thorough, and became intimate - even passionate - when Brian shifted enough to open his mouth and welcome the tongue that was insisting on entrance, although he never actually awakened. Several of the spectators might have initially had some notion of stepping in to intervene, but ultimately, they didn't. Maybe it was the stern set of Halloran's face that stopped them, or maybe it was their own embarrassment at witnessing such intimacy between two men. But mostly, it was simply that they all understood that it was a privilege to be allowed to be present for such a complete, unequivocal expression of love, and the fact that it was between two men didn't seem to matter in the least.

They waited in silence, and a few of them happened to glance out the window and recognize the lovely juxtaposition of this moment between lovers and morning breaking pure and beautiful over the vast expanse of the Atlantic.

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

In the course of his life, he was sure he had spent more uncomfortable nights, but he actually couldn't remember when. After hours of shifting from one uncomfortable seat to another in the ICU waiting room, he had wandered down to the cafeteria and treated himself to bad coffee and even worse . . . calling it pastry was a huge disservice to the baking industry. If asked, Emmett would have denied the possibility of creating a Danish that actually tasted like cardboard, but someone in the dark depths of the hospital kitchen had actually succeeded in that onerous task.

He had returned to his lonely vigil, and spent a few minutes trying - without much success - to chat with Chris McClaren, who had not left his post at Brian's door all during the night. Others had rotated; Delia Perkins had been relieved during the wee hours, and her replacement - a dour young man with sky-high cheekbones and a face that looked as if it might crack if he tried to smile - had left several times, apparently running errands at McClaren's command. He had gone for coffee frequently; had fetched a newspaper and files and documents; had excused himself several times, probably for bathroom breaks, and had even sought and found a couple of straight-back chairs that he arranged by the doorway so that the two on-guard agents could sit while standing guard. He sat; McClaren did not.

Other agents were posted at various sites around the hospital, some stationery - as in the two posted at the primary entrance, and the two near the ER front desk. Another team patrolled the grounds. Some had been pulled in from their regular post at the beach house; others had been reassigned from a local field office. The FBI did not react with bland acceptance when someone under their protection was assaulted so successfully. All had been relieved at some point during the interminable night; all but one. And Emmett wondered how McClaren would react if anyone attempted to send him away from his post; not well, he was sure.

It was an intense sense of duty that kept him there, thought Emmett, but it was also something more personal. And Emmett felt a deep ache of sympathy for the agent. He knew a thing or three about unrequited love - enough, at least, to recognize it when he saw it, although he was absolutely certain that neither the lover nor his beloved would ever admit the truth of it.

Another example of collateral damage in the extended saga of Brian Kinney.

Sometimes, Emmett was jealous of Brian. Shit! If everyone were unflinchingly honest, they'd all be forced to admit to being jealous of Brian, at one time or another, and probably repeatedly. But Emmett felt fortunate in realizing that most people never saw the dark side of what it was to be Brian. He thought about it sometimes - what it must feel like to be so desired, so lusted after, so brilliant, not to mention so bloody sexy - but he also knew that the self-imposed distance, the cold determination to remain unchained, and, above all, the monumental self-doubt that had to be locked away, kept hidden and safe from prying eyes or greedy hands - those were just some of the costs Brian paid on a daily basis. And Emmett knew with absolute certainty that he would never speak to anyone about that doubt, as he also knew that, if he did, no one would ever believe him.

Definitely not worth it, he decided.

He found Trina in the waiting room when he'd finished taking a walk through the hospital's endless corridors, and decided immediately that the woman should be nominated for sainthood, as she was carrying a huge thermos filled with coffee fit for the gods, and a plastic container of fresh beignets and still warm blueberry muffins. Alexandra Corey joined them just as they were settling into a sectional sofa in the corner and looking forward to breakfast and - hopefully - an update on Brian's condition. It had been a long, mostly silent night, but the new day was at hand, and maybe . . .

The light pouring through the east-facing windows was still pearly with dawn mist when disturbing sounds erupted from the ICU, and both Emmett and Agent Corey leapt to their feet to race for the doorway. Only Trina remained where she was, limiting her reaction to a tilt of her head and a quick inhalation; she knew those voices, and she thought it better to wait to decide how to react. This was either going to be very good - or very bad, and she didn't want to leap to any conclusion, only to be proven wrong. Instead, she closed her eyes and murmured a brief prayer. It was not logical, she thought, that she should have grown so fond of a young stranger in so short a period of time - especially one who incorporated a lot of the less-than-stellar qualities of a scoundrel and a rogue - but there it was, nonetheless. She didn't want to lose Brian Kinney to the viciousness of a society filled with homophobes, but it was ultimately out of her hands. So she would sit here and pour coffee - and hope.

Emmett however was not capable of such a prosaic attitude. He went racing through the ICU main entrance, barely aware of Agent Corey at his side, and came to an abrupt stop as he was confronted with an unexpected tableau. One did not, after all, ordinarily visualize an FBI agent - in his physical prime - being manhandled by a beautiful, blond twink with blood in his eye. McClaren had obviously been slammed against the wall, and Justin was standing before him, quivering with rage, one fist poised and ready to strike, as the other hand was gripping his adversary's throat, tight enough to make breathing difficult - or maybe impossible.

"Now," Justin was not quite shouting. "Since he's awake, and the doctor says the worst is over, now you explain it to me. How the fuck could you let this happen? You were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to stay with him, and keep him safe, and you . . . you fucked it up, Asshole. How could you . . ."

"Mr. Taylor." Unexpectedly, it was Alexandra Corey who spoke up . . . and stepped up, wrapping her hands around Justin's arm and trying to pull him back and away from his target. "It wasn't his fault. It was mine."

Justin blinked rapidly, looking confused. Looking lost, thought Chris McClaren, who was really trying to be angry at Brian's fuckbuddy - (and who was he kidding by referring to the kid with that term) - but couldn't quite manage it. He knew why Justin blamed him for what had happened to Brian; he knew, because he agreed. He blamed himself, no matter what kind of bullshit his boss was prepared to shovel in order to give him some kind of perpetual get-out-of-jail-free card.

"What do you mean?" asked Justin, not convinced yet, and not ready to let go of his anger, but backing off just a bit and easing his grip just enough to allow his adversary to breathe without a struggle.

"We vetted everyone, Justin. The Bureau ran checks on everybody who would have any contact with Brian, or any access to him - every member of Turnage's staff, everyone at the clinic, even the trades people who would provide goods and services at the cottage. Everyone. Only . . ."

"Only somehow," Justin interrupted, voice dripping with venom, "you missed one. So are you going to tell me what happened - and why - or should I just . . ."

"Justin," said Emmett gently, "I understand why you're upset." He stepped closer and leaned forward to whisper in his young friend's ear. "You almost lost him, and I really do know what that would do to you. But I also know Agent McClaren saved his life. Now maybe you're right; maybe he's responsible for risking it in the first place. But - in the end - he saved him. Do you really want to bust his chops for it, and then have to explain it all to Brian when he wakes up? You do remember what a pain in the ass he can be whenever he thinks somebody's being over-protective, don't you?"

Justin was very still, his eyes still drilling into McClaren's - blue on blue, ice on ice. "I'd still like to beat you to a bloody pulp," he said through gritted teeth.

McClaren did not flinch. "I know."

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Justin finally stepped away. "And I still want answers."

"And you'll have them," Agent Corey assured him. "But not yet. Brian is the one who has the right to hear it first, and it's up to him to decide if you're allowed to listen in. It's really his story, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

"But nothing." That was McClaren, cold and determined. "Brian's choice, and nobody is going to take that away from him. With all the crap happening around us, I think we all got a little caught up in the chaos, and managed to forget that basic fact. It's always going to be Brian's choice."

Justin wanted to argue, wanted to claim proprietary rights and a place at the head of the table. But, in the end, he couldn't, because - loathe as he was to admit it - McClaren was right. It was Brian's choice, and he couldn't quite suppress a sigh as a little voice in the back of his mind insisted that it always would be.

"Come on, Baby," said Emmett with a gentle smile. "If I'm not mistaken, there's a young doctor over there - fabulous bubble butt under those gruesome scrubs, by the way - waiting to speak to us. Let's go have breakfast and get all the scoop so we can call home and reassure everybody, because you must know Cynthia is going to have your ass on a plate, if you delay calling, and Michael . . . well, Michael is probably already in the middle of a major queen-out. So can we please . . ."

He fell silent, deeply moved by the fear and uncertainty he could still read in Justin's eyes, but still certain he was right, that it must ultimately be Brian's call.

With no other alternative, they all moved to the waiting room to listen to Dr. Halloran's briefing; all but Chris McClaren, who remained at his post, with a quick nod to his boss - a nod that spoke volumes.

Someone had gotten to Brian Kinney while he was under the protection of the FBI in general and Chris McClaren specifically. It was a major fuck up; it would only happen again over his dead body, and that was a promise.

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

* -- Into the Dark -- Melissa Etheridge
** -- How Would I Know? -- Melissa Etheridge
***-- Long Ago and Far Away -- James Taylor
****-- It Was Almost Like a Song -- Archie Jordon, Hal David

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