Chapter 55

The world breaks everyone and, afterward, many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.

A Farewell to Arms - Ernest Hemingway

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

The music played on, and the tux-clad dancers continued their effortless, graceful performance as Celine's voice soared and the spotlight followed them. The dance floor was reduced from its normal gargantuan size by the placement of the elegantly appointed tables provided to allow diners to enjoy Emmett's gourmet meal, consisting of roasted shrimp cocktail, chicken Kiev, bacon risotto, grilled asparagus, and fresh croissants, all prepared with the help of his new part-time assistant, Cedric Lasseigne. The dessert - a beautifully presented Kahlua tiramisu, garnished with glazed strawberries - was spectacular, but many among the crowd were simply too sated to indulge further.

Not to mention the fact that they were too enchanted by the vision before them, all realizing that the size of the dance area was unimportant now since no one else ventured onto the floor; nobody even thought of it.

This was the Brian-and-Justin moment, inspiring vastly differing responses for many in the audience, but not a single one among them would have considered interrupting or trying to intrude.

The dancers were achingly, stunningly beautiful - Brian in black Armani and Justin in midnight blue Ralph Lauren - and the dance was perfect. They moved together instinctively, as flawlessly as if the performance had been rehearsed, and - as Celine approached the end of the lyrics - Brian spun Justin once before shifting his weight and lowering his partner in a perfectly balanced dip to end the dance as the last soft measured lyrics fell into the hush.

If you do it like this
(It's all coming back to me now)
And if we . . . .*

For a single moment, the final note of the song was the only sound, and - completely contained within that heartbeat of time - Brian was speared by the memory of another dance on another occasion, and was forced to brace himself against a resurgence of the trauma he had endured that night as he wondered if Justin might be in the grip of the same memory. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, as the silence was broken when uproarious applause started up again, accompanied by shouts of approval and joyful laughter.

The featured performance of the evening was complete, and new music - typical Babylon thumpa-thumpa - erupted from the speakers placed around the room, although not as loudly as usual, but if the crowd had any idea of filling the floor and taking the spotlight for themselves, it was not to be, as the enthusiasm of the onlookers led to a surge of bodies to surround the primary stars of the evening. Brian and Justin managed - just - to hold on to each other and not be swept apart, but they were both engulfed in a sea of stroking hands and eager arms and hugs and kisses. Debbie Novotny, first to be noticed - as always - in trademark scarlet, managed to get to them before anyone else and wrapped her arms around both. Her affection for the two was obvious, but she did make a small distinction, managing to lean forward and whisper a word of gratitude into Brian's ear; he had, after all, saved her son - again - by making sure he would not lose the right to be a part of his daughter's life, and a tiny little voice in her mind pointed out - with more than a nuance of sarcasm - that this was certainly not the first time.

Michael came next, with Ben at his heels, and he paused to pat Justin's shoulder with a gentle hand, but there was no gentleness in his greeting for Brian; he simply pulled his old friend into a rough, tight, full body press and then spent a long thirty seconds devouring those newly-restored perfect lips. Neither Ben nor Justin seemed particularly pleased with the situation, but neither had the heart to intervene. Thus, when Brian pulled away, both he and Michael were laughing with exuberance, and their respective partners couldn't help but join in.

Then it was Lindsey's turn, her father looking on with a small smile. He had accepted his award from Emmett - beautifully engraved Ravi Ratan sterling cufflinks - with humility and grace, but it had been obvious from the start that he was uncomfortable with the attention. Brian chose to believe it had more to do with unfamiliarity with the spotlight than with any distaste for the setting. Others were less certain. But Lindsey obviously had no doubts at all, as she was radiant and smiling, leading Brian to wonder if she had finally managed to cast off old, painful shadows. She threw herself into his arms, giving Justin a momentary rush of uncertainty as he noted - to his own surprise - just how lovely Gus's parents were, clasped in each other's arms. He was remarkably relieved when Lindsey walked away, leaving Ron Peterson to share a quick, private exchange with the father of his grandson - too quick for it to encompass much substance, but Justin took a second to wonder what the older man might have whispered in Brian's ear as Brian seemed momentarily nonplussed. But there was no time for questioning as the crowd continued to demand the attention of the guests of honor.

Next in line were Matt Keller and Jared Hilliard who looked - to Brian's surprise - inordinately pleased with themselves and perfectly comfortable together. The physician hugged his old friend but was very careful to avoid areas of the body he knew to be still tender, and responded to the question Brian whispered in his ear with nothing more than a grin - slightly lurid - and a wink while Hilliard looked on with a knowing smile.

It was Brian's turn to smile as he watched them walk away together.

Next up, trembling with a combination of impatience and joy, came Jennifer, with Tucker at her heels. Her greeting for Justin was only slightly more enthusiastic than the one she bestowed on Brian.

In truth, she wanted a private word with her son-in-law-to-be, but knew such a hope was futile in this setting. She had concerns to share, but they would have to wait, so she contented herself with embracing the two of them and enjoying the happiness sparkling in Justin's eyes. And in Brian's, of course, except . . . She frowned, briefly, but then allowed herself to be caught up once more in the spirit of the occasion, and promptly forgot whatever it was that had raised a question in her mind.

Cynthia - not usually known for her patience - had been waiting for a while, and stepped in before anyone else could approach, with Lance Mathis at her side.

"You two look good together," said Brian, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and took a deep breath, relieved to note that he once more smelled like Brian Kinney was supposed to smell - warm and sexy and sensual, a blend of the natural fragrance that was uniquely him, and the subtle scent of Christian Dior's Higher - his perfectly masculine cologne of choice. Most importantly of all, there was no trace of the awful chemical scents of medical ointments and antiseptic bandages and disinfectants and the hundreds of other smells that brought up memories of hospital corridors and cold waiting rooms and red-bagged bio-waste, rather than warm skin and renewed life.

"Stop playing matchmaker, Boss," she murmured, "unless you want me to find Emmett and have him play the entire score of 'Hello, Dolly'."

Brian suppressed a shudder. "Should I assume then that you don't need any help from me?"

She looked up at him, and he was hard put to avoid flinching away from the naked combination of relief and something that was disturbingly close to adoration in her eyes. "You should assume it's wise to mind your own business."

He glanced over her shoulder and spent a moment observing how deliberately Lance Mathis was looking around the room in an attempt to avoid staring at Cynthia's curves in the tight-fitted black dress. Brian grinned. "More fun to mind yours, Tink, especially when your Prince Charming is having a hell of a time keeping his eyes off your ass."

Cynthia's blush was exactly the response he'd been seeking, and he smiled as he touched his lips to her forehead. "Take a few hours to cast your spell. Then meet me in my office tomorrow morning. There are a couple of things I need to go over with you."

"Tomorrow morning?" She did not quite squawk, but it was close. "You do realize that tomorrow is Saturday, and that . . ."

"Tomorrow morning," he replied, before looking over and favoring Mathis with a conspiratorial grin. "But not too early, and I promise not to take up too much of your time - which could obviously be better spent."

"You really are an asshole," she muttered. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah." He hugged her just a bit tighter. "I know it. But you'll be there - right?"

She departed without answering the question, knowing a response was unnecessary.

Justin watched in silence, noting the softness in his lover's eyes and wondered if Cynthia really understood how important she was to her boss. He was still slightly lost in his musing as another couple stepped forward - one he did not recognize but, judging by the warmth of the smile on Brian's face, one he should make sure to know in the future.

The young black woman was beautiful - Halle Berry beautiful, thought Justin. Maybe even a little too beautiful? When she stepped forward and Brian clasped both of her hands as he leaned forward to give her a quick kiss, Justin had another one of those uneasy moments, because - if Brian and Lindsey were lovely together - Brian and this unknown female were beyond beautiful, almost radiant. Drop-dead gorgeous and stunning enough to make him start thinking in clichés. No way, of course, would Brian Kinney ever fall for a woman, but . . . oh, what a vision they made together.

Time, thought Justin, to step in.

"Hi," he said, sounding only slightly awkward, "I'm . . . "

"Oh, I know who you are, young Justin," said Sharon Briggs, her skin almost gilded by the contrast of the charcoal filigree of a Marchesa gown that left little to the imagination. "I'd have known even if you weren't standing beside him." She spared a little wink for Brian as she continued. "The smile kind of gives it away."

"The smile?" Justin glanced at his lover, obviously confused.

Sharon grinned. "Sunshine," she replied, her fingers creating quotation marks in the air.

Both she and Brian enjoyed the beautiful blush that flared over perfect, pale skin.

"Hello, almost son-in-law," said the man who had approached with her as he extended his hand to Brian.

"Hello, Mr. Briggs."

"You know, if you ever get tired of being the big-time ad exec, you could always come back to work for me. It's bloody disgusting how little you've changed."

"On the surface maybe," said Brian as he shook the man's hand, and, for a moment, no one knew quite what to say next as they all realized how much he had left unsaid.

Until Justin spoke up, unabashed as always, and Brian was grateful for the reprieve from reminders of darker times.

"Aren't you going to introduce me, Brian?" The fact that there was just the tiniest vein of petulance in his tone was lost on none of them - and restored Brian's smile.

The introductions were made and Justin, with an artist's eye for detail, had a sudden epiphany. "I know you," he blurted as he took Sharon's hand. "You're . . ." He faltered abruptly as he realized that he'd almost identified her as one of the Liberty Avenue pros who trolled the streets every night, looking for Johns - or Janes, as the case might be. He was still sure he was right, but he thought it unwise to speak of it in front of her father.

Sharon laughed. "It's okay, Justin. My dad knows what I do."

Justin's eyes, already wide and sparkling in the joy of the occasion, grew impossibly wider.

When Brian and the Briggs - father and daughter - broke into easy laughter, Justin blushed - again.

"What's so . . ."

It was Brian who leaned forward to whisper in his ear, providing the explanation, which, of course, embarrassed Justin even further as he realized that his comments, if overheard, might have had dire consequences.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, meeting Sharon's gaze and noting - again - how beautiful her eyes were. Sable brown with topaz glints. "Can I paint you?" he asked abruptly. "Your face is remarkable, and I'd . . ."

"Of course, you can," she said quickly. Now she was the one who was embarrassed. "But it would probably be best if I'm 'in character', so to speak. But tell me, is that how you recognized me? I mean I don't think anyone ever has before. Certainly not when I'm dressed like this. How did you . . ."

Justin shrugged. "I only see the features. Not the clothes or the setting, so it wouldn't matter to me which 'character' you choose to pose in. Like I say, I only see the features."

"So sayeth the artist," said Brian.

Justin Taylor knew Brian Kinney better than anyone else in the world, but it was Sharon Briggs who picked up on something in her old friend's voice - something disturbing, maybe even alarming - that Justin didn't seem to notice.

The undercover policewoman was, by necessity, a keen judge of character and a mistress of nuance, and she was suddenly studying Brian's face with a speculative gaze. He did not - quite - squirm, but she thought he'd come very close to it, which was a truly remarkable circumstance in itself. This was Brian Kinney, after all, who did not squirm - for anybody.

Abruptly, she leaned forward. "You okay, Studly?"

Brian grinned. It had been a very long time since she'd called him that. "I'm fine. Why?"

She took a moment to formulate an answer. "I don't know. Something in your eyes, maybe?"

It was his turn then to hesitate, as he tried to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat. He leaned forward quickly to whisper in her ear. "That's just lust, Beauty. You know how I am when I don't get my fuck-fix three times a day."

Sharon pulled back and smiled, lifting one hand to cup his cheek. But she decided to drop the subject, knowing she would learn nothing more for the moment. There was no one in the world who could keep a secret like Brian Kinney when he decided to be stubborn.

So maybe she should seek answers elsewhere. She looked up and spotted Matt Keller in the crowd, and - her smile shifted slightly, became a bit more sensual, a bit more focused - Lindsey Peterson was standing beside him. Perhaps it was time to investigate from a different perspective.

Brian - being the Brian who never missed a thing - saw and interpreted her smile correctly, and allowed himself a brief bout of speculation. When father and daughter slipped away into the crowd, he watched for a moment and experienced a surprising burst of warmth when he saw one old friend seek out another.

Lindsey Peterson and Sharon Briggs. He smiled as he wondered why that match-up had never even occurred to him when they'd all been friends in the halcyon days of youth.

But when he turned back to look down at his young companion, he caught a glimpse of a face in the crowd - a face he had not expected to see in this place - and realized that he'd answered his own question. The wearer of that face - currently nose-deep in a martini glass - had been like a force of nature back then. A force that set its sites on one lovely young blond, and staked a claim that discouraged trespassers. Even the intrepid Sharon Briggs might have been slightly intimidated, especially if Lindsey had shown no signs of resistance.

He did not waste time wondering how his life - or Lindsey's and Gus's - would have been different if Lindsey had refused to allow herself to be claimed, or if Sharon Briggs had chosen to trespass, but he knew everything would have been simpler.

So much for "love" conquering all, although - on second thought - if what Lindsey had endured from Melanie constituted "love", he knew they'd all have been better off without it.

More revelers crowded in then - acquaintances, friends, co-workers, clients, and even some well-wishers who did not actually know either of the two star players but got caught up in the exuberance of the moment anyway.

And finally, when everyone else had claimed a share of the spotlight, voiced their concerns and opinions, and congratulated Brian on his remarkable recovery, there stood Chris McClaren, the man who had played a major role - second only maybe to Lance Mathis on the night of the attack - in the salvation of Brian Kinney. The FBI agent had supervised and observed the preparations for this entire celebratory occasion, despite having major misgivings about the wisdom of Brian's participation in such a public event. During the course of a very long, very hard day, he and Emmett had been constantly at each other's throats - one focusing on his desire to create a perfect fantasy, and the other on his determination to thwart any possibility of risk to his primary responsibility. They had survived, but only barely, and it was unlikely that either would ever willingly speak to the other again. Chris had ultimately agreed to the arrangements - reluctantly - but had adamantly refused to accept any measure of recognition for his own actions.

Justin felt it - the electrical charge in the air that erupted the very moment that Brian's eyes met those of his primary defender. He felt it, and fought to suppress the resentment rising in his gut. He managed to achieve a measure of control, but only barely; thus his smile was slightly tremulous, and his eyes were not completely free of shadow.

"Brian," said McClaren with a nod. "You do realize that this . . ." He swept one hand around in an inclusive manner,"is thoroughly stupid. You're taking a big risk here."

"You worry too much," Brian replied, one arm still draped possessively around Justin's shoulders, but there was some small nuance of regret in his expression. "This is my castle, where I am invulnerable to the slings and arrows . . ."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" McClaren interrupted. "You do remember what happened to Hamlet, in the end, don't you? They don't call it a tragedy for nothing."

"Just give it a rest, McFed. After all, your people vetted every single person here, so how do you think . . ."

"Don't be an ass." McClaren's response was flat, almost icy. "There are more than two thousand people here, and that's only counting the guests. Do you really think - among a crowd that size - that there's not a single soul who might want to shoot you down like a rabid dog?'

Brian looked up at that precise moment, and became aware of a particularly intense gaze, as he turned to meet the eyes of his CFO, eyes so dark they were almost black, and so steady that any emotion behind them was indecipherable. Brian was slightly disturbed to realize he had no idea what that gaze might mean, especially since he had long ago learned to read Theodore like an open book.

"Probably more than one," he admitted finally. "But no one willing to risk going head to head with you and yours."

The FBI agent limited his response to a raised eyebrow as he started to move away into the crowd, eyes constantly scanning for anything - even the smallest thing - out of the ordinary.

"McClaren!" The sharp, familiar voice stopped him cold and made him turn back to look at the couple who had been the center of attention for this entire extravaganza. His face reflected his confusion, as he wondered why Justin Taylor would call out to him to demand his attention.

"Yes?"

Justin stepped forward, gesturing for Brian to stay where he was - a development that obviously did not please his partner - and moved close enough to almost invade McClaren's personal space - almost.

"Look!" he said firmly. "There's no denying that we've never really hit it off. Given the sting you two tried to pull on me in the beginning, I think that's understandable. And I think it probably won't ever change very much. But . . ."

He stepped closer still and looked up directly into McClaren's eyes, and Brian - watching closely in spite of a determination to avoid appearing jealous - noted the sheer stunning quality of blue on blue. "Whatever I might feel about you, I know you saved his life, and I owe you for that. That trumps everything else, so if you ever need anything - anything at all - you only need to say so. Understand?"

To the surprise of all three members of this elite circle - especially McClaren himself - the FBI agent lifted one hand and touched it to the exquisite silk of Justin's cheek. "I'm sitting here," he said softly, "trying to figure out which one of you is the luckiest son of a bitch in the world, and which one I should feel sorry for."

Justin grinned. "Confusing, aren't we?" Then he stopped smiling and stepped even closer in order to be able to speak directly into McClaren's ear. "But having said that - and meaning every word of it - you need to remember this. Gratitude is one thing, but blind stupidity is something else. I know how you feel about him. I even know enough to realize it's not your fault. He does that to people. But owing you for saving his life doesn't make me willing to stand aside and watch you stake a claim." He then stepped back and lifted one hand to adjust the FBI agent's tie. "Are we clear on that?"

McClaren - for a single moment - was able to focus only on the face looking up at him, shutting out everything and everyone else. Even the not-easily-ignored Brian Kinney. "Crystal," he answered firmly. "But . . ." He paused just long enough to spot the glint of unease flare in Justin's eyes, "probably not for the reason you think. You're cute when you're threatening."

With that, the FBI agent turned and moved toward Brian, gently stroked his thumb across a perfectly-restored jaw-line and leaned forward just enough to murmur, "Better muzzle your terrier, Hot Stuff. I'm pretty sure he thinks he's a rottweiler."

Brian laughed, and reached out to wrap his fingers around McClaren's bicep, to hold him in place for a moment. "Thanks, Chris. I owe you."

McClaren grinned. "I'll remember, and I'll collect - sooner or later."

"Smartass!" Justin's snarky observation was not quite under his breath, as he resumed his place at Brian's side.

For his part, Brian confined his response to quick chuckle as he once more took his young lover into his arms.

"Want to dance again?" Justin asked, as the unmistakable opening rift of Nirvana's signature song erupted through the speakers.

Brian tilted his head to stare down into starlit blue eyes as he summoned up a lazy, Kinney-classic smile. "No. I want to fuck."

Justin's response was instantaneous, as he donned his trademark sunshine grin, grabbed his partner's hand and started to pull him through the crowd. "I thought you'd never ask."

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

"Three guesses where they're going," said a lazy, slightly gin-buzzed voice in his ear, as Teddy turned to observe the new body beside him at the bar. Melanie Marcus lifted a martini glass toward the departing couple. "First two don't count."

The accountant watched as she drained the last of her cocktail. "I thought you were drinking whiskey."

"I was, but martinis are so much more elegant. So much more Brian Kinney - don't you think?"

"Not really," he replied dryly. "Since Brian mostly drinks JB on the rocks, detouring occasionally into really good Scotch. Cocktails aren't really his thing."

"Yeah?" Melanie took a moment to lift the olive-laden toothpick from her glass to her mouth and crunch down - hard - on the offending vegetable. "I think cock-tails are exactly his thing, if you get my drift. And as for the bourbon, pity it's not hemlock, chased with arsenic."

"Mel, what are you doing here? Don't you think . . ."

"I think," she said slowly, carefully, "that I've earned the right to join the celebration, since I definitely contributed to the cause. Because I gave our dear Brian something he's wanted for a long, long time. I gave him an excuse to come between me and my partner; to take my son away from me; and - last but certainly not least . . ." She paused to gesture to the bartender to bring her another round. "Now where was I? Oh, yeah. I gave him a means to make sure 'Mikey'will always know his place, as Brian's perfectly obedient little bitch. Because he'll never be free of Big, Bad Brian again. Not now that he owes him his life - and his daughter. And me? I get to be the villain of the piece. How about that, Teddie? Ain't that a crock of shit?"

"Mel," said the accountant in a strangely cold voice, "you were the one who tried to use your daughter as a weapon, to coerce Michael into doing what you wanted. Are you really so surprised you got caught in the act?"

"If fucking Kinney had kept his nose out of it . . ."

"Again," he interrupted, "you know him better than that. You can say a lot of ugly things about Brian, but you can't accuse him of refusing to come to the rescue of a friend in need." He shifted to look more directly into her eyes, and his voice took on a faintly mocking note. "On he other hand, you can question his motives if you like; I sure do. I wonder if he does it because he really cares about us poor little peons, or if he does it because he revels in playing the role of the white knight charging in to save the day. But - in the end - that usually doesn't matter to anybody, except maybe the people who get screwed in the process."

He then lifted his glass of sparkling water to propose a toast. "Welcome to the land of the royally screwed, an appropriate term in dealing with the perpetual 'only and ever true king of Babylon'."

Melanie's eyes went wide, and then she laughed, a harsh, strident bark that sounded as if it were forcing its way through her throat, damaging delicate tissues along the way. Teddie did not quite recoil, but he was forced to take a deep breath as he sensed the dark undertones of her mirth; he couldn't help but wonder when she'd laughed last, or even if she might ever laugh again.

"So," she said, once she regained a measure of emotional control, "what - exactly - are you doing about it?"

He shrugged. "What is there to do, except grin and bear it?"

"You're not grinning," she pointed out, eagerly accepting the fresh cocktail pushed toward her by the bartender. "And you're hardly the type to just 'bear it', are you? So - I repeat - what are you doing about it? I know you too well, Teddie. You may come across like an innocent little ingénue, but - under the sweetness and light - there's a layer of cynicism and a talent for subterfuge. In other words, you're capable of being a devious little bastard. So what's up?"

He sipped at his water, taking a moment to look around him to make sure no one was close enough to monitor his words. "Best not to talk about private things, here. You know that."

"I do," she agreed. Her words were casual enough, but her tone was cold. "But I think I've earned the right to be included."

But Ted was shaking his head. "Not in this, Mel. I'm sorry, but this . . . this is my last chance. My last opportunity to reclaim what Bri . . ." He paused then, and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "My last shot at regaining what I've lost, and I simply can't take the risk."

But if he had imagined she might back down - out of some notion of respect for his desperation - he was doomed to disappointment. She simply stepped closer and looked up into his eyes, and the fury he read in those inky depths served to remind him that Melanie was not a person to be taken lightly. Small in stature perhaps, but very large in her capacity for exacting vengeance from those she chose to target.

"I get it, Teddie," she said softly. "I understand that you can't let me in on this, but if it's going to hold him accountable, then I should, at least, be allowed . . ."

"It's not," he replied calmly, refusing to look away from the fire in her gaze. "In fact, it's going to . . . " He paused, stricken by the flash of awareness dawning in her face. "It's going to make him richer than he's ever been. It's going to make him remember the debt he owes - the one he's always owed but chose to forget in his need to reclaim his boytoy. In the end, he's going to understand who should be . . ."

She lifted her glass, and there was no mistaking the cold resentment in her eyes. "No. Let me guess. His best friend? His good luck charm?" Then she smiled, but it wasn't a real smile. "Oh, no, wait. I know. This time, it's going to be different. This time, you're going to be the white knight, charging to the rescue."

He wanted to scoff, to deny it. But he couldn't.

She laughed again. "And you're not even going to give me a chance to watch, are you? Because you want to try to erase his image of you as my - what - my accomplice? Is that how you see yourself now? Jesus! You really have drunk the Kinney Kool-Aid, haven't you, Teddie? You want to distance yourself from me and suppress any suggestion that you and I might be friends."

She lifted her glass in a mock toast and continued, in a voice heavy with derision. "Well, congrats, Theodore. I guess the old saying is true. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. Although, in this case, I think you better be ready to do a lot of licking, too. On your knees preferably - and eager."

"Melanie, I . . ."

"Ms. Marcus." The new voice was steady, firm without being loud or intrusive, but definitely determined to be heard.

Ted closed his eyes, suddenly wishing to be anywhere - anywhere at all - except here, in this typically chaotic, Babylonian atmosphere, about to witness a face-off between two legal piranhas.

Liam Quinn was dressed in a beautifully tailored Armani suit, a subtle charcoal gray plaid, with a Versace silk tie in a dark paisley print, all of which served to emphasize the changeable gem tones of his eyes. He looked dashing, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, and completely unassailable. And very, very focused.

"I'm a bit astonished to see you here," he continued, as Melanie seemed momentarily stunned to silence. "But it's a stroke of good fortune for me. Am I correct in assuming that you've been advised . . ."

"Oh, just cut the crap!" Stunned no longer, Melanie stared at her fellow attorney with eyes dark enough to reflect the deepest regions of hell. "Of course, I've been advised. As you most certainly know, since I had to sign an acknowledgement of receipt of the court order. So I'm assuming you've already dispatched your minions to . . ."

"I don't have minions," he interrupted, and Ted was mildly surprised to note that there was an element of amusement in the man's tone. "And I wouldn't dispatch them, if I did. This is a family issue and should stay that way. Therefore, Mr. Novotny and his partner will be flying down to Miami Sunday afternoon, to pick up your daughter, although . . ." He paused, and the gleam of amusement grew a bit brighter in his eyes. "They will be accompanied by appropriate personnel."

"Appropriate," echoed Melanie slowly. "As in cops - at my parents' door?"

"Nothing so official," Quinn replied with a quirky smile. "As a matter of fact - in the interest of discretion - Brian has decided to send his chief of security along. To avoid any unpleasantness or confusion."

With a smile, he accepted a cocktail glass - salt-rimmed and brimming with a pale amber concoction - from the bartender before continuing. "Of course, I have no idea whether or not the FBI might choose to participate." His smile was only a tiny bit coy. "They don't feel any need to keep me informed of their actions. But, if Brian asked . . ."

"Of course." Melanie's response was almost vague, faintly pensive. "Even the feds fall under the spell of the mighty Kinney."

Quinn's attention was focused on Melanie's reactions, and he realized he needed to look more deeply into the circumstances of Brian's history with this woman. If he were to have any hope of successfully safeguarding his new client's interests, he would have to be able to understand how and why Melanie Marcus hated the man so viciously, so he could anticipate her actions in the future. He had little doubt she would continue to be a source of trouble and controversy.

She was therefore his primary focus throughout the conversation, but he had noticed a faint shift in Ted's demeanor when he had disclosed that Lance Mathis would be a member of the support team involved in retrieving Michael's daughter. The accountant seemed to be listening more closely now, and the attorney suddenly wondered why. But there was no time to address that issue at this moment, as Melanie Marcus's demeanor had also shifted, and she was leaning close now, deliberately invading Quinn's personal space.

"Now you listen to me, Pretty Boy," she almost snarled. "Brian can dispatch his entire army of willing Nellie-bottoms if he likes. But if anyone does anything - even the tiniest thing - to threaten my parents . . ."

"No worries on that account," Quinn interrupted. "As long as no one takes any action to circumvent the court order, everything will be fine. I've checked out your parents, and I don't think they're the type, although I admit to being less certain about you. Although . . ." He hesitated and leaned forward to make sure that his message was clear and unambiguous. "I'm sure you do understand that any such action on your part would result in your disbarment. You'd never again be licensed to practice law in this country, and that - well - that would be a real shame, wouldn't it? You can't very well maintain a rep as a legal barracuda, if you are - in truth - not legal."

"Is that a threat, Counselor?" Melanie's voice was flat, uninflected, and intended to intimidate.

"Of course not." Quinn's quirky smile was a flagrant indication of her failure to get the reaction for which she'd hoped. "Just a friendly observation."

With that, he lifted his glass toward her in a not-quite-mocking manner and turned away to rejoin the celebration.

"Mel," said Ted softly, tentatively, "I'm . . ."

"Yeah?" she interrupted, her voice sharp and cold. "Well, you should be. You all should be." Then she smiled, but there was only ice in her eyes. "And one day, you will be. All of you, from the pathetic little peasant . . ." Her expression revealed clearly who it was she would cast in that role, "to the mighty king himself. You'll all be sorry."

She then drained her glass and threw it across the bar where it smashed against an etched brass panel. In a matter of seconds, security staffers were there, looking to intercept the culprit, but Melanie - looking every inch the part of a member of the social elite - had already made good her escape, wearing a self-satisfied smile. It had been a foolish thing to do, of course; it wasn't as if the mighty Kinney would ever even know about it - or care, even if he did know. But it had made her feel better. Just for a moment, and just a tiny bit.

Who knew that smashing something could be so cathartic? She was outside, noticing that the night had grown chilly enough to make her wish she'd worn something a bit less revealing than the sleeveless black Diane Von Furstenburg sheath with the plunging neckline. It was the smartest dress she owned (and the most expensive) but it didn't provide much in the way of warmth. As she walked toward the car park, the thought struck her again.

Smashing something - even something as small and insignificant as a cocktail glass - had provided a tiny little measure of comfort. Perhaps . . . she almost stumbled as the idea blazed into her mind . . . perhaps smashing something bigger - much bigger - would offer true solace; enough to ease the ache in her heart and the rage in her belly.

Perhaps it was time to aim higher.

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

Morning was just a glimmer of pale coral in the eastern sky when he awakened and had to sort through the touch and the feel of sensations around him, in order to be certain that he really was where his mind placed him. It had been too long, and too much had happened for him to feel safe in assuming.

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes as he reveled in the scent and the ambiance of his surroundings. The loft - elegant, serene, minimalist: home. This was home, as no place else ever would be. And the body nestled, back to chest against him, wrapped within the shelter of his arms - that was home too. Even though he'd never actually admitted it; not even to himself. And even though he knew it would eventually be taken from him.

Nobody in the world was better at reading the handwriting on the wall than Brian Kinney. He'd had lots and lots of practice.

He buried his face in the lush silk of Justin's hair, and eased his body closer, snugging his crotch against the sensual swell of that perfectly molded little ass, waiting for the ideal moment. He hadn't long to wait. Despite the fact that Justin was not - would never be - a morning person, the young artist emerged from the grip of beautiful slumber with a drowsy smile, turning to seek the mouth that nibbled at the softness of his nape, understanding, though still partially asleep, that the means to reach out and grab his ultimate dream was within his reach.

"Welcome home," he murmured, burying his face in the downy shadows beneath Brian's jaw-line. "This place . . . it's not the same when you're gone. It's just a big empty room - cold and dark and full of shadows."

Brian's smile was not quite a smirk, but it was close. "That's very Byron, you know. You going soft on me?"

"Byron, huh? If I remember rightly, Byron was classified as 'dangerous to know', which sounds delicious to me." With a slow, lust-filled smile, Justin grabbed his lover's hand and nestled it against the swelling in his groin. "There is absolutely nothing going soft around here."

Brian folded his lips to hide his smile, noting that the sleepy purr in Justin's voice simply made him that much more irresistible but knowing Justin would not enjoy being regarded as an adorable young cub.

He extended his fingers to explore that hardness, and felt his breath catch in his throat, suddenly grateful for Justin's habit of dropping his clothes wherever he happened to remove them in his haste to get into bed, bare and eager; of course, that did not change the fact that he frequently complained that his young roommate was a first-class slob. Nevertheless, for this kind of immediate access, he could deal with the slobbishness. He took Justin's mouth in a deep, probing kiss and thrust his hand more deeply into the V between his young lover's legs to explore the velvet of scrotum and testicles. Moving smoothly, enjoying the sensation of skin to bare skin, he shifted and rolled over to cover Justin, and Justin's legs opened to allow him to settle between them. He pushed further with his fingers and found the puckered rosebud of Justin's most intimate entrance, but refrained from pushing inside. He could have gone further, probing and thrusting his way into that sweet, dark channel, and he knew Justin would have accepted whatever he chose to do without complaint. Beyond an occasional grunt or slight grimace, Justin never voiced displeasure when their sex got rough enough to cause him some measure of discomfort.

But Brian had endured enough pain of his own in recent months, and had promised himself he would never again be guilty of inflicting it on his companion, no matter how willing Justin might be to endure it.

It was the matter of a moment to retrieve a condom and the lube from its customary niche in the bedside cabinet, and Justin was a writhing, incoherent tangle of desire by the time Brian had finished preparing him. Then, utilizing a strength he hadn't been certain he could muster, he twisted his body and pulled Justin over him, adjusting their positions until his young lover was perfectly poised, the lovely pucker of his entrance just brushing against Brian's massive erection.

"Ride me," Brian whispered then, his voice rough with need, and he had the pleasure of watching Justin's pupils dilate as desire swept through him like wildfire, causing his nipples to harden and his rock-hard cock to swell even larger and tremble with need. The blond did not wait to be invited twice. Instead, he simply steadied himself by bracing one hand against Brian's chest while grasping his lover's erection in the other in order to guide himself down - no pause, no hesitation, no holding back. He impaled himself - hard and fast - and Brian, unable to resist the urge, simultaneously thrust upwards, adjusting slightly to gain the perfect angle, to bury himself in that incredible liquid heat.

Both gasped as the connection was completed.

"Too long," muttered Justin.

"You never . . . complained before," Brian managed to respond.

"No, Asshole. Too long . . . since we . . . did this. Too long apart."

Brian might have dredged up a typical Kinney retort, but found himself unable to form a single coherent thought as Justin lifted himself quickly, only to slam back down.

So this was how it was to be - no gentleness, no uncertainty, no easy pacing, no tentative jockeying for the right position. No romance. Just raw and hard - occasionally awkward - and each consuming the other.

Brian bit his lip as he braced his heels against the mattress and dug his hands into the creamy flesh of Justin's hips in order to gain leverage (not inflicting pain did not seem to apply to avoiding leaving bruises) to be able to meet power with power as they sought and fought to get ever closer, to drive ever deeper - to become one flesh. As his mind blazed with the pyrotechnics of ecstasy building, approaching that pinnacle of mindless perfection, he realized a fundamental truth. He'd been wrong . . . before. This - this right here in this moment - this was the only real home he'd ever known.

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

It was raining when he eased out of the bed and moved to stand silhouetted against the huge windows that looked out over Tremont Avenue. If there'd been anyone around to notice, it would have been inevitable that the image of his nude body - a slim shadow against the chiaroscuro patterns created by the rain - would have generated wonder and desire in the eyes of the beholder. But no one was around, except Justin who, sated and fulfilled and blissfully happy, had promptly snuggled back into the warm comfort of sleep once their lovemaking was done, happily putting away all worries and concerns to be addressed some other time, with an ease only the very young could ever achieve.

For a while, Brian simply stood there in the semi-gloom, watching Justin sleep. He would, of course, never admit to doing such a sentimental thing, should anyone ever catch him at it, but the sight of pale golden hair nestled against dark linens was curiously comforting, an image he hoped he could hold on to for a very long time.

An image to remember.

Finally, with a soft sigh, he turned away and laid his palm against the glass, watching as the distortions created by the rain painted a pleasing, abstract version of the view, which was ordinarily a bit pedestrian. He'd always enjoyed being able to stand in this spot and look out across the cityscape, but he knew it had more to do with feeling a certain smug superiority - the kind enjoyed by residents of those legendary ivory towers reserved for the socially elite - than any real fondness for the view itself. But this . . . Justin could paint this, he thought as the lights from a passing car reflected and refracted glints of amber and russet against the glass. Justin should paint this.

He lit a cigarette and moved to his desk which was buried under a helter-skelter pile of papers, his face touched by an indulgent smile. Justin - so perfect in so many ways - but always and forever a slob of the first order. A flaw, of course, but one he could live with. The smile became a frown. A flaw he would have liked to live with, but . . .

The papers were not arranged in any particular order, of course, but order was unnecessary for him to recognize what they were. He settled himself into the ridiculously comfortable desk chair and went through the stack slowly - sketches of a hillside setting with a river curving away into the distance; architectural sketches - rough drafts of different styles, different facades; even minimalist outlines of floor plans and building details - an arched doorway here, a freestanding fireplace there, a mullioned window overlooking a courtyard, a small free-form pool with water splashing into it from a tiny, three-tiered stone structure. And - at the bottom of the stack - a sketch of him, sprawled in a lounge chair, asleep at poolside.

It was all very rough - barely even imagined at this stage. But there was already enough for him to realize that the house would be beautiful. Not a mansion in the classic sense. No towers or turrets; no wings or ells or sweeping staircases or soaring sprawl. Just a house in the end - but a perfect house. Perfect for the two of them.

The house Justin would build.

Brian closed his eyes and allowed himself - for a single moment - to visualize the finished product. He knew nothing about architecture or floor plans or structural design, but he did know about beauty and style. Most importantly of all, he knew Justin. It would be a beautiful house, and he intended to make certain Justin got the chance to design and build it - his own place in the world.

Time for coffee, he thought, as he looked toward the door that concealed the entrance to the chamber he usually thought of as his 'Justin Gallery', at those times when he wasn't thinking of it as 'Brian's Folly' - the one he'd built himself during a month-long span of sheer madness. If anyone ever asked for an explanation, he knew he wouldn't be able to provide one that wouldn't make him look like an obsessive stalker.

He frowned as he retrieved a mug from the cabinet and reached for the coffee pot. He had never been obsessive about anything in his life, except - perhaps - his grooming and/or his appearance. His work, maybe - or the condition of his loft or his car. His haircut or his manicure. Or his weight, or . . . Okay, okay. So he actually did have a few obsessive/compulsive traits. But not like this; not in the form of a desperate need to pull someone - one particular someone - into the protective circle of his arms and hold him there, safe and sheltered and . . . owned? Could that possibly be the right word? Did he really want to own Justin?

It was a disturbing thought - so disturbing that it stopped him cold in his tracks as he opened the refrigerator to check for breakfast supplies, and he stood for a moment, transfixed and unseeing and failing to notice that Cynthia had, as usual, thought of everything, including restocking his refrigerator. It was only when the chilled air raised goose bumps on his bare skin that he emerged from his musing sufficiently to evaluate his choices: milk, sweet cream butter, fresh-squeezed orange juice and a bottle of the ridiculously expensive guava juice that he favored, a crisper filled with a variety of fresh fruit, an assortment of Bruegger's bagels, fresh eggs and turkey bacon. Most of the bounty was obviously intended to assuage Justin's voracious appetite. But there - sitting dead center at eye level - was a box labeled simply Prantl's.

Cynthia was dead meat; he was going to kill her.

He opened the box slowly and found exactly what he'd expected to find: Prantl's delectable, irresistible, perfect apple strudel, which contained more calories in one little serving than he usually allowed himself to consume in an entire day.

This particular confection - prepared with loving attention to detail by the staff of the old bakery on Walnut Street over in Shadyside - was one of the few fond memories of his first years in Pittsburgh. He had given it up - reluctantly - when he'd reached a point where he could no longer deny that his addiction would eventually ruin the perfect body he'd spent a lifetime developing.

Cynthia would definitely pay for this.

Of course, he didn't really have to eat it. There were four slices there, and Justin could easily devour it all at one sitting. But . . . he told himself he was only taking a deep breath because the air was slightly chilly - even bracing; that it had nothing to do with the enchanting scent of cinnamon and brown sugar and whatever other lovely aromas he couldn't even begin to name.

"Shit!" he muttered, removing the box from the fridge and moving to the cabinet to retrieve a crystal serving dish from the cupboard. He could, of course, simply grab a plastic plate, except for two things: one - Prantl's apple strudel on a plastic plate seemed almost like sacrilege, and two - he didn't own a plastic plate.

Instead, he carefully placed the strudel on a china saucer and set it in the microwave, feeling a bit like he was guilty of something horrible - some kind of blasphemy for nuking such a culinary classic - but the strudel was, nevertheless, better warm, and he didn't know what temperature to use in the oven. So microwaved it would be, and he'd hope for the best.

Still, he was careful not to overdo it; he was willing to risk 30 seconds, but no more. The quiet ding of the timer rang out, and he retrieved the dish, hoping for the best.

The aroma was perfect so, with a tiny smile, he transferred the strudel to the crystal dish, poured out two mugs of the French roast coffee that was the only kind he would allow in his home, placed everything on a sleek, chrome serving tray, added silverware, cream and sugar, and two linen napkins, before carrying it all into the bedroom.

As he approached the bed, Justin stirred, shifting so that one foot found its way out of the cozy nest of bed linens to brave the chill of morning, and Brian stood, momentarily transfixed. Then he chided himself for his silliness.

It was a foot, for God's sake. Just a foot - like any other foot. Only, it wasn't, and he knew it. It was Justin's foot, and that was enough to make it special; even perfect - even if the foot in question could have used a good pedicure. Maybe later, he thought, with a smile that was unabashedly lascivious.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," he announced, lowering the tray to the mattress as he sank to his knees. "Time waits for no man - or twink, as the case may be."

"'s . . . sa . . . day. G . . . way."

The meaning of the words emerging from under the covers was clear, even if the words were not.

Brian grinned. "Come on, Sunshine. It's not every day you get served breakfast in bed. Especially by me."

A soft groan was followed by a moment of stillness. Then there was another shift of the covers and a pair of bleary eyes opened beneath a mop of golden hair and tried to focus on the figure waiting beside the bed.

"Breakfast?" The voice was hoarse, rough with sleep, but clear enough.

"Yep."

"In bed?"

Brian summoned up an impatient sigh. "No. I thought I'd toss it out the window and see if you can jump fast enough to catch it."

"Ver' funny." The eyes had disappeared again, as the body wriggled more deeply into the warmth of the linens.

"Okay," replied Brian, a smug certainty in his tone. "Guess I'll just have to eat all this strudel by myself."

"Strudel?" There was no hint of drowsiness in that word, and the sleeping prince was suddenly wide awake and upright. "Really? You went for strudel?"

Brian spread his arms, allowing morning sunlight to emphasize the bareness of his body. "Do I look like I just went for strudel?"

Justin's smile was wicked. "Poor Prantl's. They don't know what they're missing."

Brian reached out and cupped pale perfect skin with his hand and leaned forward to kiss deliciously bee-stung lips. "Good morning, Sunshine."

He started to pull away then, but Justin had other ideas and reached out to pull him closer.

"Hey," he murmured around eager lips, "the strudel . . ."

"Isn't going anywhere. It'll be even better . . . after."

"After what?" Brian asked, as he carefully set the tray on the floor and slid back into bed, nestling into his young lover's arms.

"The main course," Justin replied with a grin. "I need my protein."

And he proceeded to demonstrate exactly how hungry he was and how he intended to get what he needed.

He was right, of course. Half an hour later, the strudel was still there.

It was perfect, but not - quite - as perfect as what came before.

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


Brian, though certainly not early, was the first to arrive at Kinnetik that morning, except for the security team that was always present, and the caretaker, upstairs in his own little apartment. But none of them would have any reason to disturb Brian's inner sanctum, on this morning in particular. They all seemed to have figured out that this needed to be a private moment; that Brian needed solitude to enable him to reclaim his eminent domain.

He found it exactly as he remembered it except for the one new feature - a large skylight situated directly above his desk which he had commissioned just a few days before he'd been attacked. In all the uproar and trauma of recent months, he had completely forgotten about it, and found it made a bigger difference than he'd expected in that it changed the quality of the light in the large room, making every object appear just a bit brighter, every color just that much more intense. He decided he liked it a lot, and he spent the first ten minutes there just soaking in the combination of sweet memory and new sensation and enjoying the easy solitude as much as the sense of belonging. It had been too long since he'd sampled either.

By the time Cynthia arrived, with her briefcase tucked under her arm and bearing fresh coffee and croissants, he was already ensconced at his desk, poring over files and photographs and sketches, tossing some aside and laying others in a different stack, with great care.

"What's happened to Jack and Tony?" he barked as she bustled into the room. "They decide to go straight and leave all their gay fashion sense behind?"

"And good morning to you too," she replied, completely unintimidated. "I didn't expect you this early. Justin wear you out?"

He grinned, amused, just as she intended, and knowing he was being played, but not minding in the least. He glanced toward the ceiling as he pointed upward. "I'd forgotten."

She nodded, and suddenly seemed reluctant to meet his gaze. "I know. Me too. But when I found out you were coming back, I wanted to do . . . something. It just seemed like there should be some way to . . . Well, anyway, that's when I came across the paperwork for it, and I called in the contractor. He completed it in three days, so I gave him a bonus for his efforts."

"Good," he said softly. "It's perfect."

She took a moment to study his face. Then she smiled, a spark of mischief glinting in her eyes. "The light becomes you. Like you really needed something else to make you prettier."

She was expecting a smart retort and was a bit surprised when she saw the smile that touched his lips and noted a gentleness in his face she had seldom seen before, but it was gone almost before she could identify it.

"So," he said firmly, "Jack and Tony?"

Cynthia tried to suppress a smile - and couldn't. "I think they're suffering under the mistaken impression that you're going to come back a changed man - demanding less flamboyance and more . . . discretion."

"Yeah?" he looked up and favored her with a quirky grin. "Well, they need to get their heads out of their asses and get back to work with flair and sass. Fuck discretion. That's not what I pay them for."

"I'm pretty sure they'll get the message," she replied calmly, filling a cup with his favorite coffee blend. "If it comes from you. They've been pretty miserable without you around, you know." She paused and deliberately did not look at him as she continued. "We all have."

Then she did turn and look at him. "Why are you wearing sunglasses?" she asked slowly.

He did not look up. "Just Dr. Mengele being his obsessive/compulsive self. Something about preventing infection in the fluids in my eyes. I won't be wearing them for long."

"Really?" she replied, trying to wait for him to raise his head and look at her. But he didn't.

"Yeah, really." He sounded impatient, almost annoyed. "Got your PDA?"

"When," she asked as she dropped into one of the smart, easy chairs in front of his desk, "do I not have it? What do you . . ."

"I want you to call Jennifer Taylor - I assume she's still using the bastard's name, right? - and get her to prepare the papers on that piece of property she showed Justin the other day. If she can convince the buyer to knock off a few thousand dollars, that would be great, but it won't change anything if she can't. I want the deal done and quickly. And call Emmett to get the name of the architect who did their place. Justin mentioned him specifically, and I want to get him on a retainer to help Justin with the details of the house. The artistic part he can handle on his own, but the structural requirements might require professional input."

She nodded, entering notes quickly. "So you're . . ."

"It'll be a good project for him, something for him to focus on."

She looked up then, hearing it in his voice - and not wanting to hear it. "And why, exactly, would he need something to focus on, unless . . ." She took a deep breath and felt a hard knot form in her gut. "Unless he'll need to be distracted, so he doesn't notice what's happening. Until it's too late."

He did look at her then, and something in the way the light struck his face gave her an answer, even if she couldn't really see beyond the lenses that covered his eyes. She found, in that moment, that she hadn't really wanted the answer after all.

"Brian," she said softly, "you have to tell him."

He sat back and stared at her, and she didn't need to see his eyes to know there was anger sparking there. "Why would I do that?"

"Because he deserves to know. Because he loves you. Doesn't that count for . . . "

"Haven't we already had this discussion?"

"We have," she admitted, "but I keep hoping."

"You do recall Weinstein's definition of insanity, don't you?"

She shrugged. "I do, but I can't help it. This . . ." She stopped to draw another deep, shaky breath. "This is going to destroy you both, and I'm having trouble accepting it. I hate what it's going to do to Justin, but only half as much as I hate what it's going to do to you. Why must you . . ."

"Because he deserves better. Because I won't let him throw his life away out of some misguided sense of obligation. He doesn't owe me anything, Tink. It's entirely the other way around. He gave me back my life - my reason to live. This . . . this is how it has to be."

"Brian . . ."

"Tink," he said softly, not quite able to cover the note of desperation in his voice, "please don't do this. I need you to help me. This is . . . I can't do it alone."

For a moment, there was only silence, until Cynthia favored him with a weary grin. "Wow! Bet that hurt, didn't it?"

"You have no idea."

"Actually," she replied, reaching out to touch his hand, "I do. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself."

She sat back and looked down at her PDA. "Okay. Let's get to the nitty-gritty, shall we? Have you made provisions for how the income is to be distributed - who gets what and how much and what happens in case of emergency?"

He shrugged. "I have, but basically, that's going to be your call. You're a full partner now, so you have the right to override any arrangements I might make. For all intents and purposes . . ." He paused and swallowed hard. "Kinnetik is now yours, to run as you see fit. I've had Quinn draw up the documents to make it ironclad. No one will have the right to interfere. Your only obligation to me is to safeguard the company for my son's future, and to make sure that Justin has everything he needs to help him build a new life." He smiled wearily. "That'll be the hard part, I'm afraid. You'll have to . . . persuade him for me."

She chose to remain silent as she turned to pull a sheaf of documents from her briefcase. "These are new contracts, for Remson and Liberty Air. You need to sign them, and I think it would be a good idea if you call Remson personally. He's going to freak out when . . ."

"What part of 'Kinnetik is yours to run' do you not understand? You don't need me to . . ."

"Brian," she said firmly, fixing him with an impatient stare, "if you insist on being stupid, I'm going to think those bastards managed to inflict permanent brain damage. All the official paperwork in the world is not going to change the fact that your special clients - the ones that put Kinnetik on the map in the first place - are never going to be satisfied with a substitute. They'll tolerate me - when they have to - but if you think they're going to stand by and watch you just walk away, think again. Like it or not, you're going to have to stay involved. If not, your big-money accounts are just going to steal away in the night, probably lured by the big boys in New York or LA, who, as you know perfectly well, would go orgasmic at the prospect of stealing your biggest clients. Most of them have never forgiven you for landing such major accounts in the first place."

He smiled, disgruntled but convinced. "All right. Give them to me."

She laid the documents - all nine of them - out for his approval. "Did you look at Myra's mock ups for Graciella Jewels? I think they're really excellent, but . . ."

He quickly reached out and pressed his hand to her mouth. "You gotta stop that. Your judgment is every bit as good as mine - especially on things like women's jewelry. But yes, I did look over them. She had a good idea with the Fantasia-style approach, but she needs to lose the Goth details. She's a little too fond of flat black. Have her rework it, concentrating on gem-tones, which will go nicely with the jewels. Oh, and concentrate on the red-headed model; the blond is a little washed-out against all the bold color and the brunette is a bit too Morticia Adams for my taste."

Her smile was indulgent. "You saw all that in what? A ten-second scan? Jesus, Brian, you're so good at this you're scary. Oh, and just so you know, we have a new client - although I understand he's not really new - to you."

He frowned. "Who are you . . ."

"Fremont-Briggs." She settled back into her chair and met his gaze squarely. "Apparently, Sharon's dad is convinced he never found another model that lived up to your work in his Bare Bronze spreads, so he figures it's best to let you try to find one for him."

Brian quickly looked away, unable to deal with the affection and the uncertainty in her eyes. "One more thing I need to leave in your capable hands. There has to be a perfect surfer out there somewhere."

She grinned. "In Pittsburgh. You don't expect much, do you? However, it'll be my pleasure, I'm sure, but don't take it lightly, Brian. It's a huge national account - on the verge of going international. Pretty soon, the advertising world is going to be pea green with envy over your achievements."

"Yeah," he replied softly. "Brian Kinney, a big, fat success story."

She tried not to shudder as she heard the note of despair in his voice, and looked up quickly, to find him gazing up at the painting hanging on his wall, a Justin Taylor original - bright and bold and beautiful - and she was surprised to realize that she was grateful that she couldn't see his eyes.

"Are you ever coming back?"

Brian was slow to answer. "I don't know," he said finally. "I hope so, but . . ."

She felt suddenly, unutterably weary. "But only if your new miracle doctor can fix the problem." She didn't wait for a response; she knew she was right. "You know, all you have to do is tell Justin the truth," she continued. "He'd wait for you . . . forever."

He took a moment to light a cigarette before taking off his sunglasses and looking up at her with eyes gone so dark now that she could barely determine where iris ended and pupil began. She looked away quickly, before realizing that he hadn't noticed her reaction. "No," he said softly, "he wouldn't. He never has."

She turned back to study his face, and her voice grew very gentle. "You can't see me, can you? Not really."

He sighed and lifted one hand to rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I see you well enough," he replied.

"So what happens if the treatment is successful? You're the one and only Brian Kinney again, and you come back, and he's gone?"

He shrugged. "Then he's living the life he was meant to live."

"Brian . . ."

"Enough, Tink!" She didn't think she'd ever heard him sound so tired. "I really don't want to argue with you."

"Since when?" she laughed.

She had, apparently, struck exactly the right note to drag him back from the brink of despair, as he responded to her challenge with a quick smirk. "Okay," he said slowly, before sitting up straight, replacing his shades on his face, and favoring her with a sardonic smirk. "Apple strudel? Really, Cynthia? Apple strudel?"

She shrugged. "You're too skinny."

"No. I'm perfect, and I intend to stay . . ."

Her grin was irrepressible. "In that case, you might want to try to make a quick get-away through the back door."

"Why would I . . ."

She huffed an impatient sigh. "If you think there's any way in hell that Emmett didn't notice how the two of you sneaked out last night without so much as sampling his culinary masterpieces, then you better think again."

Brian groaned. "So where is everybody's favorite fairy?"

"Right here," rang out a familiar voice, as Emmett swept into the room, his tangerine silk shirt brilliant in the midday light pouring in through the new skylight. He was pushing a large cart, loaded with silver and crystal covered dishes, while his brand new associate brought up the rear with a silver wine cooler and a bottle of a vintage Pahlmeyer Chardonnay. "And if you think you're getting out of here without tasting the food I prepared especially for you, then you got another think coming."

Ten seconds later, Justin was breezing in, looking famished despite the three extra large slices of apple strudel he had consumed earlier, and Brian knew it was time to concede defeat. He was beaten.

Still he had one more thing he needed to say to Cynthia. "Hey," he said softly, pulling her back toward him with a gentle hand as he handed her the stack of documents he'd signed, adding one new one to the group, "file this where it will be easy to find. I've put Liam Quinn on a permanent retainer, so he'll be instantly available if you need him, or if anyone else needs him. Comprende?"

She tilted her head and looked at him with affection. "You know what's totally fucking unfair?"

"No," he answered with a diffident smile, "but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You bet I am. It's horrible that you do whatever it takes to save everyone - except
yourself."

There was no time for him to answer as she moved away, and Justin took a spot directly under the skylight, extending his arms and reveling in the warmth and turning in place, forming a vision gilded by liquid gold, his hair a halo of amber around his face. Brian was momentarily stricken speechless, wondering how he sometimes managed to forget how beautiful his young lover was.

He had little time to dwell on the thought because Justin quickly abandoned his light-hearted moment in the spotlight to come quickly around the desk and plop himself into Brian's lap, while Emmett and Cedric arranged lunch on the conference table.

"Are you done here?" Justin asked softly.

"Not yet. Why?"

Justin took a moment to nuzzle at a space beneath Brian's jaw. "I have needs."

Brian laughed. "Here?"

"Here." Soft lips nibbled at an ear lobe. "There." Another nibble, against the Adam's apple. "Everywhere." A final nibble, at the corner of the mouth.

"If you don't stop, your new 'old' friend is going to get a show he won't soon forget, and Cynthia is going to take a bullwhip to the both of us."

Justin paused and looked as if he was seriously considering ignoring that threat. Then he smiled, dropped a quick but thorough kiss on Brian's lips, and stood up. "After lunch then," he murmured. "Better eat hearty, Old Man, because I promise you're going to need all your strength."

Brian laughed, a full, robust laugh that was rare for him at the best of times, and Cynthia - busily sorting through all the documents he'd signed for her - took a moment to close her eyes and enjoy the sound of it. It had been too long since she'd heard that warm level of easy amusement from the man who had somehow become the center of her life, even if she'd never meant for him to be.

She looked up then and saw that Lance Mathis had joined their little group, and was watching her with a glint of laughter in his eyes. There was, of course, no denying it; Brian truly was the center of her life . . . for now.

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The Kinnetik building was sometimes virtually empty on Saturdays, barring only cleaning and security staff, but this was no ordinary Saturday. Ted was not surprised to find the parking lot busy, and a number of staffers' vehicles parked there. A glance through the various office windows revealed that a lot of people had decided to ignore the opportunity to take the week-end off, and show up for work after all.

This was not particularly remarkable. Brian Kinney demanded a lot from his employees and had never in his life chosen to suffer fools - gladly or at all, and he had a particular dislike for clock-watchers. But he was also incredibly generous to those who served him well, and always appreciative for efforts above and beyond the call - and the clock.

That was sufficient reason for many of his employees - particularly in the creative departments - to work week-ends. Inspiration, after all, frequently struck at the oddest, most inconvenient times, and every person who had ever experienced such a moment knew that it was fleeting and best grabbed quickly. But on this particular week-end, there was an even better reason for them to show up here. Most had figured out that today would mark the return of the hero; Brian was back in town and chances were better than even that he'd drop in at his office. They were all familiar with his work ethic; Brian worked whenever there was work to be done. And he'd been gone a very long time.

Thus, when Ted stepped through the front door, it was to find a semi-party atmosphere and lots of bright, smiling faces.

The accountant paused in the vestibule, slightly bewildered. It went without saying that everyone here would be expected to put on a happy face to indicate their relief at the return of 'The King"; it was simple office politics, since they all knew where their bread was buttered. But this? This went way beyond a simple determination to do the smart thing.

To his left, down the hall toward the spacious no man's land designated as the Art Department, a fantasy land where one literally never knew what might turn up at any given moment, Barbara Knott and Chet Bayliss were laughing as they studied the display board she was holding. Knott and Bayliss? Laughing? Together? It boggled the mind. If Ted remembered correctly - which he was certain he did - the last time he had seen these two together in the hallway, they had been snarling at each other like rabid dogs, and she - famous for her particularly vicious tongue - had called Bayliss a "putrid pustule on the posterior of a pusillanimous pimp". Never let it be said, after all, that ad writers couldn't create wickedly vivid images with a minimum of perfectly chosen words.

And now, here they were - bosom buddies, apparently, and it didn't require a skill in rocket science to figure out the reason.

Long live the king!

Ted squared his shoulders and marched toward his office, deliberately ignoring the way the couple continued to giggle and the eye-roll they shared as he passed them without comment. In the process, he was pretty sure he caught a whiff of an excellent vintage of pinot grigio. He suppressed a sigh as he remembered how much he had once loved that particular vintage.

So - a party indeed.

But he had more important things to do than join in this . . . this . . . whatever this lunacy might be.

Moments later, just inches away from his door, he heard his name called - the shrew's not-so-dulcet tones immediately recognizable - but he chose to ignore her and hurry into his own private little cubbyhole in the kingdom of Kinney.

He hoped Cynthia would take the hint.

She didn't.

Nor did she knock before opening his door.

"Have you come to join the reunion party," she asked in a flat, emotionless tone, "or is something else going on?"

"I have some work to do," he answered, equally cool and expressionless. "So, if you don't mind . . ."

"Brian would like a word," she replied, ignoring the vague hand gesture which clearly indicated his wish to be left alone. "He saw you drive up."

Cold dark eyes went colder and darker. "Did he now? Well, I'd like a word with him as well, but I'd prefer that it be in private. So . . . after the orgy perhaps? Unless he'd be too exhausted to see me then. Would you give him my regards, and my message, please?"

She nodded and started to turn away. Then she hesitated and turned back to study his face while he tried to ignore the scrutiny. "It's a red letter day for us all, don't you think. But, if I may, I'd like to offer a word of advice, Ted." Her voice was deliberately soft, non-threatening, but she paused briefly when she noted how he stiffened in response to her words. Still, she would say her piece, and he could listen or not. His choice. "Don't push him too hard. No matter what you think, he really doesn't want to hurt you, but if you leave him no choice . . ."

"What?" he snapped. "What will poor, little, victimized Brian do if I don't shut my big mouth and accept his divine power?"

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Whatever he has to," she answered. "Surely, after all these years, you know him well enough to know that."

Then she was gone, leaving Ted open-mouthed, stunned, and momentarily uncertain. Was he right in what he was planning to do? He had done his research, his due diligence, to the best of his ability, and the information he had been given was sound, as far as he could determine. Of course, there were areas of uncertainty, as in every investment opportunity - areas which he could not access due to security constraints - but those limitations did not apply to the individuals who had presented this opportunity to him in the first place.

This was his big chance, and he would not blow it. If he rejected it out of hand, that would leave him with only one alternative.

Unfortunately, he had never been very good at begging; it required a humility he did not possess.

He took a deep breath and moved to the door, which he opened slightly, just to be sure no one was bearing down on him. The only person in the hall was Jack Welby - the senior half of the volatile Jack/Tony partnership that provided endless conversation and amusement around the office - lovers who were both artistic and intelligent separately but whose talents increased exponentially when they worked together as a team. Ted spared just a moment to appreciate the way the man's Calvins accentuated a perfect ass - but he had no time for voyeurism; not even the innocent variety. He waited until Welby disappeared into the Art Department entrance; then he closed the door and locked it, before moving to the credenza behind his desk and unlocking a double door at the base of the unit. From that compartment, he pulled a thick, rolled-up sheaf of documents and carried it to his desk.

He took his seat and spent a moment realigning the objects on his desk until everything was to his liking. Ted did not tolerate clutter and prided himself on what he liked to think of as minimalist elegance. Aside from the stylish desk lamp, the state of the art telephone, and his Apple computer, the only other objects on the warm wood surface were a leather blotter, to protect that perfect patina, and a photo - silver-framed - of Blake, his partner.

The rest of the office was equally streamlined, uncluttered, tidy: books in alphabetical order, all aligned perfectly and standing straight, with elegant pewter book-ends to prevent messy toppling; an asparagus fern on the window sill, perfectly pruned and shaped; his diplomas and academic award certificates tastefully matted in oak frames and centered against the dark, mocha-colored, raw silk of the wall across from the window. The only item in the room which was in any way connected to the focus of the business itself was the framed poster of the ad that Drew Boyd had done for Brown Athletics - the one for which Ted considered himself solely responsible.

He thought it was the best promotion the agency had ever done. So fuck you, Mr. High and Mighty Kinney. What do you think of that?

Of course, he never quite delved far enough into that memory to recall exactly how the quarterback had been persuaded to strip down to his skivvies in order to participate, or who had done the actual persuading. He also managed to ignore the fact that it was almost certainly Mr. Boyd's fledgling relationship with Emmett - revealed after the fact - which had allowed Ted to open that particular door in the first place.

Sometimes, Ted had a very convenient memory - a trait he usually managed to ignore.

But this time . . . this time there would be no inconvenient little details to gloss over. This time the honor and the glory would be his to claim completely. He gently placed his hands on the roll of documents on his desk and centered it atop his blotter.

He paused and spent a moment chewing on his bottom lip as he swept the room with narrowed eyes. What if they'd installed a camera? What if Cynthia and her new boy-toy and that sneaky FBI bastard who divided his time between gazing at Brian with possessive eyes and scaring the shit out of everyone else - what if they'd put their heads together and decided to post a watch on him, to spy on him. What if . . .

He went stock-still and forced himself to take a deep breath. Now he really was being paranoid.

Very deliberately, he removed the clasp that bound the documents together and spread the sheaf out flat on his desk, his hands gently stroking the unblemished surface of the top sheet.

His future. And Brian's, of course. Mustn't forget that, since it would be Brian who could come up with the wherewithal to buy into an investment that . . . well, it boggled the mind, didn't it? He couldn't believe how lucky he'd been to be in the right place at the right time. But he wouldn't tell Brian that. Instead, he'd lead him to conclude that it had been Ted who had researched and discovered the project and even been a party to the original planning.

That would make up for everything - almost. Nothing, of course, would ever allow him to forget how he'd been humiliated during this debacle, but with this . . . He sighed. With this, he would be able to write his own ticket. With this, he'd even be able to get rid of Cynthia, because there was absolutely nothing she could do that would ever earn her a place in the life Brian would be able to build for himself - thanks to Ted Schmidt.

And Brian would always know it; that was the sweetest part of all. Ted would, of course, be magnanimous. He would never, for example, rub Brian's nose in the truth of how much he owed his CFO or how horribly he'd wronged him. Never.

Well . . . almost never.

He looked down at the architectural sketch that was a builder's conception of the finished product and began a thorough perusal of all of the documents. He had gone over it all before - probably a dozen times if not more. But one couldn't be too careful or too meticulous when so much was at stake.

Today would be the day - the beginning.

The leap of faith.

For all his confidence in his own abilities - some might even call it hubris - Ted was not completely delusional. He knew he was taking a risk, because anyone who knew Brian Kinney would know it was never possible to predict his reactions - to anything - with any degree of certainty. The man was a perpetual wild card, and he frequently looked at things from a unique perspective no one else could anticipate.

So . . . risk. But my, oh my! The rewards! If Brian reacted logically, if he did the smart thing, if he did not allow himself to be swayed by pedestrian or overly sentimental concerns - the rewards were beyond calculation. For himself, and for Ted Schmidt.

With another deep breath, Ted retrieved a large magnifying glass from his desk drawer, and began a still more thorough review of everything laid out before him.

Being accurate and errorless would not be enough; it had to be brilliant, spectacular. Perfect.

The clock moved slowly through the afternoon, and Ted remained lost in the wonder of speculation and anticipation. Mentally, he was almost completely engrossed, but he did retain sufficient awareness to keep an eye on the parking lot, noting who came, who went, and - most important of all - who stayed.

When the shadows outside his window grew long, and the quality of light shifted from the crystalline clarity of a perfect spring day to the soft amber ambiance of late afternoon, he closed his eyes, and spent a moment striving for cold, calm clarity.

The time had come.

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

Brian sat back in his executive desk chair, and ran his fingers through his hair - a gesture he did not often allow himself. He didn't like messy hair. Casually tousled was one thing, but Brian Kinney simply did not do "messy".

But he was tired and slightly stiff from hours spent at his desk after a rousing round of the kind of exercise that was his favorite thing in life, and was now considering a nice, long, hot shower in his private bath, so it didn't matter much if his hair was less than perfect.

Too bad, he thought, that Justin had made his escape with a long list of things he had to do. Shower sex - with Justin aglow from the heat of the water and the steam of his lust - was always the best.

He had not intended to spend the entire day in the office, but then, he hadn't intended to do a lot of the things he'd wound up doing today. Like the elaborate lunch that Emmett and Cedric had served, which he had eaten under the stern eye of his young partner who had insisted that he eat it. All of it. Then there had been the "Interlude". He smiled when he realized he was capitalizing it and thinking of it as a singular event, which it was, in terms of satisfaction achieved, but wasn't, in terms of rarity.

Door locked, shades lowered, telephone disconnected . . . and Justin, bare and beautiful in the liquid gold pouring down from the skylight, prowling like a sleek cat and slinking toward his lover, eyes aglitter with raging hunger.

They had spent an hour exploring, experimenting, and reveling in the pure, unadulterated pleasure of their joining.

Then there had been the half hour necessary for coming down off the high and recovering clothing tossed away in the impatience of rising passion, and a shared cigarette to slow the heartbeat and regain the natural rhythm of ordinary life.

Neither of them had been particularly surprised or embarrassed to find a small crowd waiting in the hallway when they'd decided to unlock the door, and the faces in the crowd hadn't appeared to be particularly shocked or outraged either, despite the fact that Justin looked - in his own sweet vernacular - thoroughly well-fucked.

Thus had begun the remainder of the day, when virtually every member of the art department found cause to "drop in" and chat with the boss. They all had legitimate reasons for being there, of course; many came in carrying mock-ups and sketches and PDA's filled with new ideas for new promotions, and they all sought Brian's input, which was - as always - valuable. Some of his suggestions were good; some were excellent, and a few were brilliant.

But that wasn't really why they'd come, and Brian had realized it quickly. In fact, he hadn't even needed Cynthia's whispered comment that they had all really come to him for reassurance. He had smiled at her, but said nothing. And everyone of his employees who had come and gone had done so with mixed feelings; they were all relieved that he was back; they were all grateful for his insights, and they were all - to the last one - slightly disturbed as they departed, although none could have explained exactly why.

When Cynthia came in, as the clock ticked toward five, he was staring at the revised display boards for Graciella Jewels that Myra Hendrix had brought in for his appraisal after she'd reworked them. Gone were the broad slashes of coal black, and the model who looked like she might have been a perfect candidate to portray The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, with her milk-white skin and coal black hair. Instead, the images were vivid and entrancing, details brilliant against backdrops of dark claret and a rich, deep russet - the color of chocolate diamonds. The result was stunning, and the red-headed model was a perfect foil for the products displayed.

"How do you like it?" he asked his associate, gesturing toward the display boards.

She took a moment to study the boards before responding. "You were right. It's stunning."

He smiled. "Give Hendrix a raise."

"Why?" she retorted. "It was your suggestion that . . ."

But he was shaking his head. "She provided the lily. All I did was gild it a bit."

"Anything else, not-quite-co-partner?"

He blinked. "What do you . . ."

Her grin was brilliant. "49% does not an equal partner make, you know."

It was his turn to grin. "I take it you read the terms of the agreement."

"Yup."

"Any objections?"

She laughed. "Should there be? Am I supposed to resent the fact that I can't - quite - throw you under the bus if the mood strikes me?"

"Some might. Especially since I'm leaving you to clean up the mess."

Her smile was gentle. "It's fine, Brian. And you didn't have to do this at all, you know. I'd have been perfectly fine just going on with the way things were, so . . ."

"Didn't do it for you," he said quickly.

"No? Then why . . .?

"Because I need to leave it in hands I can trust, - sharp, smart, honest, capable hands - and I need to make sure there is no one - anywhere - who can over-ride your decisions. Except me, of course, but I won't be around much, so you're it, Tink. You're my proxy, my guardian angel, and my last line of defense."

Cynthia found she could not look into his eyes, eyes currently not obscured by dark glasses; eyes filled with more genuine feeling than she had ever been allowed to read in them before.

"Thanks . . . for the skylight," he said, very softly.

She laughed, valiantly trying to ignore the tears she could not quite manage to swallow, knowing how much he was leaving unsaid. In the end, she could only nod in response.

"Hey," said a new voice from the doorway, "isn't 'last line of defense' supposed to be my job?"

Chris McClaren did not seem the least bit embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping as he strolled into the office.

Brian folded his lips together, obviously suppressing an urge to smile. "Well, look at that, Tink. I think I just found the perfect model for your new Bare Bronze campaign."

McClaren snorted while Cynthia - ridiculously grateful for the diversion - laughed.

"What are you doing here?" Brian asked, reaching for a cigarette.

"We need to talk."

Brian hesitated, then turned to Cynthia with a sardonic grin. "Words designed to strike terror into the heart of every henpecked husband. Only . . ." he turned to look at McClaren, and his eyes were suddenly darker, colder,"I don't do 'henpecked', and I'm nobody's husband. So what's up, McFed. And why are you still here?"

"What?" the FBI agent retorted. "You think this is all over, just because you're back in your own safety zone? Jesus, Brian. Tell me - please - that you're not that stupid."

"So explain it to me," Brian said flatly. "What else . . ."

"I repeat. We need to talk." McClaren favored Cynthia with a soft smile, slightly apologetic. "Just the two of us."

"Sounds romantic," Brian retorted.

"In your dreams, Stud Muffin."

Brian's smile was suddenly lazy, laconic. "No. In yours."

Cynthia made a small production of gathering up display boards and fabric swatches and photographs, making certain not to look at the FBI agent as she realized that she really didn't want to see the look on his face, although she was pretty sure she knew what she'd see if she did take a peek. Still - maybe not, for McClaren was almost as skilled in concealing his feelings as the Liberty Avenue king of emotional control, now sitting behind the desk. Almost.

"So I'll just leave you two alone to figure it out, shall I?" she said.

"Hey," called Brian as she moved toward the door. "Is Theodore still here?" A small, cold note in his voice suggested that the accountant had better be, if he knew what was good for him.

"Holed up in his office, I think."

Brian looked up at McClaren with a speculative gaze before continuing. "Give me ten minutes. Then tell him I'm waiting."

Chris McClaren dropped into a soft, suede-upholstered easy chair and regarded Brian solemnly. "Sharpening your guillotine, Lord and Master?"

"Mind your own business, McFed."

The FBI agent leaned forward and regarded Brian with a steady, slightly defiant gaze. "Whether you accept it or not, this - all of this - is my business. No matter how secure you feel - here in your stronghold - you're still vulnerable, and your safety is still my responsibility."

Brian lit a cigarette. "I already have a guard dog," he replied. "In fact I have a whole fucking legion of them. So you can . . ."

McClaren shrugged. "They're not me."

"Which means?"

The FBI agent reached out and took a cigarette from Brian's pack and grabbed Brian's classic brass Zippo to light it. "Which means," he said finally, "that they may be good. I'll even concede that Mathis is beyond good, but I'm better. And until you actually stand up in a court of law and give your testimony, you're stuck with me."

"But . . ."

"No arguments."

"But . . ."

"Brian," the FBI agent said firmly. "I'm not going to waste your time - or mine - in lauding all the benefits of witness protection, because I know you'd only laugh in my face, even though it would make perfect sense when all is said and done in this situation. It's very likely that you're going to spend the rest of your life walking around with a big, fat target on your back, because these people . . . well, let's just say they're not the type to forgive and forget. But that's an argument we're not going to have. Not now. For the moment, this is non-negotiable. I'm going to do my job, and you're going to let me do it, or I swear to God I'll have you locked up as a material witness. And don't fool yourself into thinking I'm bluffing. I'm not."

Brian leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him and took a moment then, to steady his breathing. "With one proviso," he said finally.

"But . . ."

"My way - or not at all," he continued, daring McClaren to argue. "Now you listen up." He smirked and reached out to adjust the collar of McClaren's dark polo shirt. "Are you listening?"

McClaren's response was an eye-roll that spoke volumes.

"It's pretty obvious that subtlety isn't your style, but now - in the midst of this fucking mess - you're going to learn how to stand in the background and stay out of my way. If you feel compelled to watch over me, you'll do it discreetly." He smiled then, and sat back in his chair to allow a shaft of afternoon sunlight to illuminate his face. "I don't usually mind being the center of attention, but not like this. So are we clear?"

McClaren took a deep breath. "And how - exactly - am I supposed to protect you if I have to keep my distance?"

"That's your problem. If you're as good as you think you are, I'm sure you can figure it out. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."

McClaren stood up and leaned across the desk, bracing his hands on either side of Brian's laptop. "No."

"No? What the fuck does that mean? Didn't we just have this discussion?"

"No. You had your discussion. This is mine. If you insist on getting your panties into a twist, I'll stay in the wings, so to speak, as much as possible. But only when I'm certain it doesn't put you at risk. And right now, you're getting ready to deal with Ted Schmidt, who is not, I grant you, much of a threat, beyond the nasty possibility of bleeding out all over you if he should throw an embolism or something in the middle of an apoplectic fit. But he's got a dangerous habit of opening his mouth at the wrong time and pushing you into places you're better off not being. So . . . no, I won't excuse you. But I will make myself scarce - sort of." His eyes swept the room quickly; then he smiled. "Since it's your very own private bath, I think it's safe to assume I can walk in there and enjoy my privacy, while monitoring the conversation and preserving an illusion of your solitude. Right?"

Brian stared at him through narrowed eyes. "What if I want to take a shower?"

"With Ted Schmidt?" McClaren laughed. "When pigs fly."

Brian pantomimed a shudder. "You know better than that."

"Yep. So why . . ."

"Dealing with Ted won't take long. So then . . ."

Abruptly, McClaren leaned forward and claimed Brian's lips with a quick, thorough kiss. "So then," he said softly, pulling away slowly, "I'll leave you to your lonely ablutions." He deliberately glanced down and spent a moment contemplating the swelling at Brian's crotch. "And you can take care of your little problem all by yourself."

With that, he strolled into the bathroom, deliberately ignoring Brian's muttered response.

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

* It's All Coming Back to Me - Jim Steinman

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