Chapter 59


When my life is through
And the angels ask me to recall
The thrill of it all,
Then I shall tell them I remember,
Tell them I remember you.


- I Remember You - Victor Schertzinger, Johnny Mercer


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By the time Ted turned his Audi into the driveway of the upscale two-story townhouse he shared with his boyfriend, the rain had stopped, and the sky was as filled with stars as it ever was in the Pittsburgh urban area. The city lights were too bright and glaring to allow the swarm of stars to sparkle brilliantly against the ebony fabric of night, but the view was sufficiently clear to proclaim that the storms of the day were over. Night would be peaceful and serene - weather-wise anyway.

Ted sat for a moment in his car and thought about the day behind him, and felt a ridiculous urge to seek out a tobacconist and buy himself a big, fat, expensive, Cuban cigar. On his XM radio, Dylan sang one of his characteristic stories of a soul lost and found . . . and lost again.

Good and bad, I define these terms,
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then;
I'm younger than that now.*

Probably best not to dwell on those lyrics. Ted was much too high on himself to ponder such complex - and depressing - truths as provided by the voice of America's counterculture.

He switched off the motor and pushed back a bit, enjoying the cool softness of the leather as he nestled his nape against the headrest, and thought - for a fleeting moment - about howling at the moon just peeking over the eastern horizon. He wouldn't, of course. It would be beneath the dignity of a hugely successful investment guru, soon-to-be canonized into the semi-religious pantheon of the financial world's upper echelon.

Instead, he thought with a brilliant grin, he would stroll into his home, inform his sometimes skeptical young lover of the degree of his success, and claim his reward - all night long maybe. He felt almost like a kid again; maybe his sexual prowess would feed on all that positive energy and make this a night to remember.

Occasionally - when things were bleak and hope was hard to find - he had surreptitiously
watched Brian seducing a succession of gorgeous young men - sometimes Justin, sometimes not - and felt just a bit pale and ordinary by comparison. But from this point on, he would never have to feel inferior again - to anyone. True, his young lover was not quite the specimen of physical perfection that certain other members of Pittsburgh's gay elite were; he often laughed and described himself as "scrawny", but that wouldn't matter any more. Blake was easy enough on the eyes and - more importantly - honest and loyal and totally devoted to Ted, and he would be first in line to lavish praise on his partner and applaud his success.

He could hardly wait.

Yet, it would be gauche and crude to act too eager. Better to be cool and nonchalant and allow Blake to do a little digging to discover the reason for the happy spark in his eyes. He would bide his time and modestly decline to brag - for a while. Knowing Blake, Ted was sure he could predict how diligent his young lover would be in his search for the reasons for Ted's happiness and how delighted he would be to lavish affection and congratulations on his partner once all was revealed.

Curtain time, he thought with a smile as he retrieved his bulging briefcase from the passenger seat. As he exited the car, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and found that it was switched off. Strange. He didn't remember turning it . . . oh! Yes, he did. When he'd led the Wyatts - father and son - into Brian's office, he hadn't wanted anything to interrupt their very important conversation, so he'd turned his own phone off, and planned to suggest that Brian do the same. But in the confusion of the initial meeting and the rush to get to the airport in order for Wyatt, Jr. to catch his flight, he'd forgotten all about it. Ultimately, the rush had proven to be unnecessary, as the flight to Chicago had been delayed, and he had insisted on buying dinner and drinks for his passenger at the City of Bridges Café. Young Wylie had been somewhat reticent and a bit preoccupied, but Ted assured himself it had nothing to do with any distaste for his company and everything to do with the business meetings awaiting him in Chicago.

Even then, he was sure he would have noticed the status of his cell much sooner, if not for his impatience when his departure from the airport had been interrupted by the arrival of an entire fleet of police cars, local and federal, sirens and strobe lights shattering the night. He had been forced to pull over and wait for the chaos to pass before being able to resume his trip.

God only knew what was going on now. There was always something, and airports seemed to dominate the news these days, what with terrorist threats and security issues and botched take-offs or landings.

Nothing to do with him, he was sure, or his passenger. Young Wylie was certainly safe and sound in his first class seat, well on his way to Chicago by this time, probably enjoying a glass of single malt whiskey and the fawning attention of a comely flight attendant.

Soon, he thought, as he walked up the paved path to his doorway, he and Blake would be able to fly first class any time they chose to fly - a perk of his new station. But for now, he had more pleasant things to think about, as the soft golden glow that filtered through the draperies of the bay window seemed to beckon to him, like the flicker of candlelight at a romantic dinner, urging him to quicken his step.

Now, he would have the pleasure of telling Blake . . .

He had just reached the front entry and was preparing to insert his key into the lock when the door was yanked open and Blake surged toward him, arms stretched out to engulf him and pull him into a fierce embrace.

"Thank God!" cried his young lover, as he buried his face into the hollow under Ted's jaw. "Thank God you're all right. I was so scared. I thought . . ."

"Thought what?" Ted interrupted, trying to suppress the note of panic in his voice. "What's going on?"

Blake leaned back and studied Ted's face, his own eyes wide and filled with uncertainty. "It's all over the news. About Babylon and Brian and the guy who tried to kill him. You mean . . . you didn't know?"

"I've just come from the airport. What on earth are you . . .

"The airport? Jesus, Ted. Were you there when they caught that guy? According to the tv, they had to stop a plane from taking off in order to arrest him."

Ted stood very still, a chill just touching his spine. But he was being silly. It couldn't be - could it? It simply couldn't be.

"What guy?" he asked, trying to still the tremor in his voice, determined to maintain a positive demeanor.

"They haven't given out a name yet," Blake replied, taking Ted's arm to pull him across the threshold and into the den where the news broadcast was still ongoing.

The front façade of Babylon was displayed on the screen, with fire and police trucks all around and people milling about - cops, firefighters, civilians, employees, many familiar faces Ted recognized, as well as a whole squadron of police dogs with their handlers.

Ted did not remember sitting down, but suddenly found himself hunched on the sofa, Blake at his side, as the reporter on screen summarized information about the bomb threat that had shut down the infamous nightclub, reminding watchers that the place had been bombed once before, resulting in massive damage and loss of life and concluding with the news that this time tragedy had been averted. The bomb squad, with their specially trained bomb-sniffer dogs, had gone over the place thoroughly and found no traces of any explosive device, but - in the interest of public safety - they were continuing their search, rechecking every nook and cranny to be certain nothing had been overlooked.

By this time, Ted's hands were so tightly clinched his knuckles were bone white, and his breathing was labored, almost asthmatic.

The pretty blond reporter - Philippa Marsh of WPXI, Pittsburgh's NBC affiliate - continued with her statement as Ted recovered enough of his rational mind to comprehend the data she was providing. ". . . were evacuated immediately once the threat was received, but most elected to remain in the vicinity, worrying for the physical safety of friends and acquaintances and for the facility itself, a favorite haunt of the city's upscale gay scene. Authorities have offered no statement concerning the origin of the threat. In addition, Brian Kinney - the owner of the club - has been conspicuous in his absence. Many of you may remember that Mr. Kinney was himself the target of a vicious attack a few months ago, and has only recently returned to the city after an extended absence. Rumors were rife that he was recuperating from his injuries while he was away, but that remains unconfirmed.

"What is known is that there have been plenty of emerging developments in the FBI's investigation of the assault on Mr. Kinney, and warrants were issued earlier this evening for the arrest of a number of individuals in connection to that case. One of those individuals - identified only as a person of interest by FBI spokesmen - was scheduled to fly out of the city this evening on Liberty Flight 2116 to Chicago. The plane was actually taxiing toward the runway when the FBI and a large company of police officers swarmed onto the field and stopped the aircraft before it could take off, in order to take the man into custody."

The woman's voice-over continued, but the scene shifted to a new location: the façade of the remodeled bathhouse which now housed the heart of Brian Kinney's businesses, and Ted's breathing faltered again, forcing him to struggle to fill his lungs.

"Coincidentally - perhaps," the reporter continued, "subsequent to the search of the nightclub, a small force, composed of police officers, FBI agents, and private security, were called to the offices of Kinnetik - a nearby advertising agency also owned by Mr. Kinney. Again, no public announcement has been made to explain the details of the incident, but an emergency 911 call summoned ambulances to the scene, and bystanders report that at least two individuals required medical attention and were transported to a local hospital.

"We will continue to monitor events here and inform you of the full details once the police and/or the FBI issue further statements.

"For WPXI, this is Philippa Marsh, live on the scene at the Babylon nightclub."

The images on the television remained unchanged for several moments after the reporter signed off, and Ted identified several of the individuals displayed on the screen. Drew Boyd was there, and so was Emmett, his face buried in his partner's massive chest.
And there, standing in the shadows by the doorway, was Lance Mathis talking to someone who had his back to the camera, but Ted was pretty sure it was Carl Horvath.

"What . . . what could have happened?" he murmured finally, his voice only a faint whisper. "When I left them there, everything . . . everything was perfect. What . . ."

"Them?" Blake's voice was sharp, almost cold. "Who are you talking about? Who's . . . them?"

"Uh . . . Brian, of course. And Mr. Wylie. They were going over the details of our deal. It was all settled. It was perfect. It would have . . ."

When he fell silent, unable to summon the words to continue, Blake watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what his partner was unable to say. Understanding came slowly - reluctantly, and he felt the first small tremor of a world on the verge of crashing at his feet. "Oh, Ted," he said softly, knowing - and wanting not to know - "what did you do?"

Ted looked up and saw a strange look in Blake's lovely blue-gray eyes - a look he preferred not to interpret. Thus, he didn't even try; he simply chose to assume he was entitled to defend himself with an angry response. "What do you mean 'What did I do?' I didn't do anything wrong. All I did was try to make him a rich man. To make up for what he's been through. Is that such a terrible thing? Is that something I need to be forgiven for?"

He paused for breath and stood up, deliberately stepping forward and invading Blake's personal space. "Are you going to add your voice to all those others that condemn me for claiming my place in his life? That's all I've ever tried to do, you know. To make his life better, to build . . ."

"Stop, Teddie!" Blake's voice was firm, but very gentle. "I know you've convinced yourself that you're an innocent bystander in all this, but . . ."

"But?" Ted's voice was blade sharp now - almost a snarl. "But what? What are you trying to say, Blake? Are you . . ."

"Okay, then." To Ted's surprise, Blake was not backing down or offering an apology for having the nerve to speak out of turn. "If there was another attack - on Brian - that means his assailants found a way to get to him. They had to find a way to avoid setting off the security alarms. And Teddie, I've seen that system. There are only two ways to disarm it. From the master control board in the primary security office or by using a coded keycard, and access to those is restricted. Correct me if I'm wrong, but, in order to get inside, you have to have one of those cards and an entry code, but to open up from inside, all you need is the card. So . . . I'm sorry, Honey, but I have to ask. When they check security footage and records to see how they gained access, what are they going to find?"

"How should I know what they'll find?" Ted's voice was hard and flat and bitter. "What are you saying? You think that I had something to do with this? Why would you think that? Why would anyone . . ."

"Because lately . . ." Blake hesitated. Then he took a deep breath and continued. "Lately, you haven't been yourself. And you've allowed yourself to forget that . . . that the last time you got involved in one of these investment schemes, it cost you more than you dreamed it would. It not only cost you all the cash you could scrape together, it cost you your secure place in Brian's life. And Wylie was already hanging around you when that went down. Teddie, have you ever stopped to ask yourself why he's so determined to include you in this project? Did he just wake up one morning and decide it was time for him to put up a flag of truce and find himself an amenable little fag to patronize? Do you wonder . . ."

"Is that how you see me?" Ted demanded, an ugly flush staining his cheeks. "Am I just a 'little fag' to you? Can't you understand that this was the deal of a lifetime - that Brian would have spent the rest of his life thanking me, being grateful to me. I would have been . . ."

"What, Teddie?" Blake was speaking softly now, his eyes brimming. "What do you think Brian would have done for you if you'd succeeded in turning him into a billionaire? Would that have bought you the place in his heart you want so badly?" He stepped back then, and took a deep breath. "No matter what you do for him, he is never going to love you. Not the way you think he . . ."

"I don't want him to love me, you idiot. I want him to know who I am, to know I'm the one he should trust, the one he should turn to whenever he needs someone. That should be me, not fucking Cynthia, or stupid Michael or Pretty little Justin. It should always be me."

"Did you open the door for them?"

"What? Why do you think . . ."

"Because I know you, Ted. Because you were so obsessed with making this thing work, with bringing Brian into agreement, you'd have done anything Wylie wanted, and you wouldn't have spared a thought about what his real motive might be."

"You don't know anything about it!"

Blake just looked at him for a moment longer, before turning away and walking toward the door.

"Where . . . where are you going?" Ted sounded less certain then, and less angry.

"I'm going to the hospital. Someone tried to kill Brian again tonight, and, so far, we have no way of knowing whether or not they succeeded."

"Wait! I'll go with you."

Blake shrugged into a lightweight jacket and opened the door without a pause. "I think you should go to Kinnetik," he said firmly. "Better that you make yourself available to answer their questions, than to force them to come looking for you."

"But I didn't do anything wrong."

Blake hesitated briefly, and turned just enough to meet Ted's gaze. "You let them in, Ted. You know you did, and so do I. But it's your choice how you face the consequences."

Then his face - that face which was ordinarily a study in gentleness and affection - twisted into an ugly sneer. "Maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe they managed to accomplish their goal this time. Maybe Brian is dead, and will never have to know how you betrayed him."

He was gone then, quickly climbing into his compact Prius and driving away, never once turning to look back at the man who had been the center of his life.

Ted stood in the doorway, motionless, and thought about what Blake had said and slowly, reluctantly, fighting it with every ounce of his strength, realized the truth of his lover's words. Or should he use the term 'ex-lover' now? What was it he'd seen in those eyes which had always gazed at him with affection and a willingness to forgive almost anything?

He realized he didn't want to know, and that, in itself, was answer enough.

How many dreams had he lost today? Everything he'd hoped for had simply crumbled into ashes so quickly that his head was spinning, and now - now there was no way to avoid the consequences of his actions.

Unless . . . No, not that. He couldn't do that. He couldn't just run away. Could he? Leave everything behind - lover, friends, profession, reputation . . . life?

Or stay, and endure scorn, disappointment, fury, the loss of his job and the respect of his colleagues, and any prospect for a brighter future. And the look of disdain in Brian Kinney's eyes. That might be the most painful thing of all. If . . . Oh, God! Blake had been right. Brian might have died tonight, and here sat Ted - worrying about his trivial little problems.

He would go to the hospital. He would face the music stoically, bravely. He would . . . but maybe not right now. Maybe he would bide his time, and maybe - with a little bit of luck - he would never have to stand in a cluttered hospital waiting room and feel his blood run cold as an exhausted and broken-hearted Matthew Keller provided the details about how Brian Kinney had died.

Maybe he would not have to be present and accounted for when the world as he'd known it came to an end - one way or another.

He was slightly surprised to realize that he understood the truth of that premise and wondered when it had become true - when Brian had become the glue that held them all together. Brian - the most egotistical, narcissistic, self-centered, arrogant, perpetually skeptical individual in the world. How had time and destiny and the laws of probability twisted back upon themselves and warped into a reality which allowed him to become the center of their universe? And now, what would they do without him? What would hold them all together?

He swallowed around the huge knot in his throat as the answer hit him with the force of a fist to the gut.

What would hold them together?

Nothing.


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Many of the thoughts and images running through Ted Schmidt's mind as he mulled over the train wreck of his life were logical and realistic. But one in particular was dead wrong. Matthew Keller was rushed and semi-frantic and operating on some hyper-level of awareness, but he had never been less devastated or heartbroken in his life.

For Brian Kinney - vivid, beautiful, and very much alive Brian Kinney - was stretched out on his bed in the recovery room, breathing without a respirator and beginning to regain consciousness as the anesthetic administered during his surgery wore off. Brian was alive - and going to stay that way. For a very long time, if Keller had anything to say about it, and he intended to make sure that he did.

It had not actually been touch-and-go; the big 45 G.A.P. slug which had crashed into his body and sent him reeling had entered low on the right side of his chest where it had nicked a rib and been deflected upward so that it just grazed his lung and then passed on into a pocket of flesh under his arm.

Still, he had been very lucky; the Glock 45 cartridge was meant to inflict major damage, and if it had missed the rib entirely, it might very well have mangled his liver, pancreas, and/or lungs. Even with the ricochet, it had plowed a relatively large path through muscle and tissue, but without causing any damage to major organs. On the other hand, had the bullet struck three inches to the left, a deflection off a rib could have sent the projectile directly through the nexus of the heart and major arteries. Instead, the most critical factor in the wound had been blood loss, to be expected in any injury inflicted by such a large slug. That, in itself, might have proven fatal if Brian had not received immediate emergency treatment, but there had never been a chance of that. Thanks to the people around him, both those who were paid to protect him and those who did it simply because they loved him, first aid at the scene had staunched the external blood flow, and quick action by the ambulance attendants had avoided further problems. Surgery had still been necessary to patch a relatively simple lung perforation and repair internal bleeders, but it had gone well, and he would be left with nothing more than a couple of angry red scars.

The surgeon, having divested himself of bloody scrubs and gloves and mask, stood now beside the bed and looked down at the face of his old friend and wondered. So far, by his count, he had saved Brian's life twice, although, in this case, he might be overstating the facts just a bit. Still, he wished, as his patient stirred toward consciousness, he could be sure it would never be necessary again, but that was a stretch he couldn't quite manage. Brian, in some ways, was born to be a target, and the surgeon doubted he would ever develop the slightest nuance of the kind of discretion which would keep him out of trouble. Of course, Brian would not phrase it quite that way. He would smirk, toss back a shot of Jack, and proclaim that he had never spent a single moment in the closet and had no intention of ever walking in there voluntarily.

Keller understood the feeling; he embraced it himself, but . . . a little less flagrantly perhaps. It was not his raison d'être. Nor, to be fair, was it Brian's. But it was a bit more a factor of his primary identity. If anyone ever doubted that Brian was gay, they didn't doubt for long - not because he was in any way effeminate or over-refined; in fact, he was exactly the opposite. No. What identified Brian as gay was something unexpected. It was the swagger. Not the swish, but definitely the swagger. Which was not usually associated with gay men either, but with Brian? It fit perfectly and was completely indefinable as well.

Enigmatic Brian Kinney. The iconic description.

Who was now looking up at him with eyes that were remarkably shadow-free for a man just emerging from an anesthetic stupor. "Hey, Gorgeous," he whispered. "I didn't expect to wake up to your face."

"No? What did you expect to wake up to?"

Brian swallowed hard. "I didn't."

Keller leaned forward and dropped a gentle kiss on his patient's forehead. "Not an option, Stud Muffin. I plan to make sure you always wake up - to me, or to someone equally as handsome.  Unlikely, I know, but I'll do my best."

Brian's smile was weary, but classically Brian. "So what happened?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he gasped and tried - without much success - to push himself upright, his eyes suddenly alight with panic. "The old man . . . he . . ." He stiffened as pain flared in his chest, and he had no choice but to allow Keller to ease him down on his back. "Why would he . . . do that?"

"My understanding," Keller replied, his voice as soft and soothing as he could make it, as he made sure Brian would not make another attempt at getting up, "is that he saved your life. If he hadn't interfered, you'd be dead."

"But is he . . . oh, God, please don't tell me he's dead."

"Relax! He's fine. The only person who's dead is the guy who shot you."

The panic is those incredible hazel eyes subsided and morphed into a grim satisfaction. "Jackson's dead? Who . . ."

"Don't be an idiot. Who do you think?"

"MacClaren."

"The one and only."

Brian closed his eyes. Perhaps he wasn't quite as ready to wake up as he'd thought. "I thought I dreamed him. Wasn't sure he was really there."

Keller studied his old friend's face and found a strange wistfulness in those beloved features. "Wishful thinking, Bri?"

"Apparently not." The answer came quickly, but the eyes remained closed.

"Well, I'll be damned," Keller whispered. "I had given up hope of ever seeing anyone break through that armor you wear, and now . . . now I've seen it twice."

Now the eyes opened, and there was no missing the spark of anger igniting in their depths. "What the fuck are you . . ."

"Save it for someone who doesn't know you so well, Bud. It took Justin years to break down those walls, but your FBI chum managed it PDQ."

"Justin? Was he . . ."

"Scared? Panic-stricken? A royal pain in the ass? Yes, to all of the above. But hurt? Not a scratch. I promise. Soooo - that's two hot bodies who've claimed a place in your heart."

Brian sighed. "It's not the same thing."

Keller smiled. "No. I can see that. But he made you care about him, and that's pretty remarkable."

"Kind of hard not to care when someone is willing to risk his life for you."

"Yeah. And he did, by the way."

"Did what?"

Keller looked away, turning to study one of the monitors that was displaying Brian's vital signs, and thus not noticing the color drain from his patient's face as he replied. "Risk his life for you."

He did notice it quickly however when the numbers on the monitor began to fluctuate as Brian went cold and still. "No . . . Please . . ."

"Shit!" Keller, only realizing now what he'd said and how Brian might have misinterpreted it, braced Brian's face with his hands and hastened to reassure him. "Brian, he's all right. I swear it. He took a bullet in the shoulder, but it was minor. He's fine. In fact, when I let you out of here, I fully expect him and Justin to be arm wrestling to determine who gets to see you first."

Brian looked up then and studied his old friend's expression. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Matt?"

"Never, Baby. I promise you. He's fine. Everyone's fine, except for the pond scum who tried to kill you."

For a moment longer, Brian stared into the physician's beautiful green eyes, wanting to believe, but still not entirely sure he could. Then he sighed and nodded. "So I can stop worrying about my murderous ex-therapist, at least."

"All thanks to your McFed, who pumped three shots into the bastard's heart and one right between his eyes. Your very special agent was taking no chances."

"I probably shouldn't be happy to hear that, but I am. At least, I won't have to worry about him causing any more trouble for me or mine."

"Oh, you can do a lot better than that," Keller replied with a broad smile, "but it's not my story to tell. It's McClaren's, more than anyone else's, so I won't spoil it for him. But let's just say this was a red letter day for the Pittsburgh gay community. Hell, they'll probably have a float for it when Pride rolls around again."

"What are you . . ."

"Nope. Not gonna steal his thunder, because he earned it, but I will tell you that you need to stop worrying and try to relax. Everything's fine."

Brian looked up then and waited until Keller's gaze locked on his eyes. "Not quite everything, Doc," he said softly.

"But it will be," Keller answered, making no attempt to hide the fact that he could easily discern the problem in his patient's eyes but making every attempt to allow no trace of doubt to inflect his tone.

But Brian did not have to hear it; he knew it already. "You don't know that."

"Okay, but I choose to believe it. You will always be you."

Brian did not argue, but neither did he agree. He simply looked away and allowed himself to slip back into the warmth of semi-sleep, the pain in his side fading into a pale throbbing he could choose not to notice.

Chris lived. He had to believe that, had to accept that Matt would not lie to him, not about something like that. Chris lived and Justin lived and Justin's spunky old Cajun lived. For now, it was enough.

The rest he would worry about later.

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

He didn't know how many times he had walked back and forth across the waiting room; he had stopped counting at eighteen, and that had been over an hour ago, when Chris McClaren had shifted his position from one plane of his chosen corner to the other and fixed the blond with a look promising dire consequences if he continued to mutter under his breath and semi-invade the agent's personal space. After that, he had adjusted his course so he maintained a safe distance from that corner while simultaneously avoiding Debbie Novotny's repeated attempts to pull him down on the sofa and smother him with an excess of motherly affection. Already, his own mother was fidgeting, obviously fighting off an urge to take him in hand and insist that he stop pacing.

All to no avail. It was either pace, fall to his knees and start sobbing, or barge through those ominous double doors barring entry to the surgical suites and scream for Matthew Keller to tell him that everything was all right - that Brian was better than all right. That he was Brian again, quintessentially Brian, with the familiar smirk, the hot body, and the eyes that could skewer a man like a saber and drill down into his soul. That was the Brian he wanted - no reticence, no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just Brian, all the time. Which had not been the case of late, and Justin couldn't quite put his finger on why he should think that. He just knew that he did.

He had not realized how much he missed the Brian who was the center of his world until this very moment, when he was forced to concentrate on the starkly realistic now, and speculate on the future.

Brian - his Brian - had been missing in action for a while, and that simply would not do. He had never found it easy to beg; he and his lover had that trait in common. But this was too important to let his fear of appearing weak prevent him from doing what needed doing.

If he had to beg, then so be it.

He knew the right thing to say - knew it would be quick and simple, neatly wrapped up in a few fundamental words. "Come back to me. I can't live without you."

And if saying those words made him look like a wimp, so what? It was only the truth, and it would be enough, because it had to be. Any other alternative was unthinkable.

He changed direction and walked to the water fountain, to splash cold water on his face, wondering if this interminable night would ever end.

When he looked up, it was to find that Ben and Michael had arrived, the latter looking every bit as panic-stricken as Justin felt.

"Sorry," said Michael as he moved toward his mother. "I couldn't leave until we got J.R. to sleep. Any word yet?"

Debbie stood and wrapped her arms around her only child. "Nothing," she replied, "except that Keller did speak to Justin briefly while Brian was being prepped for surgery. He said he thought he'd be fine and he'd update us as soon as he finished the procedure." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "But that was almost two hours ago, so there's nothing to do but wait."

Michael nodded and tried not to chew on his lip - a habit his mother hated.

"I wondered," she said slowly, "if I should call . . ."

"Don't you even think it." Ben said it quickly, before Michael could snap it and earn his mother's annoyance. "If Matt Keller doesn't think it appropriate to call in the so-called family, it's not up to you to make the call for him."

"But . . ."

"Ma." There was no patience or apology in Michael's tone. "What part of 'Brian would not want her here' do you not understand? 'Mother' is just an empty title to Joan Kinney, and you, of all people, should know that. You saw what she did to him - what both of his parents did to him. Why on earth would you think she has a right to be here now?"

"But she's his . . ."

"No, she's not." That was Justin, staring at Debbie with an angry glitter in his eyes she'd never seen before. "She never was, and you can't make this right between them. The only thing that matters now is what Brian needs, and he sure as hell doesn't need her. She was never there when he did, and now - it's too late."

He turned away then to resume pacing, and the entire waiting room was wrapped in an uneasy silence, as if everything that needed saying had already been said, which, for Debbie, was an entirely unprecedented sensation.

Luckily, the silence did not endure for long. Michael had barely settled into the seat beside his mother with Ben balancing on the arm of the sofa, when there was a stir in the corridor, and two new arrivals bustled in - Alexandra Corey, FBI brass, and Carl Horvath, the ranking police officer on the scene at Babylon and later, Kinnetik.

Carl took a bare moment to exchange hugs with his life-mate - an unusually subdued Debbie - as Corey found McClaren standing where he had been standing since he'd rushed here after being released from the emergency room where the staff had cleaned, stitched, and bandaged his wound; with his back braced in the corner of the room, looking for all the world as if he was supporting the weight of the building on his shoulders. She did not waste time speaking to anyone else, although everyone in the room watched her as she moved toward him. She was not smiling - exactly - and her expression was impossible to read. And yet, there was an unexpected glint in her eyes.

"Can you come with me?" she asked when McClaren straightened and faced her. "It's important."

"So's this," he replied, making a slight adjustment to his bandaged arm nestled in a canvas brace. The wound had not been anything major, but it had been painful. In fact, it still was, but any suggestion by medical personnel of painkillers - oral or injected - had been dismissed with a scowl sufficiently fierce to discourage anyone from asking again.

Corey could clearly read the discomfort in his eyes, but chose to pretend otherwise. Besides, she was pretty sure the news she brought would work better than a shot of morphine, and her smile reflected that thought. "But you can turn this watch over to someone else, for a little while. Because you've earned the right to be in on what comes next."

"Which is what?"

"We've got him. Between what was on the tapes and the evidence collected elsewhere, we had enough to get a warrant. And God bless Brian Kinney for being smart enough and sneaky enough to activate that recorder. So I think you need to be there, so you can provide a firsthand play-by-play for him when he wakes up. He'll need to hear it from you."

For a moment, McClaren's eyes darkened with a shadow of uncertainty. But only for a moment. Then he nodded, and moved away from his preferred corner, looking around to identify all the faces in the room, observing that - under happier circumstances - a chorus of "Hail, hail, the gang's all here" would have been completely appropriate - almost.

There was Justin, of course, center stage and prowling like a hungry wolf. Then there were Debbie and Michael and Ben, looking lost and afraid. And Emmett and Drew, the smaller man pulled tight against the ex-quarterback's side, almost in his lap as they whispered together with neither caring at all whether or not any onlooker might approve of their obvious affection for each other. Sitting across from them, on a small metal-framed sofa, were Lindsey Peterson and her father, and Cynthia and her daughter, with Lance Mathis standing guard over the two. They talked softly among themselves, but tight-clasped fingers and shadowed eyes revealed the depth of their concerns. Rounding out the group were Jennifer Taylor and Blake Wyzecki seated in a corner, with Jared Hilliard and Liam Quinn nearby, talking quietly.

McClaren spared a moment for a stray thought; the beauty of the crowd made the plain, dowdy little room look even worse than usual.

There were, of course, two major members of the group who were not present.

Brian's son, Gus - deemed too young to be a part of the vigil, as well as too vulnerable should things not go well - was in the care of Justin's friend, Daphne. And there was no sign of Ted Schmidt. McClaren noticed, but did not spare the time to consider what the absence meant. In a way, he was rather glad Kinnetik's CFO had not bothered to show his face here. It was hard enough to suppress the simmering anger he felt in his gut without having to confront one of its primary sources in the flesh.

With a jerk of his head, he gestured for Justin Taylor and Jared Hilliard to follow him out into the corridor as Alexandra Corey and Carl Horvath said their good-byes and moved away to wait for him to finish his business. Unexpectedly, Liam Quinn followed the group until they were far enough from the waiting room to speak privately.

"Hilliard," the FBI agent said firmly, "I have to leave for a while and . . ."

"Leave?" That was Justin, an angry flush rising in pale, pale skin. "Why on earth would you . . ."

"Because I'm going to arrest the motherfucker who did this," McClaren replied firmly. "Because we can't assume that Brian's really safe, until we put this bastard away. Understand?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

"No buts, Blondie. Hilliard knows what to do. I wouldn't leave him to take over if he didn't." Then he smiled and stepped forward until he and Hilliard were almost nose-to-nose. "Right?"

"Right." Hilliard's incredible eyes were steady and filled with resolve.

"And you," McClaren said firmly, turning back to face Justin, "you remember to behave yourself. He's going to be fine; Keller will make sure of that, but he's not up to handling a squirming armful of horny twink. Not yet. Got it?"

With that, he stepped back and started toward his boss, but Justin was not quite finished with the conversation. "Chris, wait."

With only a tiny grimace of impatience, McClaren paused and turned back to face the young man who had succeeded in creating so much havoc in his life. "What is . . ."

It was uncertain who was more surprised by what happened next - Chris McClaren or his companions, all of whom were totally unprepared for Justin's actions as the young blond threw his arms around the FBI agent's neck and kissed him solidly and deeply on the mouth.

McClaren stood as if turned to stone until Justin completed the kiss and stepped back, allowing one hand to trail across the agent's face as he pulled away. "What . . . what was that?" McClaren asked after several stunned moments.

"That," answered Justin huskily, "was thank you. I didn't know how else to say it."

McClaren huffed a deep breath and dredged up a shaky smile. "Well, you're welcome. Just . . . don't do that again. I'd hate to have to kick Brian's ass, purely defensively of course."

"Of course. And, Chris, you'll hurry back, won't you?"

"That I will."

Justin simply nodded and turned away, but everyone else continued to stare at McClaren for a few more seconds, mouths agape.

"What?" he said finally, impatiently.

"Nothing," they chorused, as all of them gathered their wits to go about their business.

All except Quinn, who fell into step at McClaren's side. "Would you mind if I tagged along with you?"

The FBI agent turned to study the attorney's face before replying. "It's not a party, you know. We're going to make an arrest."

"I know."

"Then what . . ."

"I've spent all afternoon going over the data on this case and studying the characters of these people and figuring out how to protect my client's legal interests. While you protect his life. And I've realized something."

"Such as?"

"Such as - there is absolutely nothing I would enjoy more than seeing the mastermind of this ugly plot get his ass kicked - physically, if I had my druthers, but figuratively, if that's the only way."

McClaren looked to Corey for her approval, and she nodded with a smile. "As long as you keep your mouth shut, Mr. Quinn. And you go in your own vehicle. That way, you have no official standing in the matter and can't be targeted for retaliation."

"Agreed," said the young lawyer. "Although you shouldn't concern yourself about protecting me. Retaliation is something I deal with every day, as does anyone who is recognized as a member of the gay rights movement." Then he turned to regard McClaren with a quizzical smirk. "Care to ride with me? I don't know Pittsburgh all that well. I'd hate to get lost and miss the fun."

Again, McClaren looked to his supervisor who nodded her agreement, so he turned back to the lawyer and surprised a small, enigmatic smile on his face . . . and found that he suddenly had no memory of what it was he'd meant to say. He was too busy trying to remember if he'd ever before seen eyes like that - eyes that were teal blue, and violet, and jade green and pearl gray all at once.

"What do you drive?" he asked finally, swallowing to cover the slight awkwardness of the moment.

"Aston Martin DB9."

He managed to summon up a small smile. "Fuel economy be damned, Mr. Bond?"

Quinn chuckled. "I could never summon up much interest in his girls, but I always loved his cars."

McClaren confined his response to a small smile, carefully avoiding any temptation to look again into those incredible sea-change eyes.

Only - he couldn't quite resist another peek. And then he was glad of it because it occurred to him that the eye color was just a trick of the light, a chance reflection of the dark teal color of the lawyer's Versace dress shirt.

Yeah. That must be it.

By the time the party of four reached the front lobby, McClaren had regained his customary equilibrium and refocused on the matter at hand. His steady mindset endured until they reached the car park, where Corey and Horvath went one way, while he and Quinn went another. But, just before walking away, his supervisor leaned toward him and whispered something in McClaren's ear. Then she made her departure, wearing a tiny enigmatic smile.

"Anything I need to know?" asked the lawyer as he unlocked the door of the sleek deep red coupe.

"No," McClaren replied, admiring the car but saying nothing.

When they were safely strapped in, Quinn started the motor, and its throaty growl was deep and somehow satisfying. "So," he continued, as he eased into reverse, "what did she say?"

"Nothing really."

Quinn simply stared at him, one brow quirked to ask again.

"Really," McClaren repeated. Then he smiled. "She just said that if we got lost, she wasn't going to wait for us."

There was a quick, barely-there beat of silence as their eyes met. Then Liam Quinn grinned and glanced into his rear-view mirror. "In that case, I guess we better not be late."

McClaren could only nod, telling himself he wasn't really speechless - that he could have spoken if he'd wanted to.

Of course he could.

What the hell?

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

As it turned out, Quinn would have had no problem following the small fleet of vehicles cruising through the city, heading north towards the exclusive residential area of Bradford Woods: three Pitts police cruisers, two black FBI SUVs, and the chauffeured sedan in which Alexandra Corey and Carl Horvath were riding made a very noticeable procession.

The Aston Martin trailed behind the group, the muted rumble of its motor announcing that it could - if necessary - leave all of them in a cloud of dust, but Quinn drove easily, handling gears and equipment effortlessly and only occasionally sparing a glance for his silent passenger.

"Nice wheels," McClaren observed finally, suddenly embarrassed by his reticence.

"Thanks. She's my one indulgence. Hired a guy to drive her here. Figure I'll be here a while, and I got tired of the rental."

McClaren turned and took advantage of the opportunity to study the young lawyer's profile, but he was careful not to study it for too long.

"So you're planning to stick around for the trial?"

"For that and a few other things. Gotta take some long hard looks at Brian's accounting records. It might be necessary to get a forensic accountant in to do some auditing."

McClaren sighed. "Ted Schmidt."

"Yeah. I wish it were possible to ignore his part in whatever we might find, because I don't believe he would have set Brian up deliberately. But there's no way of being sure without a thorough review of everything that's happened in the last few months. If I just assume everything's on the up-and-up and walk away, how am I gonna excuse my lack of oversight if something turns up later to bring Brian's financial structure crashing down around his ears?"

The FBI agent nodded. "Yeah, but if it's any consolation, he wouldn't blame you. For a guy who's reputed to be the most selfish SOB this side of the Big Apple, he's surprisingly mellow when he has every right to play the injured party."

This time, it was Quinn who took a moment to study McClaren's profile, a tiny smile betraying his response to the view.

"You should listen to your own advice," he said finally, gently.

McClaren frowned. "I'm sorry? What do you . . ."

"You're blaming yourself," said the lawyer firmly. "I could see it in your eyes. Hell, everybody in that waiting room could see it. And you're wrong. It wasn't your fault that it happened, but it was due to your actions that he survived."

McClaren laid back against the exquisite softness of the coupe's leather seat and closed his eyes. "I left him. I never should have . . ."

"Oh, I see." Quinn's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "So you can refuse orders from your superiors. Funny, I had no idea the FBI worked that way. So . . . what's next? You tell your boss you've decided you deserve to be demoted for your failure to protect your client, and she can either go along with it, or what? Explain to her bosses why she can't control her junior field agent? Is that how it works now?"

"Don't be stupid," McClaren retorted. "You're too smart to spout that kind of drivel."

Quinn smiled. "I'm not the one who sounds like a raving lunatic here."

The FBI agent smiled; then he actually chuckled. "You probably don't suffer fools gladly. Right?"

Quinn shifted slightly and reached out to drape one hand over McClaren's shoulder. It was a completely spontaneous gesture, with no hidden meaning or agenda, but the FBI agent found that he was enjoying the contact. "Gladly? Friend, I don't suffer them at all."

"No wonder you and Brian get along so well."

"Maybe. And if you're right, he's going to tell you the same thing I said when he comes around and is able to talk to you. The fact that the psycho got to him in the first place was not your fault, but the fact that you figured out what was happening and managed to get there in time to save his life - that was entirely down to you. So - after we get to watch this dirtbag learn that all his privilege and his money and his blue blood are not enough to save him - I'd very much like to buy you a drink. Or a bottle if you prefer."

McClaren did not offer a verbal response, but he did smile and look over at the lawyer as the shadows which had clouded his eyes since his return from Florida simply dissolved and faded to nothing, leaving the incredible blue depths once more as bright and flawless as a summer sky at twilight.

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

The soaring coloratura of Natalie Dessay's Il dolce suono aria from the so-called "Mad Scene" in the third act of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor provided the perfect background music for the savoring of a Bolivar Royal Corona cigar, accompanied by a snifter of Courvoisier Napoleon cognac.

A treat for all the senses provided one could close one's eyes and visualize the blood-stained bride in the palatial gloom of Lammermoor castle.

Clayton Wylie sat in the comfort of his personal study - a place never trespassed upon by family or friends or anybody uninvited - and reflected on the satisfaction of a day well spent, marking a pinnacle finally reached, accomplished - at long last - by the successful removal of a very large, very painful thorn in his side.

He sat back against the sueded leather of his favorite arm chair and gazed out at the perfectly manicured grounds of his estate, reveling in the serenity and security of his space and time. His wife was out, of course, doing what trophy wives did - shopping perhaps, or attending a dinner meeting with her latest charitable cause, or - less likely, but possible - dining with the grandchildren. He seemed to remember a mention of her taking them to watch a performance of The Lion King at the civic center; was that tonight?

He couldn't remember. And didn't really care since it really didn't matter. The only thing that did matter was that he was able to sit here and enjoy the silence and the prospect of having life settle back into expected, acceptable patterns. There were, of course, servants in the house, but they all knew better than to disturb him. If he wanted them, he would ring for them; otherwise, they were accustomed to living up to a certain standard; the help, in homes such as this one, were seen - when summoned - and unseen and unheard otherwise.

Wylie closed his eyes and visualized the face of the man who had spent so many years at the center of the volcano that had disrupted the Wylie's life, as well as that of his family, and his social equals. A face which wore a perpetual smirk, with eyes that glinted with scorn and sarcasm and smug, self-important laughter. A face which shouldn't have been as beautiful as that of any woman. A face which made a real man feel an overwhelming need to bring the creature who wore it to heel, to make him bleed, to make him beg. To make him want to please his betters.

A thought which was, in itself, vile and hideous - the kind of thought a man of his stature should never be forced to suffer.

Such ugly temptations would be finished now, pushed back where they belonged, to the darkness beneath the notice of the true leaders of Pittsburgh, who could take back their dominance of social issues and political power, without ever having to spare another thought to defending themselves against the kind of perversion Brian Kinney and his ilk had introduced into their society. At least, until the next upstart came along. Unfortunately, there was always another upstart waiting in line.

He shuddered briefly as he allowed himself to visualize what that too-proud, arrogant face must look like now. He had not bothered to instruct his willing enforcer in how to perform the task assigned to him; that, he knew, would have been distasteful and unnecessary. Jackson - as the group called him these days - would have taken advantage of the opportunity to enjoy his work.

The fact that he had not called in to report the outcome of his adventure was not unexpected. On completion of the job, he would have followed his orders and vanished into the night, leaving no trace of evidence which might link him or his actions to the people who employed him.

All was as it should be.

Wylie had considered turning on the flatscreen television built into his wall-to-wall entertainment center, but had decided against it. Too many upstarts pushing themselves into levels where they did not belong. That was why most news casts annoyed him these days; stories about lazy, good-for-nothing, jobless protestors - the so-called 99% who expected government and big business to support their worthless asses - and political chicanery, indicators of a country that had forgotten its origins and a population that had forgotten its place. Although - come to think of it - he was pretty sure the pundits had the percentages right; as a member of the 1% who were responsible for the greatness and the economic superiority of the nation, he believed himself qualified to make that judgment.

But the ridiculous claims about the exploitation of the great unwashed and the lack of accountability among the rich and powerful - he had heard quite enough of that kind of empty, meaningless rhetoric.

Instead, he would just sit here and enjoy his . . .

The knock at his door was soft, barely audible, but completely shocking in the degree of its intrusion on his privacy.

What in the world was . . .

"Mr. Clayton . . ." That couldn't possibly be the voice of Fitzroy, his butler. The man would have literally cut out his own tongue before disturbing his employer when he was closeted in his study. So it couldn't be . . .

And, of course, it wasn't. Or rather, it was, but only as a preliminary to the group of individuals who waited for Fitzroy to open the door, before surging inside to trespass on Wylie's private sanctuary.

In the lead was a grim-faced woman in a dark suit; Wylie had seen her before, of course. He could hardly forget the female who had led the assault against the bastion of tradition that was The Club. But he chose to ignore her and address his protest to the man at her side, a man who was highly placed in the Pittsburgh Police Department and thus, should have known better than to participate in this outrageous invasion of his privacy.

"Detective Horvath, what is the meaning . . ."

"Mr. Wylie," said the female abruptly, cutting him off without any trace of apology, "we have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of conspiracy to commit murder, which, I am confidant, will be only the first of many charges to be leveled against you."

Wylie's face flushed an ugly, splotchy red as he opened his mouth to protest. "You can't just walk in here and . . ."

"Of course, I can," she replied coldly. "You've obviously assumed that you are above the law, which you are not. Now, for the formalities. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say . . ."

In addition to Carl Horvath, there were three members of the Pittsburgh PD present, one of whom stepped forward to cuff the elderly Wylie as Corey continued her recitation of the Miranda cautions. Also present was the FBI agent who had served as Corey's driver, and other agents were posted at entrances around the sprawling Tudor-style house. And, at the back of the small crowd, saying nothing but taking in everything and enjoying it thoroughly, stood Chris McClaren and Liam Quinn, neither bothering to try to conceal a small, smug smile. The effort would have been futile anyway.

Then Quinn leaned over to whisper in the FBI agent's ear. "It's no acceptable substitute for a good, solid kick in the balls, but the woman knows how to wield a verbal switchblade, not to mention demonstrate a plentiful supply of balls of her own - metaphorically speaking, of course."

McClaren tried not to respond verbally - and almost succeeded. Almost.

Corey was in the last phrase of the standard precautions, the "if you cannot afford an attorney" part - ludicrous under the circumstances but mandated nevertheless - when there was the smallest suggestion of a cut-off chuckle from the rear of the group, and Clayton Wylie Sr. finally identified a suitable target for his rage. It was unfortunate for him, however, that - in his fury - he somehow forgot he was handcuffed, and in the grip of a young police officer with the physique and strength and implacability of an adolescent grizzly. Wylie tried to jerk free, to get to the face - the beautiful face - of the blue-eyed FBI agent who was fighting valiantly but ultimately failing in his attempt to swallow an urge to laugh.

But the elderly lawyer did not forget for long. He made one concerted effort - a writhing thrust and twist that looked more like a seizure than a bid for freedom and found himself flat on his back, staring up at a ring of faces - all of them smiling now - except for the young Goliath who had deposited him on the floor as easily as if he'd been handling a rag doll.

No one laughed - exactly - but it was clear that a number of people wanted to.

For Wylie, it was the last straw. Thus, his previously docile - if outraged - manner was instantly discarded for a vicious, twisting tirade as he tried to get to his feet and lurch forward to confront Chris McClaren, who continued to smile at him.

"I know your kind," snarled Wyatt. "I can see exactly why you're so happy to do your boytoy's bidding. It's Kinney, isn't it? You and him - you make me sick, what you do together. I can see it now, and it turns my stomach, what the two of you get up to when you should be throwing yourselves on the mercy of good Christian people, and begging their forgiveness for . . ."

"For what?" That was Liam Quinn, wearing a particularly beatific smile and pushing himself forward to confront the old bigot. "For having too much taste and sense to ever willingly come within ten feet of your ugly, scrawny old cock?"

By this time, McClaren was almost choking with an urge to laugh, and Wylie was close to apoplexy, actually foaming at the mouth.

At that point, Alexandra Corey felt compelled to step forward, to forestall any further confrontation, but - when she tried to frown at McClaren and his companion - she couldn't quite pull it off. Her lips were certainly frowning, but there was no disguising the glint of amusement in her eyes.

When the group had made its exit, in fits and starts as the prisoner put up a pathetic effort to struggle against his restraints and his guard, and Wylie was finally ensconced in the rear seat of a police cruiser with his beefy young escort at his side, McClaren and Quinn lingered for a moment on the torch-lit portico of the elegant mansion and watched as the various vehicles made their way back toward the main road.

"Sorry about that," Quinn said quietly. "I shouldn't have interrupted but . . ."

"Are you kidding me?" McClaren laughed. "The only way that could have gone better would be to have it on film. Brian would have loved it."

Quinn's eyes were bright with approval, but there was still a shadow there that McClaren saw, but could not quite identify. "Is that what counts most for you? That Brian would have loved it?"

"What . . . I don't know what you mean."

The smile shifted, and the young lawyer lifted up slightly to align his lips to McClaren's and pressed forward quickly to deliver a gentle kiss, lingering just long enough for the FBI agent to note the luscious softness of those lips. Then it was over, and Quinn was looking up at him, the shadow still there in his eyes. "Yes," he whispered, "you do."

He stepped back, and the shadow shifted again, became invisible. Yet, somehow, McClaren knew it was still there - waiting.

"Come on then," said the lawyer with a pensive smile. "I'd bet good money that your primary purpose in life is awake and in a really bad mood. Let's go see."

McClaren did not offer a verbal response because he suddenly could not think of a single thing to say.

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

The second time he wakened, when he rose to full consciousness for the first time, it was to find a familiar face staring down at him, a beautiful face with huge blue eyes containing an entire galaxy of starlight.

"Hey." Justin's whisper was barely audible, but his breath was warm and sweet as it caressed his lover's face.

"Ummm." Brian could not quite summon up an actual, verbal answer.

"You're a complete shit, you know." The words were harsh, but the voice remained velvet soft. "You could have died tonight, and you wouldn't call for help. And if - if you had, what would . . . how would . . ."

"Justin?" It was just a breath, not even audible, but the note of desperation was clear. "Don't."

"Why? I need to understand. Why would you . . ."

"Because, I . . ." a pause and a quick grimace as Brian tried to shift his weight to ease the throbbing pain in his side. "To keep you . . . safe."

"You don't get it, do you?" The tone was harsher now, and the voice louder. "You just don't . . ."

"Enough." There was no uncertainty in that voice, and no tolerance for the smallest nuance of disobedience. "He doesn't even know what he's saying, Blondie, so . . ."

Justin's response was quick and hot. "Don't call me . . ."

Matt Keller, hands and arms and body strength all focused on adjusting his patient's position on the bed to relieve his pain, did not even spare a glance in Justin's direction to signify that he knew or cared why the young man might be holding on to his patience by his fingernails.

Instead, he responded knee-jerk style, as Keller the physician, rather than Keller the friend or companion or sympathetic listener. "What I call you, what you feel about all this, whatever complaint you might feel compelled to lodge - none of that matters now, Justin, because this time - maybe the only time in the entire saga of Brian and Justin, Star-Crossed Lovers - this is not about you. Later, maybe I'll take the time to feel some kind of compassion for what you're going through, but - right now - I only care about one thing. My patient is in pain, and you're not helping. So, either help - by biting your tongue to quit your bitching - or get the hell out of here, cause I'm dead certain there'll be somebody willing and eager to take your place and concentrate on his needs, instead of yours."

Justin went dead still, his eyes grown huge and glossy and . . . then he blinked. How dare the physician speak to him like he was some kind of spoiled, self-indulgent little . . . Oh! Oh, God! Was it because . . . had he earned that tongue-lashing? Had he really made it all about him, when . . .

He reached out then and very gently grasped Brian's hand and pulled it to cradle against his heart, taking care to avoid jostling the IV needle buried in his arm, or the oxi-sensor attached to his finger, or the blood pressure cuff wrapped around his bicep.

Could it really be true? After all this time and all these years when he'd managed to convince himself that he'd been the injured party in this relationship, that he'd been the one deserving the sympathy and compassion of friends, only too eager to offer a shoulder to cry on . . . was it possible he'd been wrong? Had he simply interpreted everything in a way that would leave him feeling innocent and self-righteous, a perpetual victim of Brian's . . . Brian's . . . what? And there it was - a question that had no answers. A victim of Brian's willingness to let Justin make his own choices; Brian's refusal to trap him in a prison composed of feelings of guilt or obligation; Brian's determination to allow him to fly free, unfettered by any sense of entitlement or emotional bondage.

The failure of their relationship - the mythic relationship of Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney - was not down to Brian's refusal to grow up or make a commitment.

It had not been Brian who had held back, refusing to take the final step, even though he had often joked about his commitment phobia. But it was just a joke. The real problem was Justin; it had always been Justin.

His thoughts - and the near panic they induced - were reflected in his face, and he went so pale and still that even Keller, almost totally focused on his patient's condition, finally had to notice. With a last caress of Brian's face - a gesture having nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with personal affection - the physician moved quickly to pull a chair from the wall and place it to receive Justin's adorable little bubble butt, his timing immaculate as Justin had just realized that the tremor in his legs was about to send him crashing to the floor, an exercise which would, of course, not be the least bit productive.

Once he was seated, still clasping Brian's hand, Keller leaned over to do a quick assessment of his vital signs and his ability to draw breath. Thus, face to face, he saw the light of epiphany rising in those huge, bluer-than-blue eyes, and he was surprised to feel a quick flash of sympathy for the young man who had stolen the heart and soul of Brian Kinney. So he crouched beside the chair and laid his hand over the one clinging to Brian as if to a lifeline.

"Having a come-to-Jesus moment, are we?" The words were not particularly gentle or compassionate, but the tone was. Whether he approved or not, this was the person who had accomplished what Keller had once believed to be impossible - the person who had inspired a deep and abiding love in Brian Kinney; thus, he deserved more than a brusque dismissal of his abrupt confrontation with hard truth.

Justin looked down into eyes as green as a forest in summer, and wondered. Keller obviously knew the reality of it all; had probably always known. Did anybody else . . .

"Stop worrying about what anyone knows or doesn't know," the doctor advised with a smile, causing Justin to gasp at the accuracy of the man's perceptions. "Just concentrate on the things you know, on what you've learned and how it colors your world."

Justin bit his lip, and turned to stare at Brian - Brian who was looking back at him, ignoring his physical pain, ignoring his own needs, and . . .

"Leave him alone, Matt." It was muttered through a broken breath, and around a gasp of pain, but there was no mistaking the determination driving it.

Keller looked at Justin, and smiled. "See?"

It was all he said, and all that needed saying.

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

Four days later on a warm Thursday afternoon, Brian observed the golden purity of the shaft of sunlight pouring through his window, recognizing a perfect spring day. Though not ordinarily given to waxing poetic over a fortunate juxtaposition of climactic coincidence, he could not quite stifle the smile that touched his lips.

Not, of course, that he had an unmitigated reason to smile. In fact, he thought, as he glanced out the window and was reminded - forcefully - of the steady decline of his vision, the smile was almost a triumph over the stark quality of his reality. He could still see, but, with every passing day, it was becoming more and more like peering through a tunnel that narrowed and darkened constantly.

But, for the moment, he couldn't do anything about that. His wound and recovery from the surgery Keller had performed had delayed his trip to the clinic where the world famous Andrew Griffin was waiting to work his magic - or not, as the case might be. And - most important of all at this stage - he was going home.

He shouldn't complain about the care he'd received from the hospital staff, although he couldn't resist an occasion grumble; it had, in fact, been exceptionally good. He was pretty sure that was down to Matt Keller and a few well-placed threats of retribution; it might also have something to do with the fact that a few of his nurses seemed to have a certain fascination with his body - a situation which fed the pride he wore around him like a suit of armor. An interesting analogy, and very appropriate. He sometimes found it interesting that Keller was the only person who had ever figured out that the pride was a defense mechanism used to deflect the acidic properties of his parents' attitude toward their only son. Did that mean his old college chum was the only person who'd ever bothered to look long and hard and evaluate the data from his careful observations?

Or did it mean he was the only one who'd ever been interested enough to dig for answers?

That, he found, was an avenue of thought he preferred not to explore. It was somehow more satisfying for him to reflect on the fact that there seemed to be a growing appetite among hetero young women for watching beautiful young gay men making love to each other.

A smile touched his lips as he entertained the thought that this development was only fair since hetero young men had been enjoying the female counterpart for centuries.

A quick check of the bathroom to make sure he'd forgotten nothing, afforded him a chance to examine his reflection in the mirror, and observe that he looked really good. The Armani shirt - black with small, wide-spaced scarlet stripes - and the black denim 501's emphasized the slender sculpture of his body and the flatness of his stomach, in perfect proportion to the broadness of his shoulders, and the color emphasized the darkness of his eyes - more sable in this light than hazel, but still reflecting hints of molten amber. His hair was a bit longer than usual, but fell in its usual natural styling, emphasizing the squareness of his jaw and the perfect curvature of his lips, and the golden tan of his skin, only slightly paler than usual as a remnant of the injury.

Ready to fuck - the description he valued most. Only . . .

He didn't allow himself to pursue that thought.

For the past couple of days, Justin had been going through one of his characteristic bouts of maundering. He would work his way through it, as he always did. Only this time, he'd better make it quick, because time was moving at breakneck speed toward a deadline which was invisible to most.

Even invisible to Justin - a situation Brian had the ability to alter, if he could only convince himself it was the right thing to do.

Meanwhile, the FBI, in the person of Alexandra Corey, had filled him in on all the developments in the investigation of his assault. He had been gratified to hear that the Wylies - father and son - had been arrested and were currently behind bars, being held without bail in the maximum security section of the Pittsburgh jail. She had also gone over all the newly discovered evidence, and given him a play-by-play of everything that had happened after he'd been shot and all the newly discovered details of the case. She had been very forthcoming, hiding nothing, answering every question.

Except one.

When he'd asked for the location of Chris McClaren, she had been vague and evasive, and had excused herself quickly, suddenly remembering a vital appointment she could not afford to miss.

Since then - the day after his surgery - he had not seen the man who had saved his life, and every question about him had been deflected or ignored, and Brian had begun to wonder. He had assumed that Keller would not lie to him; then he had assumed that someone - surely - would have told him if McClaren had been . . .

But no - he would not go there. Could not go there.

He looked into the mirror once more and adjusted a lock of hair that was not quite where it should be.

He was ready to face the world and to allow the world to face him.

When Matt Keller strode into the room, he was busy going over the data on Brian's chart, and thus, did not at first take in the full sight of his patient. When he did, his reaction was imminently satisfying to his old friend: a classic double-take, green eyes widening and filled with lusty approval.

"Damn, Boy, you don't do anything by halves, do you?"

Brian smiled. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't bullshit me! You know exactly what I mean. Nobody just recovered from a gunshot wound and surgery should look like that."

"Like what?" His voice was innocence incarnate.

Keller grinned and stepped forward, pulling Brian into his arms and flush against his body. "Like you need a good fucking, and if you don't cut it out, you're liable to get it."

They chuckled together, exchanging a quick, passionless kiss, before moving apart just as Chris McClaren came into the room and froze mid-step, noticing the closeness between the two, and Brian felt the grip of cold fingers around his heart begin to ease.

"Sorry," the FBI agent said quickly. "If I'm interrupting something . . ."

"What?" retorted Keller with a smirk. "You going to volunteer to leave us to it?"

The FBI agent never even glanced at the physician's face; he was much too busy examining Brian, head to toe, and pretending it was all just a matter of professional interest. "If that's what you want," he said finally, without inflection.

For Brian's part, he was momentarily speechless, so overcome with relief he thought he might actually fall to his knees as an almost nonsensical litany repeated in his mind: He's not dead, thank God, he's not dead, he's not . . .

"If you two are finished with the pissing contest," he said finally, his voice almost steady as he turned back to take another look in the mirror in a deliberate attempt to cover his confusion. He then adjusted the collar of his shirt one more time, "I have a question."

"What?" said Keller, but McClaren remained silent.

Brian turned and stumbled, exhibiting an uncharacteristic awkwardness, as he moved forward slowly, deliberating invading the FBI agent's personal space. Then he waited, until McClaren - after a sharp indrawn breath - looked up to meet those intriguing dark eyes and read the question there. "What?" he said finally, softly.

"Where the hell have you been?" The tone was gentle, but there was an element of steel buried within it.

"Doing my job," McClaren replied, his voice still flat and cool.

"I thought I was your job."

The FBI agent shifted slightly, and moved aside, refusing the meet Brian's gaze. "You were, but that's over now. Right? So, if you're ready . . ."

"No. I'm not ready. I want to know why you haven't been around. Not once since I regained full consciousness. Why wouldn't you . . ."

"Time to move on. Busy life. You know how it is."

Brian said nothing for several moments, his eyes studying the features of the young man who had saved his life - not once, but over and over again. A young man who had - somehow - earned some measure of loyalty and respect and concern in co-opting a special place in his heart, and now . . . now seemed to want nothing but to be done with it - and him.

Brian Kinney had known heartbreak in his life, and he was pretty sure he would know it again. He had even known betrayal, although he had never allowed himself to use that term in reference to those who had hurt him so badly.

But this was something else. He would survive this; given his strength and tenacity, there were very few things he could not survive.

Nevertheless, he couldn't remember ever feeling so disappointed in his life although, if pressed, he would have had a hard time explaining why.

But he nodded, finally, accepting what he could not change, no matter how much it might hurt. He had no right to demand more from the young agent than he was willing to give.

Another door was closing; time to move on.

Still, there was one more thing he was determined to say, whether the FBI agent wished to hear it or not. "As you wish, Agent McClaren. But I still want to express my gratitude. You saved my life. Again. And even more important, you saved those who are more important to me than my own life. That's a debt I will never be able to repay, but if there's ever anything you want - anything at all that I can do for you - just say the word. All right?"

He turned away then, to smile and offer a quick hug to his old college chum; thus, it was only Keller who saw the terrible flash of anguish that darkened McClaren's eyes. It was there and gone almost too quickly to notice, and the agent took a deep breath as he pushed it down below the surface of his consciousness. He had more important things to do, and a few debts of his own to repay.

"Actually," he said, still using that deliberately uninflected voice, "I do have one more thing to do here.  Something I think you might want to see."

Brian looked confused, and Keller, at that moment, had an almost irresistible urge to toss McClaren through the plate glass window. Brian Kinney was never meant to wear that kind of expression of uncertainty; it was alien to everything he was. Nevertheless, the FBI agent turned and gestured for Brian to precede him toward the door, but Brian moved slowly, pausing to pick up his carry-all and heft it to his shoulder. When McClaren would have relieved him of it, he shook his head and walked out into the corridor, deliberately avoiding any limp or slouch which might have suggested any residual weakness from his wound.

He was orienting himself and starting down the hall toward the nearest elevator when a couple of new arrivals swept around a corner and cut him off. He suppressed a sigh and managed to put on a pleasant expression for the hospital's chief administrative officer and medical director.

The former - a doctor via a Princeton PHD in economics - ordinarily had a steady, baritone voice and a serene manner, but, at this point, he was slightly shrill, a bit breathless. "Mr. Kinney, I am so glad to have caught you. Believe me, I would have been here much sooner, but your protectors . . ." a very thin smile directed toward both McClaren and Keller, "kept your presence here under wraps, which I understand, of course, but I don't quite see why Dr. Woodridge and I only learned this morning that you were here. And believe you me, I have informed my entire staff that such an oversight will not be tolerated in future. How can I ever make it up to you? I hope our service wasn't completely un . . ."

"Dr. Cavanaugh," said Brian firmly, striving for patience and the will to care whether or not he offended the CAO and CMO of the hospital. "Please don't worry about it. It's all good, but, if you'll excuse me . . ."

John Cavanaugh had spent too many years as an executive administrator and too few relating to his associates on an equal social footing to remember how to interpret an individual's attitude, and Ralph Woodridge - currently engrossed in the information on his iPad - was obviously too distracted to care. Right now, neither of them looked much like corporate big shots; they simply looked confused. "But, but . . . I'm sorry, but I was told you wanted to be present for the next step in this process. Was I misinfo . . ."

It was Chris McClaren who stepped in with an answer, hoping to allay everyone's misgivings.

"No, you're correct, Doctor. It's just that we haven't had time to inform Mr. Kinney about what's about to happen."

Thus the confusion was settled - except for one member of the group - the one most uncomfortable with being out of the loop. When McClaren turned and looked into Brian's face, he almost recoiled from the hard glint of irritation he saw there, hard and bitter and growing.

"What's this about, McFed?" There was no indication that the nickname was being used to express fondness.

"Bri . . ."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Stud Muffin." The voice was bright and filled with warmth and affection, and Sharon Briggs was a vision in a Stella McCartney color-blocked dress of rich blues and greens with a deep teal cropped blazer and spiky suede Jimmy Choos as she strolled up to greet her old friend.

Brian smiled and pretended not to hear when McClaren breathed a quick, barely audible "Thank God."

"What are you doing here?" asked Brian, eyes bright with an appreciative glow, both for the chic lines of the fashion and the perfect curves of the body that wore it. While it was true that he had absolutely no sexual interest in women - any women - he nevertheless had a discerning eye and a fine appreciation for beauty in any form.

"Getting a little payback," she replied, tucking her arm through his and nudging him to fall in step behind the two hospital authority figures as they moved off down the corridor. She then favored him with a brilliant smile containing just a faint trace of smugness - a tacit taunt of knowing something he didn't - but he was fairly sure he would not be in the dark for long. "You should really enjoy this," she continued. "And, as to why I'm included in this little party - well, I actually got here first and had the pleasure of blowing the whistle on this particular little cockroach, so it's only fitting that I get to be here for the finale."

"And me? Where do I . . ."

She silenced him in the simplest way, but laying her hand over his mouth, and leaning close to inhale the quintessential scent unique to Brian Kinney. "You get to shut up, and do as you're told - for once."

He leaned back a bit and once more let his eyes drop to examine her avant garde style and very expensive garb. She looked fantastic, but he realized it had been a long time since he'd seen her in her designer-clad persona. "You're a little out of character, aren't you?"

"Not any more, Old Friend. Due to my work on this case, I just got a big, fat promotion, to what is euphemistically referred to as the 'white collar' crime division - you can probably thank the ultra luscious Mr. Bomer for that one - and a corner office. So it's good-bye to the bad girl of the streets, and welcome back to the socialite."

Brian's grin was infectious. "I'd be more than happy to express your gratitude - and my very personal appreciation - to said luscious Mr. Bomer. Meanwhile your father must be so proud."

She made a face and pursed her lips. "Almost as much as if I'd decided to go straight."

Brian managed to look horrified. "Truly a fate worse than death. But congratulations are definitely in order - for taking a step up professionally and for remaining true to the cause of fags and dykes everywhere. I won't pretend I'm not going to miss watching you work the streets in your dominatrix chains and leather, but I'm assuming you'll be safer now, so your dad's got a right to be happy."

She nodded and looked up to note that they were approaching the main nurse's station at the junction of the two primary corridors on 6 East - the surgical wing - and that there were three individuals currently working there, two nurses and one lab tech. There were also two gentlemen in dark suits standing near the elevator, apparently waiting for something - or someone. She took a deep breath and leaned over to whisper in Brian's ear.

"You just sit tight right here, Sweetie, and watch." She started to move away, but then turned back to smile up at him. "And don't interfere. I promise it will be worth your while, and . . ." She quirked a finger toward McClaren to bring him to their side. "Do what your favorite bodyguard says, for once."

The FBI agent stepped forward and took his place beside Brian, close enough to rub shoulders.

"You're not, you know," Brian muttered, moving away just a bit.

"Not what?" McClaren looked puzzled.

"My favorite bodyguard."

Blue eyes narrowed and focused on Brian's face, searching for some indication of the truth or falsehood of that statement. Then, very slowly, the FBI agent smiled. "Yes, I am," he murmured.

"No, you're . . ."

"Will you please just shut up," McClaren interrupted, stepping close again, close enough to lean forward and touch his lips against Brian's temple, "and enjoy the show."

"Don't tell me what . . ."

Finally, the FBI agent adopted a tactic he'd seen Briggs use, and silenced the complaint by placing his hand over that semi-pouting mouth. When Brian's eyes widened, and he looked like he was about to protest, the hand tightened a bit, and McClaren nodded his head toward the nurse's station where Briggs was walking around behind the desk and approaching the lab tech who was seated at a computer - a lab tech who looked unpleasantly familiar, Brian realized.

Then he noticed that Briggs had reached into a pocket in her jacket and extracted a set of hand cuffs.

Oh, this really was going to be good.

For his part, Monty Peabody was not having a very good day. Already this morning, he had been dispatched on a half dozen senseless errands - the kind of trivial, mindless assignments that could have been - and should have been - handled by some nameless file clerk with nothing better to do. Then he'd been grilled by one of the junior IT programmers about why he had been logged in to certain areas of the hospital system for which he should not have had sufficient clearance. And now . . . now he was finding himself unable to pull up specific patient information on a program he used every day.

It was all probably down to new HIPAA rules and some ridiculous regulation about confidentiality. He knew the rules, of course, and generally abided by them, even though he thought most of the precautions were far too restrictive. It wasn't as if he'd ever gone out of his way to violate the protocols.

Except that one time, but no one knew about that. Luckily, because that entire debacle had never worked out quite the way it had been planned, which was a shame. If anybody had ever deserved to pay for the wild seeds he'd spent his life sowing, it had been . . .

"Mr. Peabody."

The voice was very cultured, obviously accustomed to the exercise of authority, and very cold.

"Yes?" Monty turned and found both Dr. Cavanaugh and Dr. Woodridge standing across the desk, staring down at him; neither was smiling.

"I think it would be best," said the chief administrator, "if you logged off the computer now."

"I . . ." Monty - partner of Eli Gruber, neighbor of the Novotny-Bruckners, perpetual caustic critic of Brian Kinney and anyone who might be fond of him, and perennial self-styled socialite with his nose stuck firmly up the asses of his social superiors - looked up and started to retort in his typical manner, which was to say slightly snippy and inclined to hauteur, no matter who he happened to be addressing. "Why should I . . ."

And then he saw the woman standing beside him, dark eyes looking down at him in much the same way most people would look at a rodent or a snake. "What's this all . . ."

"Stand up, Mr. Peabody," said Sharon Briggs pleasantly. "It will be much easier if you simply co-operate, because failing to do so would be a huge mistake."

"Co-operate with what?" Monty squawked.

Briggs rolled her eyes and reached down to grab his arm, but Peabody made a near-fatal mistake at that moment and tried to jerk free. In a blink of an eye he was face-down on the floor with Briggs' knee planted firmly in his back as she snapped the cuffs on with a certain degree of malice. She was glad to note they were slightly too tight.

"What's the meaning . . ." The perp - as Sharon thought of him - tried to bellow but found it almost impossible with the pressure on his back. Then, when the two men in dark suits stepped forward and jerked him to his feet, he seemed to begin to get the message and shut his mouth, sensing that protesting would only make things worse.

"Montgomery Peabody," said Briggs, speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a mentally-challenged individual, "you are under arrest for violation of Subsection E, statute 162, paragraph 32 of HIPAA regulations, in that you did - knowingly and with malice aforethought - provide restricted medical information of a patient in this hospital to a member of the press, for which you received payment for services rendered. Now, you have the right . . ."

"This is ridiculous," shouted Monty, face gone beet red. "You have no proof. How could you . . ."

Briggs smiled. "You should be more careful in your choice of victims, Mr. Peabody. Sometimes - for some people - even the walls have ears. Now, these gentlemen are representatives of the Department of Justice, and they're going to escort you to your new home and explain your rights to you, because - just in case you didn't know it - this type of HIPAA violation is a federal crime."

The suits moved in then, and read the prisoner his rights, and prepared to escort him - by force, if necessary - to their vehicle, one of those ubiquitous black SUVs, while Sharon looked on with a satisfied smile. "Oh, by the way," she called as the group moved toward the elevator, "you'll probably be happy to know that your counterpart on the other end of this little caper is being charged as we speak. I'm sure there will be a lot of excitement when your name is connected to the criminal acts of John Vincent Fincher. It'll be your greatest claim to fame."

At that point, all the blood appeared to drain from Peabody's face as if he suddenly realized this was not a joke, but rather a consequence of his own stupidity.

Brian had watched it all in silence, his smile growing wider and brighter until - at the very end - he could not quite resist a parting shot.

"Enjoy Canaan, Monty," he laughed. "I'm sure the population there will just love you."

No doubt the verbiage that Peabody spat back at him would have been ugly and acidic, except that he was, by this time, so incoherent no one could understand a word of the rant.

Chris McClaren looked directly into Brian's eyes and tried not to smile. "I hate to burst your bubble, Sunshine," he said, deliberately appropriating a nickname that was ridiculously inappropriate for the mighty Kinney as he reached out to adjust the collar of the dark shirt that emphasized the lines of Brian's body so perfectly, "but they won't put him in a maximum security prison. He's got no history of violence."

"No?" The look in Brian's eyes made a pretty compelling argument. "I might beg to differ, but you're probably right. But he doesn't know that, does he? So let the little fucker sweat for a while."

At that point, McClaren felt his already overtaxed defenses collapse completely. He had been doing his very best to keep a distance between himself and his charge, had absented himself from Brian's room and presence and monitored his condition and his recovery remotely. He had always been nearby, of course; he could not provide protection in absentia. But it had been the right thing to do since Brian would soon not need him any more, and since . . .

McClaren sighed, and closed his eyes against a sudden onslaught of memory - a memory that was with him every waking hour and frequently invaded his sleep: Brian thrown back by the impact of the bullet and the bright red eruption which had painted Pollock-style artwork on the wall and the floor around him. Blood; so much blood.

Brian had not said it. Justin had not said it. Actually, no one had said it, and many had disagreed emphatically.

Still, Chris McClaren knew the truth. He had failed the man who had - somehow, at a moment when he'd forgotten to reinforce his defenses - established a death grip on his heart; he had almost gotten him killed, and - if that had happened - he did not try to avoid the fundamental truth. If Brian had not survived, then neither would he. Not that he would have died or taken his own life; that was not his style. But he knew the truth, nevertheless. He would no longer have been able to find the will to be the man he'd been before. The failure - and the guilt it fostered - would have left him twisted and forever changed.

But Brian had survived, and the FBI agent knew he had dodged a bullet, and now - now he found himself compelled to adopt evasive maneuvers, to remove himself from temptation.

Not an easy thing to do when those incredible hazel eyes were gazing at him, into him, and seeing much more than he was willing to have seen. "Chris, I . . ."

"Brian!"

McClaren looked up and sighed, only barely managing not to offer up a prayer of gratitude.

Justin was everything bright and beautiful and young and fresh as he came barreling out of the elevator in a Tommy Hilfiger polo and jeans just that much too tight, and threw himself into the arms of his lover, who managed - by the hardest - not to wince away from the impact of that firm young body against flesh still bruised and vulnerable.

"Watch it, Blondie," McClaren cautioned, loathe to interfere but compelled to do his job. "He's still fragile."

"Ooh. Sorry." Only Justin could have managed to sound ashamed of his thoughtlessness and eager to repeat the offense at the same time. His grin generated its typical thousand-watt brilliance. "Guess we won't be playing any of our regular private games for a while."

"Wrong!" retorted Brian, pulling his young lover closer. "We need to get home - now - or I might just have to prove you wrong right here in front of God and everybody."

"Brian!" That was Matt Keller, stern and very professional, his mouth set in a frown, but there was no disguising the spark of amusement in his eyes.

"What?"

"Do I have to repeat myself about what you can and - more important - cannot do?"

But Brian was much too focused on the lovely face looking up at him to pay much attention. "Not fair, Doc. I don't tell you what you can or can't do when you and Hilliard are behind closed doors, do I?"

"No," Keller admitted with a quick snort of laughter, "but neither one of us is liable to bleed out if things get a bit out of control."

"Don't worry, Doc," said Justin, lost in the wonder of those incredible hazel eyes, but not so lost that he would not remember the risk. "I'll take good care of him."

When Brian leaned close and whispered something in his ear, the young man laughed, and his face shifted into a new softness, a look of love so profound and intense it made those around them feel a need to look away, all of them ashamed of trespassing on such a tender moment.

"Come on," Justin whispered. "The loft awaits."

Brian smiled and thought that - all things considered - that might just be the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him.

TBC


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* My Back Pages -- Bob Dylan

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