"Chapter 27"

Thy mind is ever moving,
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving,
Come back, and dwell with me.

I know my mountain breezes
Enchant and soothe thee still,
I know my sunshine pleases,
Despite thy wayward will.

- Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee -- Emily Brontë


Danny Boyle had decided that - all things being equal - he'd rather play chauffeur than street hustler or pool shark or vagrant. Only all things were not, exactly, equal.

Yes, when he was tasked with driving young Justin Taylor wherever he might want to go and making sure he arrived safely at his destination, he was warm and dry and safe - relatively speaking. Insulated from the harshness of Pittsburgh's raw early spring and rarely having to leave the comfort of the dark green Buick Century assigned to him by Lance Mathis, he was able to fulfill his duties to watch over Kinney's blond boytoy with a minimum of effort and a maximum of efficiency. Since Taylor spent most of his time these days at Allegheny General - which was as secure as an FBI lockdown for the most part - it was rarely even necessary for him to brave the colorful environs of Pittsburgh's gay conclaves in order to do his job.

That was an advantage sometimes. When it wasn't a pain in the ass.

It bothered him more than a little to realize he was actually beginning to miss his regular interaction with the brash, lurid aspects of Liberty Avenue society and the loud, unapologetic people for whom it was the center of the world. He wasn't gay; didn't share most of the interests that drew the residents of the area together; couldn't even imagine having any desire to make out with a guy or touch another man's dick.

Mostly.

But his connection to the people who were an integral part of the world from which he had sprung had almost nothing to do with sex or lust or desire. Instead, it was about freedom and tolerance and the willingness to suspend judgment and understand the true natures of the individuals who existed beneath the superficial criteria of sexual preference which, he knew perfectly well, was a semi-twisted version of an oxymoron.  Homosexuality was not a preference; it was a physical characteristic, as genetic and inalterable as eye color or blood type. Danny wasn't sure how he knew that, but it was, undeniably, something he had always known.

Being a part of the Liberty Avenue ambiance actually had nothing at all to do with what a man chose to do with his dick or who he chose to do it with. It was about accepting people for what they were beneath the skin, and he was sometimes certain that - hetero or not - he would never really fit into the world beyond the boundaries of 'Queerville', as it had been christened by most of its residents. He would sigh sometimes, when he came face to face with that conclusion, but, in its most elementary form, it was the defining truism of his life.

He was, he thought, the pluperfect example of the proverbial square peg forcing himself into a round hole and being content with the rather odd fit. He tried to imagine how some of his straight buddies - and he had a number of them - would react to the circumstances of his life, and found that he could not quite picture it. What would they think - how would they handle being teased and publicly, frequently identified as the 'token hetero' in the crowd, or tagged with names like Fag Hag and Dyke's Beard and Dr. Straightlove? He could well imagine the horror writ large on their faces under such conditions. And why, he wondered, didn't such things bother him more? But he didn't waste much time on that kind of speculation, because he actually already knew the answer, which was ridiculously simple. Though the voices that called him such names and appeared to delight in pointing out his differences were almost always filled with a spicy tongue-in-cheek humor, there was almost never a single trace of hostility or true animosity contained within the taunts themselves.

Tolerance. It was the only requisite for acceptance in 'Queerville' - the only coin of the realm, given freely and demanded in return. It defined the place he lived, and the people who were his neighbors and - yes, there was no denying it - his friends.

So he would enjoy the opportunity to stay warm and dry and mostly unthreatened, and to catch up on his favorite reading (while being very careful to wrap his current guilty pleasure within the camouflage of a copy of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette as he indulged himself; it wouldn't do at all for a guy who presented himself as a 'street tough' to be caught reading The Thirteenth Tale or to be exposed as a devotee of British fiction) while he waited around for Justin Taylor to decide where he wanted to go next; he would treasure the moments as they happened. But he would comfort himself with the certainty that, when this assignment ended, he would go back to the turbulent, flamboyant, bright and bawdy streets that were his home, his family. Queer or not.

The quick staccato rhythm of a familiar voice, sharp and colored with vivid tints of irritation that Boyle was coming to recognize too frequently and too well, drew his attention to the front entrance of the hospital where a slender figure was erupting through the doors so quickly that he cleared the expanding opening of the automatic panels with only an inch to spare. Justin Taylor was in a hurry and, judging by the set of his face and the hard glitter in his eyes, he was pissed off in a big way.

Boyle felt a renewed sense of relief that he no longer had to maintain a pretense of disinterest or distance. Taylor, when determined to elude surveillance, had been a huge challenge for the individuals charged with protecting him, and Lance Mathis, in managing to convince the young man to accept the advantages of being monitored by security personnel, had done everyone a favor. Including Justin Taylor, who no longer concerned himself with who was watching or why. He simply did whatever he chose to do, and let others worry about the logistics of his safety.

It had come as a huge surprise - to both the watcher and the watched - that they had managed to form a fledgling friendship, which might expand and grow over a period of time, or might wither on the vine, depending on the circumstances. But, for the moment, it made life simpler.

Except when the blond half of the equation was on the verge of a major queen-out/meltdown. Like now.

Taylor was coming toward the car, a nondescript old duffle bag in one hand and the arm of an elderly man with a spike of silver hair gripped firmly in the other, with two women, voices shrill and full of protest, in pursuit. Having studied the file on Brian Kinney and his extended family closely, Boyle recognized both of the women, although he would have known Debbie Novotny anyway, as would any lifelong denizen of Liberty Avenue. He would even have known her if he'd been suddenly stricken blind, as her voice - currently in mid-screech - was even more recognizable than her colorful appearance.

"Justin, hold on there," she was shouting at the blond's rapidly retreating back. "What's all that supposed to mean? And where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Justin did not slow down as he called out his answer, never turning to look back. "I'm taking my friend, Cedric, to his new quarters, and - as to what I meant by what I said - I'm pretty sure you're both smart enough to figure it out."

Debbie actually stumbled, and was stricken, temporarily, speechless, but her companion appeared to be made of sterner stuff.

"Justin, please," said Lindsey Peterson. "Wait. Surely you understand that I'm . . . I only want to know . . ."

Justin paused as he reached the car, and smiled his thanks as Boyle stepped out of the Buick and opened the back door in order to admit Justin's elderly friend.

But finally, Justin turned to look back at the blonde woman who was by this time standing almost toe-to-toe with him. "Please," she repeated.

"Lindsey," he replied, taking a moment to draw a deep breath and summon up patience already worn too thin, "it's his choice. And we have to honor it. If you love him at all, if you ever loved him . . ."

"How can you ask me that?" she demanded, forgetting her prior resolve to remain calm and use reason rather than emotion to plead her case. "Surely you, of all people . . ."

"Yes," he answered firmly. "Me. Of all people."

She went very still and was suddenly very cold. "Justin," she said slowly, "I'm so scared. What if he . . ."

He reached up and cupped her cheek with gentle fingers. "It has to be his choice, and we have to love him enough to abide by it."

She shook her head. "I don't know if I can."

He pulled her close and stroked her back with a gentle hand. "Yes, you can. Of us all, you're the one who can't really lose him. He'd never walk away from Gus. You know that."

But she was not so sure. "Yes, he would. If he thought he was a danger to his son, he would walk away and never come back. I can't . . ." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't lose Brian."

Justin pulled back to stare deep into her eyes, and was somewhat surprised by what he saw there, and even more surprised by the fact that she had allowed him to see it. "Does anybody know," he asked, "how much you really love him?"

Her smile was rueful and shaky. "No."

"Nobody?" He knew he should leave it alone, but he couldn't.

She couldn't - quite - meet his eyes. "Nobody, except him, of course. No matter how I tried to deny it, he always knew." Then she looked up and met his gaze squarely. "And I always suspected that you might have figured it out."

His smile was very gentle. "And Melanie?"

She sighed. "Why do you think she hates him so? She doesn't know all the details, of course. But she knows enough."

He nodded, and lifted her hand to touch it to his face. "Then you have to love him enough - we both do - to trust him to do what's right, for him."

"Can you do that?" she asked faintly. "Can you just . . . let him go?"

He took a deep breath. "I can do whatever he needs me to do. He's the center of my life, but it's just not right to use that to hold him. Because that's what I've always done before, you know." His voice grew rougher, and his eyes were suddenly filled with sympathy, but he continued to speak, refusing to fall silent until he'd said everything that needed saying. "It's what we've all done - assuming that our needs were all that mattered, and we've used those needs to keep him where we want him, which is exactly what he's always refused to do to us in return. So it has to stop. Now."

Debbie Novotny had been listening, while trying to look as if she weren't. But this, apparently, was just too much for her to accept without dispute. Her snort was almost pig-like. "What a bunch of bullshit!" she snapped. "You make it sound like we all took advantage of him. Asked him to sacrifice for us - to take care of us - when the truth is that he's never cared about anybody but himself. The Stud of Liberty Avenue, whose only real interest is which mouth is going to be next to suck his dick. Brian Kinney - God's gift to the world, who's never been able to love anybody. Why would you . . ."

Justin turned to stare at her, his eyes suddenly filled with weary sadness. "Really, Deb? If that's true, then why do you care if he goes away and never comes back? To hear you tell it, he'd be doing you a favor, since he's never done anything for you. Or for Michael. Or for anybody, for that matter. You know, I've never really understood why so many people seem to enjoy it whenever things go badly for him, or why you seem to resent him so much, but, all things considered, you ought to be eager to see the last of . . ."

"Resent him?" Debbie retorted. "Why would I resent him? Except that he always gets away with everything, that he never has to pay for the damage he inflicts, that he never regrets what he does wrong?"

This time, it was Lindsey who posed the question. "And what, exactly, do you think he should apologize for?"

Debbie hmmphed. "For hurting people. For breaking hearts and never trying to make up for it."

Justin and Lindsey exchanged knowing glances, both understanding exactly what Debbie was saying without actually saying anything at all; both choosing to remain silent on the subject as there was, literally, nothing they could say that would make any difference at all in Debbie's opinion of Brian, since he would never be able to give her the one thing she really wanted, but would never admit. Brian loved Michael - uniquely, intensely, and without reservation - but he had never been, was not now, and never would be in love with Michael, and he would never pretend otherwise. Brian might lie about trifles, or as a matter of convenience, but never about things that mattered.

And it was for that deadly flaw that Debbie would never be able to forgive him.

"So," Justin said finally, attempting to end the conversation, "can we give you ladies a lift somewhere?"

Lindsey glanced back toward the hospital. "Are you sure they won't tell us where he went?"

Justin didn't bother to hide the eye-roll. ""If it'll make you feel any better, go ask. But you're wasting your time." He paused then and deliberately caught Lindsey's eye. "And you're failing to honor Brian's wishes."

"Well, what if something happens and we need . . ." That was Debbie, off on another tangent.

Justin allowed himself a deep, exaggerated sigh. "You both know him too well to think he left without making arrangements for anything that might come up." Then he couldn't resist a sardonic grin. "Besides, what could you possibly need from such a self-absorbed, thoughtless, unapologetic, narcissistic prick?"

Debbie felt a flush touch her face, but refused to address the challenge in the blond's eyes.

"So," Justin continued, "how about that lift?"

Throughout the conversation, Cedric had observed the exchanges without comment or expression, but when Debbie moved as if to climb into the back seat beside him, he was not quite able to suppress the look of sheer horror that flickered across his face. Justin snickered, but stepped up quickly to come to the old man's rescue by guiding Debbie to the passenger-side front seat, thus earning a quick glare from his bodyguard/chauffeur. But the blond figured - rightly - that Boyle was more capable of handling Pittsburgh's premier fag hag than an elderly Cajun gentleman, fresh out of rehab.

Thus, it was Justin and Lindsey who wound up flanking Cedric in the back seat, and a quick exchange between the old friends, regarding an upcoming exhibition of new artists' work at the Sidney Bloom Gallery, initiated a spirited discussion about the contributions of contemporary artists to the political and cultural landscape of the new century, before progressing to a comparison of favorites - Justin raving about the vivid style and lavish color used by Ksenia Milicevic while Lindsey waxed poetic over the work of Dominique Sanson and his Ibiza saga (wondering only briefly why the mention of the project made Justin smile) and the singular, eclectic quality of the work of Robert Rauschenberg. Both of them were enjoying the discussion thoroughly, and welcoming Cedric's surprisingly insightful comments and his suggestion that Sam Dillemans and José Beral were both worthy of inclusion in the ranks of prominent contemporaries, while Debbie looked on, trying not to look as if she weren't completely out of her depth - which she was.

Until Cedric brought up another name - one that even Debbie recognized.

"Of course, my personal favorite has always been Sam Auerbach," said Cedric with a big smile. It wasn't often that he got the chance to talk art with people who actually knew the difference between the Bloomsbury Group and the Doonesbury cartoon, and he intended to enjoy it. "There's just something so flagrantly sexual about his work, don't you think? And, since he's a local boy, I assume you guys know him."

Justin carefully avoided looking into Lindsey's eyes. "Yeah. We know him. He's definitely one of a kind."

"You can say that again," Debbie muttered, while Lindsey was suddenly preoccupied with searching through her handbag for . . . something. Anything.

Justin was careful to avoid staring at her, and was pretty sure she had never in her life been so glad to see the Liberty Diner appear on the corner of the next intersection.

"You sure you don't want us to drop you at the hotel?" he asked, thereby killing two proverbial birds with the one verbal gambit - changing the subject and offering Lindsey an alternative to having to listen to Debbie, just in case the redhead decided that this would be a great opportunity to allow her to assuage any lingering curiosity about the relationship between Lindsey and Pittsburgh's artistic rogue.

"No. Thanks," Lindsey replied with an appreciative smile. "Melanie should be here soon, if she's not already waiting for me. I expect we're going to have a serious discussion tonight."

"About?"

Lindsey's eyes flashed with a momentary impulse to suggest that he mind his own business, but it was gone almost before it formed. "She's been trying to convince me to go back to Toronto since the day we got here. Now, with Brian gone . . ."

Justin nodded, his eyes downcast as he considered what she' d said - and how she'd said it. "Lindsey," he said softly - too softly for it to reach Debbie's ears, "is there a reason you don't want to go back? Is everything all right?"

She stepped out of the car before turning to look down at his face as he leaned toward her. "I'm just as all right . . . as you are." But there was no animosity or resentment in her tone. There was only a deep understanding of a life filled with regrets, with having been forced to learn how to cope with wanting what one could not have, and - perhaps - a glimmer of hope that he, at least, would learn how to mend what could not be endured.

She started to close the door then, but hesitated, once more meeting Justin's eyes, biting her lip slightly as she considered whether or not to speak her mind. But, in the end, she knew she had no choice; the question was begging to be asked.

"Justin?" Her tone was like a caress. "Did he go alone?"

The young man managed not to flinch away from the question, but only by the narrowest of margins. He closed his eyes then, and was immediately back on that roof, feeling the whirling blast of air from the helicopter's blades and fighting against the impulse to turn back, to take one more look, to see the man who was the center of his world just one last time. But he hadn't; he'd forced himself to be strong, to do what Brian had asked him to do - to let him go. But as he'd turned his head to the side, to shield his eyes from the swirl of grit particles in the cyclonic blast, his eye had been drawn to a reflection in the polished steel surface of the door - a reflection of a tall, muscular individual, the last to board the chopper, who stood for a moment, framed in the doorway and scanning the rooftop, as if to make certain that nothing was being left behind - nothing, forgotten.

Chris McClaren, beautiful in the sunlight as the wind molded his leather jacket to his sculpted body, directing one last glance toward Justin as he stepped up and disappeared into the cabin - sure of himself and sure of his place at Brian's side.

Lindsey did not wait for an answer - did not need to - for it was written, clearly, painfully, and indelibly, on his face. Brian had gone away, leaving Justin behind and never once looking back. And he had not gone alone.

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

Babylon - at two o-clock in the morning - was a magical place, a gateway to a promised land where dreams were always waiting to be realized just around the next corner, where the most beautiful men in the world came to leave their inhibitions at the door and release their alter-egos to explore realms of possibility - where one lived in an infinite moment in which the next face one saw might be the face, the man who would fulfill every wish, unlock every door and guide one into a realm of endless, sexual bliss. It was a fantasy land, the air filled with the hard, visceral beat of the music, with glitter and the dazzle of strobe lights refracted in the spin of mirror balls, the taste of whiskey as smooth as honey, and the scent of men in heat. A sexual paradise, hardcore, driven, and without apology or excuse.

On the other hand, at two o'clock in the afternoon, it was just an empty shell, dark and dreary and haunted with wisps of memory, hollow and a little melancholy, especially so in the absence of the man who was its driving force, its heart and soul. Brian Kinney's sandbox was just a sandbox like any other - without Brian Kinney.

A few hours later, noise and lights and frenzied crowds and the smell of sex would transform it into a semblance of its characteristic glory (even without its lord and master in attendance) but for now, it was literally the last place on anyone's mind, which made it the perfect spot for a little confab of conspirators, safe from the prying eyes of any interested parties.

Carl Horvath had, of course, been here before, mostly in his professional capacity. One did not move up through the ranks of the Pittsburgh PD without developing at least a nodding acquaintance with the city's most notorious gay nightclub. However, he had also been present for the Stop Prop 14 benefit, not so much because he wanted to voice his support of the cause - he wasn't much on making political statements - but because his significant other, the notoriously loud-mouthed Debbie Novotny, would almost certainly have refused to speak to him ever again if he had not shown up to lend his presence to the cause, if not his voice.

But any recollection of the glitter and glamour of that occasion had been forever lost beneath memories of the blood-and-guts trauma - the flames and carnage and stench of the bombing that had ended it all, and the detective sometimes wondered how Kinney had found the courage and the resolve to rebuild it and defy those who had been so consumed with hatred and hypocrisy that they had felt justified in taking innocent lives. Of course, the ugly truth was that - from the perspective of the perpetrators - the lives taken were not innocent at all.

Because of who they dared to love.

Horvath allowed himself a soft sigh as he entered the building through the employee's entrance, noting - with approval - that Lance Mathis was not taking any chances. Two of his most physically imposing security guards were posted at the doorway, checking the credentials of everyone who came seeking admittance, without exception. One of them - a strapping young Latino named Miguel Guerrara - had known the detective since his days as a classmate of Horvath's daughter, but had not so much as flickered an eyelid when he'd asked for ID and badge.

Horvath approved. It was obvious that Mathis had decided overkill was preferable to complacency, and that he was almost certainly still blaming himself for his failure to protect the man who paid his salary and was his first priority. The detective considered it a sign of maturity that the security chief was able to deal with his guilt without letting it immobilize him. It was a characteristic that made for good cops and even better bodyguards.

Despite the fact that he was running a few minutes late for the meeting, Horvath lingered at the entrance, awaiting the arrival of the most clandestine member of his team, who would, almost certainly, not be carrying badge or credentials. Those who spent their lives walking the razor edge of undercover work did not risk being discovered by virtue of an unexpected random search.

Thus, it was no surprise when Mathis' guards moved to block the doorway when Sharon Briggs - in full Shoshona regalia, including thigh-high stiletto boots, a leather skirt barely long enough to cover the essentials, a flimsy black camisole fetchingly arranged to display maximum cleavage beneath an unbuttoned faux fur jacket, finished off with a cascading blonde wig and a double application of false eyelashes - came strolling down the alley, carrying a patchwork handbag big enough to be classified as a suitcase by any airline.

"It's okay, Boys," said Horvath, stepping in before the confrontation could get physical. Not that he was worried about Sharon; if she couldn't handle herself in such a situation, she wouldn't be worth her weight in rust flakes on the streets, but any kind of scuffle with Mathis's boys-wonder might call attention to her and risk blowing her cover, and that he could not allow. She was much too valuable. "She's with me."

Neither of the guards looked particularly convinced, but both stepped aside to allow her to enter when Horvath pursed his lips and leveled his best officer-in-charge gaze at them.

"Jesus, Briggs!" he muttered as they moved deeper into the shadows of the huge building. "You couldn't have toned it down a little?"

"What?" she retorted with a grin. "You don't dig my Lady Marmalade costume?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's not exactly the kind of thing you wear to blend in, now is it?"

"That," she answered, "depends entirely on where you're trying to blend. This . . ." She swept her arm around her in an all-inclusive gesture, "is Liberty Avenue, my friend. Now, which of us do you think stands out more here - you in your Brooks Brothers stand-up, or me, in Prostitute a la pseudo-Prada?"

He nodded and favored her with a small smile. "I see your point."

They moved forward then, toward a soft pool of light in an area beyond the main bar where a group was already assembled, awaiting their arrival.

Except for one individual who had not yet put in an appearance, but, since this person was the representative of the most powerful agency involved in the investigation, the tardiness would go unremarked.

Horvath made quick introductions as he took a seat at the table and accepted a cup of espresso from one of Mathis's assistants. Then he sat back and sampled his aromatic drink, before taking a moment to study the faces of the individuals seated around him. He, of course, knew them all, and was gratified to note that all seemed capable and dedicated to the task at hand.

As Kinney's chief of security, especially given the site of this assembly, Mathis could have used his position to leverage himself into the driver's seat of the conference, but he quickly demonstrated that he had no interest in playing games or establishing a pecking order, by gesturing for Horvath to take the lead, pending, of course, the arrival of the real powerbroker of the bunch.

"First of all," said the detective, "I want to be clear on one thing. Everything that is said here, whether fact or speculation, must remain strictly between us. Nothing leaves this room. Although I have authorization from Police Chief Mitchum to act on his behalf, and to commit the resources of the department to solving this case, it can't be stressed enough that there's no way of knowing where this threat originated or who might be involved - including some very powerful individuals and possibly even members of law enforcement or upper-level political circles."

He paused then, and cleared his throat, reluctant to say what had to be said. "Despite the fact that Kinney is almost an icon of the gay community . . ." He grinned and shook his head. "Okay, so there's no almost to it - he's the icon of the gay community - there's no denying he's made a lot of enemies by being unwilling to go anywhere near the closet where the religious right and the homophobes think he belongs. Therefore, discretion has to be our first order of business. Are we all clear on that?"

The detective looked up then and surveyed the group around the table, careful to meet the eyes of everyone present, to make sure that they all understood the gravity of the situation.

Lance Mathis, of course, needed no reminder of what was at stake, and he had already made sure that his cousin, Drew Boyd, who had somehow taken on the duties of his second-in-command during this crisis, and Emmett, who was currently running Babylon in Brian Kinney's absence, understood as well. They had all, after all, been present to witness the original attack first hand and needed no convincing of the seriousness of the matter. Thus, all three nodded their agreement to Horvath's conditions, although Emmett looked as if it would take every ounce of self-control he could summon to suppress his natural urge to vent his outrage.

Sitting to Emmett's right was Clint Abshire, chosen by Mathis to oversee the security arrangements at the Kinnetik office building - a neatly dressed individual whose appearance was a model of reserve and restraint except for the shoulder-length chestnut locks that framed his face, a man who looked more like a college professor than a security specialist and who was regarding Horvath with calm resolve, obviously fully aware of the necessity for discretion. Flanking him was Jared Hilliard, followed by Angel Diablo, both still scruffy enough to maintain their undercover identities, but lacking the more flamboyant details that usually marked their appearances. Hilliard, for example, still wore his flight jacket, but had dispensed with the plastic layers that usually obscured his appearance, and Angel, though still sporting drooping jeans and nose ring, had left his hip-hop swagger at the door.

Which brought him, finally, past the empty chair nearest the bar, to Sharon Briggs, and he noted, again, that there was absolutely nothing left to the imagination in the image she projected. She had left not a single nuance of her persona at the door, or on the street, and he knew it was because the risks taken by her male counterparts as they played their parts paled in comparison to the ones she encountered every single day of her life. In presenting herself as a perpetual victim - a target for scorn and derision and a product of abuse and sexual predation - she invited more of the same from the people who occupied the darkness at the lowest levels of humanity; it was only her skill and her courage and her finely-honed survival instincts that enabled her to endure the ordeal and fulfill the functions she had set for herself. Though the identity she had fashioned was constant, the way she played it was not, depending on the circumstances. She was always Shoshona Jackson - penniless, uneducated, vulgar, friendless, living without hope - and she was always a prostitute, barely making ends meet, always hungry and desperate. But sometimes she was raucous and loud and brash; other times she allowed herself to seem withdrawn and damaged and destitute. She played to the crowd that she needed to target at any given moment, and the transition from one presentation to the other was so seamless that no one ever noticed where one stopped and the other started, or, if anyone did, they simply put it down to the schizophrenic nature of the individual.

He allowed his eyes to slip down and take in all the details of her appearance, and he wondered, just out of idle curiosity, where she had managed to secrete her weapon. He honestly could not imagine, but he knew, beyond all doubt, that she had found a way. Despite a necessary paranoia about being discovered, she was not - quite - crazy enough to risk going unarmed. Any trace of her true identity she would not carry, but it was as certain as sunrise that her gun was always within reach.

She lived in the middle of a perpetual balancing act requiring both formidable skill and unflinching courage to pull off, and she played it perfectly. Thus, she was enormously valuable to the Pittsburgh Police Department. Almost irreplaceable. Yet, by the very nature of her tasks, she spent her life almost entirely isolated and locked up within protective walls of her own devising, unable to let down her guard except on those rare occasions when she was able to return to her own identity and the bosom of her family - the only people who were ever allowed to know the woman who existed beneath the surface.

Horvath wondered how she stood it and then wondered, as he always did when his thoughts strayed in that direction, why anyone would choose such a life.

He was pretty sure he would never figure it out on his own, and she would never volunteer an explanation, but he was inordinately grateful for what she did just the same.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Except for one thing," replied Hilliard, incredibly blue eyes sweeping the room and obviously not finding what he was looking for. "Where's the brass?"

Horvath smiled, and noted that Briggs was chuckling softly, huge, dark eyes sparkling with amusement and appreciation as she allowed her gaze to explore the impressive physical attributes of her male counterpart's physique.

Once in a while in the course of her life - Brian Kinney being the original case in point - she'd been moved to regret her sexual orientation. What she saw when she looked at Jared Hilliard inspired her to another one of those moments.

Oh, well!

She shifted in her chair as a new voice - slightly hoarse and definitely edged with amusement - rose from the shadows behind her.

"Present, and apparently just in time."

Horvath looked up and watched in silence as a stocky figure emerged from the gloom and moved to the only remaining empty chair, where she deposited a slim briefcase on the table before taking a seat and adjusting the cuffs of a very subdued but ultra-expensive gray Armani jacket. Then she glanced briefly at each the faces of the individuals seated around the table before turning finally to look directly at the senior detective.

"I apologize for my tardiness, Detective Horvath," she said. "I don't ordinarily believe in being 'fashionably late', but, in this case, it was unavoidable. I'm Alexandra Corey."

Jared Hilliard grinned. "AKA - the brass."

If Hilliard had been one of his own people, Horvath would probably have given him a stern look to encourage him to mind his manners, but that would have been a complete waste of time for the kind of freelance employees who worked for Mathis, so he didn't bother. Instead, he chose to get down to business.

"Would you like to take the lead here, Agent Corey?" he asked. "I assume you want to brief everyone on whatever you've discovered."

"Please call me Alex," she replied, "and actually, I'd prefer to simply observe, for the time being. All of you have been on the scene from the beginning, so your observations should provide a great deal of insight into everything that happened, while my own findings are still strictly preliminary. Plus, I'd really like to hear any speculation or conjecture any of you have to offer."

Lance Mathis turned and regarded the woman with a smile, noting the exquisitely cut cap of salt-and-pepper hair, the subtle, but skillfully applied make-up, the eyeglasses dangling from a gold chain around her neck, and - above all - the intense intelligence gleaming in dark eyes that were evaluating him just as thoroughly as he was evaluating her. "So no more 'Just the facts, please'?"

She smiled, and everyone at the table was abruptly aware of being in the presence of a very focused, very powerful individual. "The days of 'Dragnet' are far behind us, Mr. Mathis. And we've learned a lot since then. Such as how to take advantage of the instincts - the sixth senses, if you will - of people like yourselves. Profiling criminals now requires broader parameters."

Mathis nodded. "And victimology?"

Her smile grew wider as her eyes - a brown so dark it was almost black - flashed with approval. "Very good. Victimology can be just as vital to tracking down an unsub as forensic evidence. And that's my particular specialty."

"So you've been looking into Brian's history, right?" It was the first time Sharon Briggs had spoken since sitting down at the table, and Horvath turned to level a quizzical gaze at her, having heard something in her voice that he could not quite identify.

The FBI agent, however, was not even remotely surprised. "I have. To say that it's very colorful would be an understatement. Wouldn't it?"

Briggs grinned. "That it would. I take it that you've seen the BareBronze ads?"

Corey did not - quite - wink. "Indeed I have."

"Excuse me," said Emmett, not bothering to try to disguise the degree of his annoyance, "but what the fuck are we talking about here?"

He was not the only one who was slightly lost and disoriented - and making a mental note to check out BareBronze and its ad history.

Alex Corey simply favored Emmett with a tolerant smile before gesturing for Horvath to continue with his agenda for the meeting.

It didn't take long for the detective to lay out the summary of what the police investigation had turned up.

The forensic evidence gathered from the scene of the crime, and the facts learned from the thugs who had been arrested after pawning Brian's watch, was minimal, at best. Although the CSI techs had gathered massive quantities of data from the warehouse, none of it had proved to be useful in trying to identify the individuals who had orchestrated and financed the crime. Several more members of the attack group had been identified, arrested, and interrogated, but none had known anything about the men who'd hired them. Or so they'd claimed. Horvath had found it unlikely that none of them had noticed even the smallest detail about the individuals who had been there to observe on the night of the attack, but he'd realized quickly that their silence spoke volumes about the power wielded by such men. All of the hired thugs had been recruited and paid - in cash - by Andrew O'Malley, who had also rented the van in which Brian had been captured, and he had turned out to be exactly what Horvath had expected - a vicious, cretinous bigot with ties to the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang, who had obviously taken great delight in carrying out the job he'd been hired to do, but with no discernible connection to the men who'd targeted Brian Kinney specifically. O'Malley was, in more ways than one, literally a dead end.

The authorities had realized early on that they were dealing with powerful individuals who were experts in getting what they wanted while remaining completely enshrouded in mystery, preserving their anonymity with great skill and all the discretion big money could buy, never getting their hands dirty or risking exposure.

"Beyond that, we've got very little," he concluded. "The only evidence that might prove useful - and that's a big stretch - is a tire track spotted in the side alley by the warehouse, which we wouldn't have gotten at all except that the exhaust from an idling vehicle melted a patch of snow, and the mud underneath picked up the track when the car sped off. Turns out it was a Bridgestone Potenza S-03, primarily found on Mercedes Benz E500 sedans."

"Well, that's significant, isn't it?" asked Emmett, obviously eager to find some scrap of hope to cling to. "I mean, there can't be that many cars like that in Pittsburgh, can there?"

Horvath sighed. "Actually, there can. Since we don't have a single detail to narrow down the field - no idea about year or model or color - there are literally hundreds of them registered in the city - and hundreds more in the surrounding area."

"So you're telling me," Emmett continued, his voice heavy with frustration, "that you have no clues as to who could have done this? That they're going to get away with . . ." He fell silent then, unable to find the words to express his dismay.

"Now hold on," said Horvath. "I didn't say that. I only said that the forensic evidence hasn't given us anything conclusive. Yet. There's one more thing that might pay off - eventually. Apparently, one of the observers had a cold or something. Anyway, the CSI techs found a discarded tissue on the platform where the Peanut Gallery, as Kinney called them, were standing, and . . ."

"DNA," gasped Emmett, clasping his hands together quickly, gleefully. "You got DNA."

Horvath nodded. "We did, but . . ." He held up a cautionary finger. "Don't get your hopes up, because we haven't been able to match it. There are no matches in any database we've been able to access."

"So what does that mean?" Emmett demanded. "How can that be possible?"

"Relax, Emmett," said Lance Mathis gently. "DNA databases are still in the development stage, so they're extremely limited."

Emmett was not in a mood to be mollified. "In that case, what good does it do to have it? If you can't use it to find . . ."

"The good it will do, Mr. Honeycutt," said Alex Corey, her voice soft with sympathy, "is that it will confirm the identity of the suspect once we do find him."

"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Emmett had risen to his feet now, his chest heaving as he was close to hyper-ventilating. "It might be easy for all of you to sit here and speculate and talk about this case like it was some kind of strategy game, but you weren't there. You didn't see what they did to him. Jesus Christ!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "You can't imagine. He was . . . my God! I've never in my life seen anyone who was as beautiful, as exquisite as Brian Kinney. He was like - I don't know - like Apollo made flesh. He would . . . he'd take your breath away, and for human beings to do this to someone like him - or to anyone for that matter, and then to just walk away. And all because God made him a little bit different - a little too perfect for them to bear. For them to get away with it, it's . . . it's not right. It's not fair."

Drew Boyd was on his feet then, wrapping Emmett in arms like steel, and cradling him against a rock-hard body, while everyone else looked away, uncertain of what to do or say.

Everyone, that is, except Alexandra Corey, who stood up and moved around until she was standing directly beside the football player, reaching up to lay her hand on Emmett's shoulder. "Listen to me, Emmett," she whispered. Then she waited until he turned to look at her, tears still filling his eyes.

"Are you listening?" she asked, and had no idea why he was suddenly smiling down at her.

"Yes. I'm listening."

"We are not going to let that happen," she said firmly. "Do you understand me? They are not going to get away with this."

He stepped back then, while lifting one hand to lay against Drew's chest in a wordless expression of gratitude. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, wanting to believe her, but unable to swallow his skepticism.

Her smile was gentle. "Because I'm like a fucking bulldog, my young friend. I never give up until I get what I'm after. And because I really do believe in the concept of karma. What goes around really does come around - sooner or later."

It didn't make any sense at all for him to believe her, to trust in her assurances, which were simplistic, at best. And yet - somehow - he did. Thus he leaned forward, and spoke softly, while wiping away the last of his tears. "Sooner . . . would be better." He chose to trust her, but not quite enough to convince him to relinquish his hold on Drew's hand as he sank back into his seat.

Carl Horvath took a moment to make sure that the young man who was still a resident of the Novotny/Horvath household had regained his composure before he resumed the briefing. "So - to address the question Emmett posed - how do we go about identifying these bastards. Obviously, we're going to have to approach this investigation from different angles, so let's see what you guys have managed to come up with."

He looked first to Sharon Briggs who quickly produced a digital audio device to play back the recording she'd made of the discussion between the lab tech, Monty Peabody, and John Vincent Fincher, contributing editor to the local Fox News affiliate. Before hitting the play button, she announced the time, date, and location of the conversation, and the identities of the people involved.

By the time it was finished, Jared Hilliard was grinning at her. "Oh, you are good, Baby," he laughed, eliciting a huge grin in response.

"Jesus Christ!" said Drew Boyd. "John Vincent Fincher? Are you kidding me? I mean, I know he's a right wing fanatic and a homophobic prick, but surely he wouldn't get involved in this kind of atrocity."

Though the remark was addressed to Briggs and Horvath, it was Alex Corey who responded. "I wouldn't be too sure about that."

Horvath turned to stare at her, suddenly sure there was something - maybe many somethings - she was not sharing with the group. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

She smiled, knowing exactly what he was thinking, but choosing to ignore the innuendo for the moment. "Think about it," she replied, by way of avoiding the question he had not asked. "If you were mixed up in this kind of horror, wouldn't you be eager to keep tabs on your victim? Especially if you were paranoid enough to let yourself wonder if you might have missed something in the measures you took to remain unidentified. Which, of course, doesn't prove that Fincher himself is directly involved, but he has very powerful friends who might have persuaded him to look into the matter on their behalf."

Horvath regarded her solemnly, before replying. "Uh, huh!" His tone was blatantly skeptical.

Then he turned back to Briggs. "So how should we pursue this?"

She smiled and looked toward Jared Hilliard. "I think I've exhausted my access," she answered, "since I'm not Peabody's type. But maybe I can think of someone else who is."

"It's funny," said Emmett, "how you just never know. Peabody is a neighbor of Ben and Michael, and he's supposed to be this pristine bastion of morality - not to mention completely committed to a monogamous relationship."

"Honey," retorted Briggs, "have you seen him? If he's monogamous, it's because no one else would even look twice. And I've seen his partner, who is also a bottom-feeder."

Emmett thought about it for a moment; then he grinned. "I do love a woman who tells it like it is."

Alex Corey was nodding her approval, with a speculative glance toward Hilliard to acknowledge that he was almost certainly attractive enough to pull off the necessary seduction.

"And," she added, "there are other avenues available, to keep tabs on Fincher."

It was Mathis's turn to feign disbelief. "The FBI infiltrating the fourth estate? I'm shocked."

Horvath repeated his skeptical reaction. "Uh, huh!" Then he lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at the security chief. "You guys got anything?"

Mathis gestured toward Hilliard, and nodded for him to proceed.

"You wanted something from a different angle," said the undercover specialist, "so here it is."

He talked for several minutes about the things he had learned and observed about Buddy Charles and Pete Ruiz and their families. Then he wrapped up his report with a bit of speculation. "These two boys didn't do this on their own, as some kind of prank. For one thing, although they spout the rhetoric, they're not really gay bashers. No real malice in them - just ignorance. But someone put them up to the attempt to burn down Kinney's building. They're covering for someone - someone who has some kind of power over them. And sooner or later, they're going to let something slip, although it may not be enough to advance us very far in our search."

"But I don't get it, Jared," said Abshire. "If I understand you correctly, these are slum kids. From the Flats. And every indication is that the people who were behind this attack are rich and powerful. So how can there be a connection between the two extremes?"

Hilliard smiled. "Sometimes, connections are a little convoluted, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. You're right in thinking that neither of these little punks have any link to members of the upper crust. But sometimes there can be family ties that aren't obvious at first glance."

"How so?" asked Horvath.

The young, black man sighed. "Let me tell you about the dinner I was served last night, by Miss Rachel Charles - Buddy's mother. The ingredients were simple - cheap cuts of meat, canned vegetables, rice, evaporated milk - that kind of thing." He grinned. "Though I know I don't look like it right now, I can assure you that I've dined in some of the world's greatest restaurants, enjoying elaborate meals prepared by some of the greatest chefs. In New York, Paris, Milan, Madrid, Monaco - literally all over the world. And in all that, I have never had a better meal than the one I ate last night in the kitchen of a run down little shotgun house in Reilly Flats."

"So-o-o, what are you telling us?" asked Mathis. "That Buddy's mother is the Julia Child of the ghetto? So what?"

Hilliard clasped his hands before him on the table. "She learned it from her mother, who learned it from her mother, who learned it from her mother. Four generations of women who were taught that it was their purpose in life to become world-class cooks, to provide the very best service for their patrons."

"Their patrons?" It was almost a snarl from Sharon Briggs, and the disgust in her tone was a perfect reflection of his own reaction when he'd first heard Rachel Charles use those words to explain her relationship to her employers - the individuals who had employed her family for more than a century. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"What do you know," Hilliard asked calmly, "about a place called The Club?"

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


"It's a half-way house, Justin," observed Cedric Lasseigne, as he looked around the narrow, gloomy little room that was to be his home for the next few months. "What were you expecting, a suite at the Ritz?"

Justin stood in the doorway, looking into the tiny chamber which provided just enough space for a single bed, - complete with lumpy mattress, foam-rubber pillow, and frayed, faded army blanket - one tiny chest of drawers and a very old wooden rocking chair. The rear wall - barely eight feet across - featured a small window with a spiderweb of cracks in the glass, and the floor was tiled with a dull, gray vinyl that was instantly recognizable as the kind that was used in every institutional establishment in the country.

"It's a closet, Frenchie," said Justin. "Which is appropriate since you don't have one."

"Don't need one," Cedric responded, "since I don't have anything to store in it."

Justin walked further into the room and plopped himself down in the rocking chair, which squeaked alarmingly under his weight, before tilting slightly to the left and settling into a new configuration. "Frenchie," he said tentatively, "you've never told me . . ."

The older man sat on the edge of the bed and spoke quickly, forestalling his companion's question. "I'm really hungry. You hungry?"

"Not really," said Justin, his nose twitching slightly at the lingering smell of liver and onions that permeated the entire house. "Maybe we could go down to the diner - get a pink plate special. If you think you can deal with more of Debbie's loud mouth, that is."

Lasseigne shuddered. He had known plenty of women like the notorious Debbie Novotny - women who meant well, but were never content unless they could delve into every nook and cranny of a person's life. And his nooks and crannies were not available for examination - to anyone.

Unconsciously, he moved his hand to rub at a spot on his left forearm, a spot that was safely concealed under the dark, faded plaid of his shirt sleeve.

"Why do you do that?" asked Justin idly.

"Do what?"

The younger man smiled. "Whenever you want to avoid answering a question, you rub your arm."

Lasseigne shrugged, and deliberately clasped his hands together. "Just a silly habit."

Justin studied the Cajun's face, bothered slightly by the undercurrent of some, strange, nameless emotion he heard in the man's voice. "Come on, Cedric. You don't . . ."

"Tell me something, Justin," Lasseigne interrupted. "Do all of your friends think of Brian the way those two women do?"

The blonde shook his head. "Not really. Debbie has her own way of thinking . . . about everything. And Lindsey . . . she . . . "

"Loves him." It was not a guess.

"Yeah. I guess she does, but it's complicated."

Lasseigne allowed himself a tiny smile, pleased that he'd managed to divert Justin's attention to a new topic. "Would you mind if I offered you a different perspective? Conclusions drawn by someone who has no axe to grind, no ulterior motives, other than to help you sort out your thoughts?"

Justin, who was more perceptive than the older man realized and who knew he was being deliberately diverted, simply smiled.

"You've been a real blessing to me, cher. Over these last days, I've listened to your stories - about your life and your friends . . . and your Brian - and it's allowed me to step outside my own meager existence. To see things that may not be obvious to the people who are so intimately involved with him, and with you. You're a good man, Justin, and I think you're getting very close to making a huge mistake. One that I would not see you make, if I can do anything to help you avoid it."

"What kind of mistake?" Justin's voice was filled with youthful skepticism.

The elderly man's smile was gentle. "You're about to open your hand, and let go of the greatest treasure of your life. You're about to let Brian walk out of your life."

Justin closed his eyes, and let the image form in his mind. The perfect image. The image of the man he loved with his whole heart. "It's what he wants."

Lasseigne leaned forward and laid his hand against the young man's shoulder. "Bullshit!"

Justin couldn't help but grin. "What?"

"How is it possible for you to love him so much, and know him so little?"

"More to the point," Justin retorted, "how is it possible for you to think you know him at all?"

Lasseigne sat back and regarded his young friend with a sympathetic smile "Because you've allowed me to see him through your eyes, but without the distortion of loving him. How many times has he pushed people away from him, Justin? You - and Lindsey - and Michael - and God only knows how many others. And every single time he's done it, what's been the motive behind it? How many times are you and your friends going to let him save you, by giving up his own dreams and needs? Are you really going to allow him to wind up alone - to give up everything he cares about - in order to protect the people he loves?"

"That's not what he does. He just doesn't want any silly romantic attachments. He doesn't want me."

"You know," Lasseigne said with a sigh as he rose and moved to stand at the window, looking out into the blustery day, "you're not nearly as smart as you think you are. Or as I thought you were."

"What do you mean?"

The old man turned and stared down at his young friend's face, and Justin could not quite shrug off the expression of pity he read there, which sparked a surge of anger within him. Why on earth would this broken, pathetic old drunk think he had a right to pity Justin Taylor - up-and-coming darling of the art world, member of the social elite, artiste extraordinaire?

Lasseigne saw the flare of rage in Justin's eyes, and knew exactly what it meant, knew that he was probably wasting his time and that any persistent effort to force his young friend to open his mind to a truth he might not be ready to face would very likely put an end to their friendship, and that was a risk he preferred not to take. Thus he turned away, and went back to looking out the window. "Don't mind me. I'm just a tired, meddling old busybody. What do I know?"

Justin flushed. "I'm sorry, Frenchie. I didn't mean . . ."

"Of course, you did. You're young, beautiful, successful, talented - with your whole life ahead of you. Why should you listen to me, when I've made such a mess of my own?"

Justin stood and moved to touch the old man's shoulder. "Maybe because you're one of the smartest people I've ever met."

Lasseigne was rubbing his arm again. "Maybe I used to be," he said finally, his eyes soft with stirred memories. Then he turned back to regard his young friend with a tiny, enigmatic smile. "It's time for you to go, Justin. I need to get settled in here - figure out what I'm going to do next - and you . . . you need to think things through. I don't have any evidence to offer to convince you that I know what I'm talking about; that's a conclusion you'll have to draw on your own - or not. But I will say one more thing. If you let him go, you'll be making the biggest mistake of your life. After listening to everything you've told me about him, it seems to me that Brian has spent years pushing people away, because he thinks, at least in some small part, that he doesn't deserve to be happy. Because he blames himself for everything that's ever gone wrong in his life - for everything he couldn't 'fix'. Because he truly believes it would be best - for you - if he walked away. I know you don't believe that; I don't even know for sure why I believe it, but I do. If you let him go, you might eventually find a way to go on with your life; you might even manage to build a good, happy future for yourself, but it will never make up for what you've lost. Even if you don't ever realize it."

Justin's eyes were suddenly distant and unfocused and filled with shadows, as he considered what the man had said. He realized he would like to believe that Cedric was right, but the simple truth was that the old Cajun didn't know Brian at all. If he had, he'd have realized that Brian - beautiful, arrogant, narcissistic Brian - did not deal in guilt or remorse. It simply didn't make sense, given the motto by which he lived - no regrets, no excuses, no apologies. Sorry, after all, was still bullshit, in the framework of Brian's life. And always would be.

"I wish I could be sure of that," Justin replied, "but I need to know . . ."

Lasseigne's smile was sympathetic. "You accuse me of being a smart man, Justin, but the simple truth is that I've led a foolish life - defying the odds, taking silly chances, never learning the things I needed to learn, until it was too late. So I can't claim to know much. But there are a couple of things I've managed to learn along the way, in spite of my own deliberate ignorance. Two little bits of wisdom, which is not much, admittedly, to show for a lifetime of experience, but I don't have anything else to offer you, so I hope you'll indulge a silly old man.

"The thing about real life, cher, is that you can't always know. Sometimes, living requires a leap of blind faith. So that's the first thing you have to decide - whether or not he's worth the risk. And the second thing is that you usually have to fight for the things you really want. Things worth having don't usually come easy. That's what you and all of your friends have never stopped to consider - never allowed yourself to know."

Justin shook his head. "I don't understand. What are you saying?"

The old man sighed. "Your Brian - your beautiful, arrogant, self-absorbed, narcissistic Brian - has spent his whole life fighting to protect and defend the people he cares about. But no one - no one - has ever fought for him."

Justin suddenly found it very hard to breathe.

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

Most nights, there were no stars visible over Babylon, but this night was different. Not that there were a lot of stars - an amazing sweep of galactic splendor - but there were a few, glittering in the spaces between layers of gray, moonlit clouds and plumes of the industrial smoke that almost always punctuated the Pittsburgh skyline. In addition, the air was clear, days of wind and rain having washed it clean of the metallic tang it usually carried.

Everything was beaded with water, and Justin's shoes - the disreputable old Reeboks that he usually wore when he decked himself out in 501s and ratty old t-shirt - were soaked through as he traipsed through puddles to reach his goal.

Near the left rear corner of the roof, there was a cozy little partially enclosed nook, semi-sheltered by a right angled joint of brick walls that formed stair-steps around the corner, leading to the entrance to the first drop of the northernmost fire escape. Within that space, a couple of sling-type lawn chairs had been arranged on either side of a plastic Parsons table and a small metal storage cabinet that housed a stack of pillows and waterproof cushions.

A quick inspection of the area confirmed that it had not been used in a very long time - the non-usage confirmed by the absence of cigarette butts and empty beer cans and used condoms. He had not expected to find evidence of recent use, since it was a place very few people even knew about, but he was glad, nevertheless, to find his expectations fulfilled, especially since it was a part of the personal space designated primarily for the use of Babylon's owner.

Brian had not been up here recently. Unless, of course, someone had come in to clean up behind him, as was certainly possible. People were always cleaning up after Brian - both those who got paid (very well) to do so, and those who simply did it because it was just what they did.

Justin decided to stick to his first impression; he would believe Brian had not come here without him, because it was easier to believe that than the alternative.

He would prefer to assume that the corner - AKA The Fuck Nest, in Kinney-speak - had gone unvisited since the last time he and Brian had come here together, even though he knew that was unlikely.

He stood beside one of the deck chairs and let his fingers drift across its frame as his mind moved to other days, sweeter memories . . . one specific memory, vivid and unforgettable.

There had been stars that night too - and moonlight - and spotlights sweeping the sky, originating from some big to-do over at PNC Park, but it had not been raining or wet. There had been a definite chill in the air - as there almost always was except in the depths of summer - but it had not mattered.

Brian had seen to that.

It was early - early for Babylon, anyway - before midnight, when Justin overheard Michael complaining about 'Brian's disappearing act'. At the time, he had been dancing with a particularly toothsome stud - tall, auburn hair, intense green eyes, and a six-pack to die for, but his interest - and his erection - had waned immediately when he'd looked around and realized that Michael was right. Brian was nowhere to be found.

He was not on the dance floor, staking out his newest mark; he was not standing on one of the catwalks, watching the crowd in order to zero in on a new target; he was not leaning on the bar, allowing some hunky stud to whisper in his ear about all the things the stud might dream of doing with him and for him; he was not standing on the stairs, smirking at some lame, stale joke that Ted or Emmett had managed to mangle; he was not even in the back room, getting his cock worshipped by some newby/hottie who was undoubtedly fooling himself into believing that this was the beginning of something beautiful and lasting.

He was simply not to be found, and Michael was doing what he did better than anyone else in the world: whining.

"Jesus!" He was almost shouting from his vantage point on the stairs where he could look out across the dance floor and take in all the action. "What did he do? Triple the power of the amps? My fucking eardrums are bleeding, and . . ." He paused and glared at a tall, hunky young brunette who had taken advantage of an opportunity to brush up against him during his descent to the ground floor and then hesitated for a moment to favor him with a wink and a come-hither smile. "I 'd forgotten how it feels to be treated like a piece of meat," he complained, deliberately turning his back on his admirer and moving into the circle of Ben's arms. "Nothing ever changes in here."

Emmett - irrepressible as ever - grinned and directed a playful smile toward Michael's cruiser. "Not if we're lucky."

But Michael was not in the mood for the kind of banter he now considered silly and beneath his dignity. "It all just seems so shallow and juvenile." He glanced at Ben with a self-satisfied little smirk, using that comment as a segue into his next complaint. He did not actually say "and speaking of juvenile", but he might as well have done so, as everyone heard it anyway. "And where the fuck is Brian? He's the one who insisted we haul our asses down here, and then he pulls this vanishing act? What's up with that?"

Ted was nursing his tonic water and watching a couple of go-go boys perform a blatantly erotic dance as Bon Jovi's Wanted - Dead or Alive blasted from the speakers, and he continued to watch until the song was finished before turning to regard Michael with a puzzled gaze.

"Lighten up, Mikey," he suggested finally, with a slightly sardonic smile. "As I recall, you used to enjoy the quality of the single-minded repartee around here."

"Yeah, but then I grew up. That's what most people do, you know. Unless you want to stay an over-the-hill club boy forever, like . . ."

He fell silent abruptly as he noticed that both Ted and Emmett were looking at him strangely, as if they weren't quite sure who was speaking to them. But that was okay with him, because he had recently come to believe that his old friends had changed with time, that he no longer knew them as well as he'd once believed, and that they no longer understood his attitudes about love and life and morality. And friendship. In addition, Justin was staring at him, obviously surprised and uneasy and uncertain how to react to his anger.

"Let's go, Ben," he said quickly. "If our host can't be bothered to stick around, I don't see why we should."

"Hang on, Michael," said Ted steadily, leaning close to speak directly into his old friend's ear. "I'm sure he'll be down shortly. Since he bought the place, he has responsibilities, so he's not always . . ."

"Responsibilities, my ass!" His laugh was sharp - almost caustic. "The day Brian Kinney is responsible for anything, except figuring out who to fuck next, there'll be snowballs in hell."

Emmett tilted his head and stared at Michael uncertainly. "Funny - I thought he was your best friend."

Michael took a deep breath, and his eyes were suddenly filled with bitterness. "Yeah. Once upon a time, so did I."

"Michael," said Ben gently, "if this is all about this mess with J. R. . . ."

"Yeah," Michael snapped. "A mess that never would have happened if Brian had kept his nose - and his money - out of our business."

"Michael," Ben went on, obviously trying to placate his partner, "he's Gus' father, and he's got a right . . ."

"Like he ever gave a shit - about Gus or anybody else. All he's ever cared about . . ."

"Right," Ted interrupted, surprised to realize that he was about to blurt out what he was thinking, even though he knew he should just shut up and mind his own business. But then again, he figured, in a way, it was his business; he felt suddenly a bit proprietary, in spite of the fact that he often took some guilty pleasure from applying the screws himself and making Brian squirm whenever he got the chance, but that was different. He might even say it was expected, since Brian always responded in kind. But this - this was just . . . wrong. "He really gives a whole new meaning to the term 'deadbeat dad', doesn't he? I mean I happen to know for a fact - since I am his accountant, you know - that there's never been a single time when Lindsey or Gus - or certain . . . other people - needed something from him that he wasn't there to write the check, or hand over the car keys, or put in the right word, or risk everything to take on the crooked politician, or sign over his parental rights in order to do what was best for his son - and all without ever once expecting to be paid back. Or even acknowledged for his contributions."

"He's not a fucking hero!" Michael was almost snarling.

"No," Ted agreed, his eyes filled with ineffable sadness. "He's not. He's just a man. There was a time when that was enough for you, but I guess that time is gone."

When he fell silent and turned to walk away, it was uncertain who was more astonished by his outburst - him or his audience.

Justin did not wait around to gauge the response of the crowd. Instead, he simply stepped forward to lay a gentle hand on the accountant's shoulder, before pushing past everyone to make his way upstairs.

It was time to find Brian.

The search didn't take long, as he had a pretty good idea of where to look once he'd made certain that the owner's office was unoccupied. Brian had been brooding and uncharacteristically quiet for the last couple of days, as if he had something on his mind that he didn't wish to discuss - a condition that seemed to be happening more and more frequently of late. Justin had questioned him once or twice, but realized quickly that he was wasting his breath. Brian would talk about it when he was ready - or never talk about it at all, and nothing Justin could say or do would change that.

He pushed open the heavy metal door which lead to the roof and came to a sudden stop, more than willing to pause and suspend breathing in order to appreciate the vision before him.

Brian Kinney - dressed in black jeans and sleeveless black shirt, standing atop the ledge at the front of the roof, a joint in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, as he gazed up into the sky, with a full moon framing his perfect profile and emphasizing every sculpted line of his perfect body. The young artist realized, at that moment, that he felt a driving, almost irrational need to capture the image on canvas, to define the essence of the man and the world stretched out at his feet. He even knew what he would title it.

Solitude

He was momentarily surprised by that idea, until he thought about it, and came face-to-face with a truth he had never let himself recognize before. Despite the fact that he was seldom physically alone, that he could have virtually anybody he wanted, that almost every man or woman within his sphere of influence would gladly kneel at his feet - Brian Kinney spent most of his life in solitude. Not physically, of course. Nobody who fucked as much and as often as he did could be termed 'solitary'. But inside - where he really lived, where the real Brian Kinney resided - he was rarely touched by anyone.

Except . . .

"Me? Has he really let me get close enough to touch him, to see who he really is?"

He wasn't sure why he found the notion so frightening.

Michael, of course, had been admitted to that very select club, once upon a time. Could it be that it was really over between the two who had been like brothers most of their lives? He closed his eyes and visualized the look on Michael's face as he'd vented his anger at Brian, and he almost cringed as he recalled the deep, abiding resentment he'd seen lurking beneath the petty malice.

Could Michael really have forgotten all that Brian had meant to him - all that he had done for him and for his family?

He thought then about Michael's final, desperate snarl.

"He's not a fucking hero."

And he stared once more at the lonely figure standing tall and unbroken in the liquid moonlight, and suddenly was almost certain Michael was wrong in his assumption. Heroes, by their very definition, came in many different guises.

"Hey, Shepherd Boy. Looking for your lost sheep?"

Justin grinned. "Fuck the sheep. I'm looking for my big, studly stallion."

Brian turned to face him fully, and seemed unaware that he was standing just inches away from a fall that would almost certainly kill him. He was completely relaxed and unconcerned, except . . . oh, yes. There it was again - the whatever-it-was that had been bothering him lately was still there, buried deep beneath the easy smile, but still definitely there.

"What are you doing up here?" Justin asked, moving close and helping himself to a drag from Brian's toke.

"Meditating." There was no attempt to disguise the sarcasm in his tone, along with the faintest note of genuine anger.

"Brian," said Justin softly, taking his companion's hand and pulling him down off the ledge, "is something wrong?"

Brian shrugged. "What on earth could be wrong?"

"Isn't that what I just asked you?"

Again, Brian shrugged before moving off toward the nook at the rear of the building, tossing back the last of his drink. There was a fresh bottle of Beam on the table, and he quickly refilled his glass.

"Are you angry with me?" Justin asked, dropping into one of the sling chairs, as Brian moved to take a seat on one of the stair steps at the corner.

"Of course not. You're perfect. What on earth would I have to be angry about?"

It was Justin's turn to shrug. "You weren't too happy with the new Rage issue - the wedding, I mean."

"It's nothing to do with me." The answer was clipped, flat, unemotional. "Rage belongs to you and Father Michael, so you can do whatever you like with it."

Justin took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. "I think he and Ben left. He's um . . . not too happy with you."

Again the shrug. "Me and Abe Lincoln have a lot in common."

"Huh?"

The smile was sardonic. "You can't please all of the people, all of the time."

"Maybe you should have stayed out of this whole J.R. situation."

Hazel eyes were suddenly filled with flecks of ice. "Yeah, maybe I should."

He stood then and started to walk away.

"Brian," Justin called, quickly tossing his cigarette over the edge of the roof. "Brian, wait. I didn't mean it. Michael and Melanie are both acting like complete jerks, and Lindsey's probably the only one of the three with any real concern about the baby. The other two only seem interested in getting their own way, no matter what J.R. might need."

Brian paused, but didn't turn back to face Justin. "Sometimes," he said, very softly, "you can't please anybody at all."

Justin stepped forward and molded himself against that beautifully sculpted back, wrapping his arms around his lover's waist and letting his palms settle against the bulge at Brian's crotch. "You can always please me," he replied, nuzzling against the golden skin of Brian's bicep where the soft fabric of his shirt had slipped up to expose hard muscle.

Brian didn't offer a response, but his eyes were extraordinarily dark, as if he were sifting through old memories . . . old, shadowed memories, like . . .

And suddenly Justin knew - knew what Brian was seeing, what had caused him to close himself off, to turn inward.

It was the painting - the new one that he'd just completed, the one that was filled with his own doubts and fears and uncertainties, comprised of vivid, angular coils and jagged swatches of ebony and crimson and acid green, and huge blocks of cobalt and charcoal that loomed like walls. Prison walls above cracked foundations. Most people - even people who claimed to understand his art - only saw reflections of themselves in his paintings; their own beliefs, their own hopes or desires, their own despair. But Brian had always had the ability to see and identify the emotions that Justin poured into his art - had always been able to discern Justin's truth.

He had only looked at the completed painting once, but once had been enough.

He knew. He knew that the light was waning; that the desperation was building. He had figured it out, and was stepping back. Just as he always had. Stepping back, and opening the door, to allow Justin to be free to make his own choices.

As he always did. The darkness present now in those beautiful hazel eyes was the specter of hope - relinquished.

But Justin could not just walk away. He loved Brian, had always loved Brian. But how could he go on living with the emptiness, without the commitment Brian would never give him?

He loved Brian, but he wanted more. He wanted all the things Brian did not believe in, would never believe in. Even though he knew Brian loved him - loved every bit as much as he was loved in turn.

But what kind of future could they have if Brian could never bring himself to admit it - to give of himself, to admit his need? If he could never believe in them?

And would anyone else ever step up to fulfill Justin's dreams as long as he was standing in Brian's shadow?

He looked up then, straight into Brian's eyes . . . and understood.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. Soon they would be saying good-bye. Soon, Brian would stand there and watch him walk away.

But not, please God, not tonight.

He threw himself into Brian's arms and felt him falter, felt him start to pull away, but Justin was not going to allow him to step back. Not yet. Not tonight.

When he ripped off his shirt and shucked his jeans, Brian just stood there watching. But he was not retreating, not turning away, and Justin bit his lip to conceal a smile. There were few things in his life that he knew with certainty, but he knew Brian Kinney, knew the man had never quite managed to figure out how to resist this particular seduction.

When he was completely bare, his skin touched only by the moonlight and the reflections from the skylights, he lifted himself up on his toes and slipped his arms around Brian's neck and fitted himself against that sleek, perfect body. "I need you to fuck me," he whispered, licking his way up through the stubble just forming on Brian's throat. "I need you to take that big, beautiful dick and shove it into my ass and fuck me so hard that I see stars. Brian, please, I need your cock. I need to feel you inside me, so deep that you're a part of me. Deeper than you've ever gone before. Deeper than anybody ever has, or ever will." Then he leaned back and looked up to see the desire smoldering in those night-dark eyes. "So deep that you mark me - inside - like no one else ever could."

Brian's hesitation lasted only a moment, but it felt infinite as Justin easily read the thoughts running through his lover's mind - the reluctance, the doubts, the certainty that tomorrow was almost upon them. But then Brian grabbed him - roughly, almost brutally - and shoved him forward until he was braced against the brick railing at the edge of the roof. Tearing off his own clothes and retrieving lube and a condom from the cabinet, it was a matter of seconds for Brian to ready himself and then plunge into the ripe, plump, pulsating darkness that was calling to him. His hands were gripping Justin's hips so firmly that they both knew there would be bruises tomorrow, and his mouth was devouring Justin, his teeth clamping into tender flesh as if he could consume him, but it didn't matter. In those incredible moments, nothing mattered except the power and the brutal joining, the compulsion to be one. When orgasm took them, simultaneously, it was an explosion of sensation, a white-out so intense that consciousness escaped them both, and they collapsed together into the corner.

It was not the last time they would fuck before the end, but it was farewell nonetheless.

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

Justin sat on the ledge, swinging his legs over and staring down at the street below, his cock twitching with the memory of that incredible night when they had fucked and fucked - and then fucked again.

But then, inevitably, his mind moved forward to remember the rest, to recall that it was just four days later when Brian had returned from a visit to the doctor to announce that he had syphilis, his statement triggering a completely ridiculous queen-out on Justin's part, when he had managed to forget how many random partners he had entertained during and since his time in L.A., and even the one time when he'd been bombed out of his skull on coke and wakened in the morning to find himself in bed with a strange, hot guy, his ass sore and wet, and no condom anywhere in sight.

He had been terrified on that occasion, and hurried off to the nearest clinic for testing. Waiting for the results had been the most horrible time of his life - a time he had never spoken of to anyone. Not even Brian. In fact, especially not Brian.

But he had managed to put all of that out of his mind when he'd gotten furious and lectured Brian about his promiscuous lifestyle and how "it was a miracle that it hadn't happened sooner".

God! He'd behaved like such an unbelievably hypocritical asshole - behavior which had always seemed to be one of the favorite pastimes for their fucked-up little extended family.

And a week later, he was gone, and Brian was alone. Again. Like he'd always been.

He sighed as he remembered - again - how many times he'd left Brian, and then he thought about other times, when he'd refused to go, which reminded him about one of the things which Cedric Lasseigne had pointed out to him, something that - in retrospect - was so obvious that he couldn't believe he'd never thought of it himself.

He'd been waxing lyrical - almost boasting - about what he'd done when Brian had tried to push him away after his cancer surgery, about how he had stood his ground and refused to be banished from his place at Brian's side by pointing out that they had "a commitment", which he intended to honor.

Cedric had seemed skeptical. "And he was okay with that?" he'd asked, obviously doubtful.

Justin had allowed himself a smug smile. "Must have been. He accepted it."

"Did he? Or was he just too tired and too sick and too devastated by the treatments to continue to fight it?"

Justin had gone very still, realizing he had never once considered that possibility.

Cedric's smile had been very gentle. "What do you suppose the word 'commitment' means to a man like your Brian? A romantic promise? A pledge of undying love? Or a locked door?"

Jesus! How could he have been so fucking blind?

He sat for a while, watching the patterns of the night, the stars shifting toward the horizon, the occasional passage of a jet overhead, reflecting in the puddles on the roof. He sat and remembered, and thought about Brian.

He thought about his life, about what lay ahead of him, of what his life would be without the man who was the center of it. And he wondered if he could endure it. For it was time for him to face the truth, exactly as Cedric Lasseigne had suggested.

He could live without Brian, if he had to. But his life would never be what it should have been. He would never reach the full, complete existence the two of them were meant to share if he allowed Brian to walk away. In order to be complete, to be everything he was meant to be, he needed Brian at his side for the rest of his life. But that was only one half of the equation. The other half was equally important and must be addressed. Was he what Brian needed? Would both of them be happier together than apart, or would Brain ultimately be better off if Justin simply turned and went away?

He tried to look down through the years, to consider everything rationally, to figure out where his place was in Brian's life, and how he would endure the emptiness if the man whom he now recognized as his soul mate should never return to his side.

When he eventually decided it was time to stop sitting here moping, he was still no closer to knowing what to do.

Tomorrow, he was to be interviewed by some hotshot super-sleuth from the FBI - some woman who was supposed to be able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together and fix everything that was broken.

As if that were even possible, for some things, he knew, could never be fixed, a thought which led him to remember Brian's face - to remember what had been done to him - and to face the possibility that no one would ever be able to make him right again.

Not that he would care how Brian looked. But Brian would care. Being Brian Kinney had, after all, been the focus of his whole life.

He closed his eyes and remembered the beauty, remembered the perfection, remembered how that face had taken his breath away the first time he'd ever seen it.

Brian Kinney - the face of God.

Tomorrow, he would manage to get through his interview, and then he would talk to Cynthia, who knew Brian better than almost anybody and who was straightforward enough to be truthful with him. As much as she might wish to spare Justin's feelings, her loyalty to Brian would not allow her to put anyone's needs above those of the man who was both her employer and her friend.

Tomorrow, he would decide. But for tonight - for tonight . . . he rose and stood at the edge of the roof, lost in the darkness and in the memories and knew only one thing: Brian was not here, not beside him, not close enough to touch, and all the logic in the world couldn't compensate for the fact that everything inside him was screaming that this was not the way things were supposed to be.

He had come home to Brian, but Brian had left him here, and taken 'home' with him when he'd gone, leaving Justin to realize that no place would ever be 'home' again, if Brian Kinney wasn't there.

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

He had always loved the darkness. Even when he hadn't needed it. But now he had good cause to love it more, since it had become his best, most intimate friend, since it allowed him to stare directly into the eyes of the world without worrying about what would be staring back.

The air was warm and perfect, touching his skin like a drift of silk that had been left lying in the sunlight, and the roar of the surf breaking on the beach below was the perfect accompaniment to the idle scroll of his thoughts.

He looked out toward the east and watched the progression of waves rolling toward the strip of sand, as moonlight silvered the froth that crowned the breakers. It was not peaceful exactly; there was entirely too much chaos and tumult in the pounding of the water against the shoreline, but it was comforting nonetheless. Predictable chaos.

Unlike his life, which had, somehow, plunged off the deep end of possibility into unknown realms, leaving him without an anchor to cling to or a lifeline to reach for.

Except for Justin, of course, who had tried to reach him. Tried to throw him a line. But that he could no longer allow.

He knew, beyond all doubt, that any hope for happiness he had ever known had left him on the day Justin had walked out of his life, but he knew something else with even greater certainty. Rather than see Justin threatened - in any way - he would put a bullet through his own temple, without a second thought or moment of hesitation. He could contemplate spending the rest of his life alone and without solace, so long as he knew that Justin continued to exist . . . somewhere; that Justin could live a good, rich, full life, wherever he might be.

Brian had always expected to spend his life alone, so it was not such a great adjustment for him to make. His only real regret was that he had foolishly allowed himself to forget who he was - what he was - when he got caught up in a fantasy of joy and romantic attachment with a maddeningly persistent blond twink who simply refused to take no for an answer.

But that was the past. This . . . this was the future. Darkness welcomed, embraced - sanctuary.

It was lovely to feel free again, unfettered, even if it was all just an illusion. He was not really alone - sometimes wondered if he would ever be alone again. But Chris McClaren, thank God, was smart enough to have figured out that Brian did not like being crowded or watched. Even if the watching part was necessary to save his life.

Thus he was sitting here on the deck of the cottage the FBI had found for him, basking in an illusion of privacy when the truth was that there were plenty of security people out there in the night, getting paid to make sure no one intruded on his solitude - except them. But at least, they'd been discreet, so far. And McClaren, who actually occupied the cottage with him, had departed several hours earlier, muttering something about an urgent errand. As far as Brian was concerned, the man could have excused himself by claiming that he had to catch a flight to Jupiter. It didn't matter why he'd left; it only mattered that he was gone.

Tomorrow, he knew, he would step back into the madhouse, as a car would arrive very early to transport him to Turnage's little castle by the sea - AKA The Turnage Clinic - where he would undergo the first of several surgical procedures. Where the good doctor would begin the process of fixing what was broken.

Brian wasn't sure he believed it was possible to repair the damage, but he figured he had nothing to lose by trying. If the rest of his life was to be spent in scouting out ever new, ever younger and more beautiful tricks, it would definitely be to his advantage to avoid looking like a taller, skinnier version of Quasimoto.

Of course, if he could manage to continue to run Kinnetik - without scaring away his big clients - it probably wouldn't matter much anyway. Money, after all, could buy anything, including pretty young things who could pretend not to see ugliness and mutilation so long as they were sufficiently well compensated. But he was a little too fond of his own money to want to give it away if he didn't have to.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the rhythm of the surf stirred a quick flash of memory, which he suppressed almost before it could form.

Almost.

Blond hair, beautiful creamy skin stroked by golden sunlight, slender body splayed against the softness of sand drifts, blue eyes filled with laughter - and lust. A business trip to Jacksonville, a conference that lasted two days, interspersed with incredible nights of bottomless passion and then a week-end, filled with hours and hours of mind-blowing pleasure as the two of them explored the beachfront property of the client who'd been so pleased with Brian's campaign suggestions that he'd urged them to take advantage of his hospitality while he headed to Dallas for more interminable business meetings.

They had not wasted a single moment of it.

Brian shifted on the chaise lounge, focusing on obliterating that memory from his mind, relieved to find that his body seemed to be healing quickly. Though still stiff, he was now able to move without great discomfort or having to ease into new positions by degree to avoid straining over-taxed muscles or damaged tissue.

He had learned a hard lesson of late; everything was a matter of degree.

The house behind him was dark, except for a single small lamp that would provide enough light for him to avoid smacking into the furniture when - and if - he should decide it was time to seek out the narrow but comfortable bed that had been set up for him in a small chamber off the main room of the little, two-story house. Though there were two full bedrooms upstairs, he was not yet capable of navigating the stairs. Besides, it hardly mattered where he slept or how much room he might have since he was, inevitably, sleeping alone.

He did not waste any time lamenting his solitude.

No excuses. No regrets.

He looked up as an airliner appeared over a cloudbank low on the northern horizon and followed it until it disappeared into a pale mist rising over the water. Somewhere, a bell was ringing - a dull, lonely sound in the darkness.

He didn't want to think about lonely things.

A decanter of Jack Daniels Single Barrel whiskey sat on the table at his side, and he drained his glass before pouring himself a new serving. He knew it was probably not a good idea to be drinking; he was, after all, only a few hours away from going under the surgical knife, which would have happened two days earlier had he not developed a slight fever during the trip down from Pittsburgh.

But . . . what the hell? It wasn't as if he really cared that much anyway.

The booze was smooth and satiny going down, and he reminded himself to find out who had provided it, so he could offer his thanks for the thoughtfulness and for providing a new addition to his list of preferred libations.

There was a faint thump and then a soft rustle from somewhere behind him, and a slight stir in the air told him that he was no longer alone, and he wondered - idly - if he should be concerned enough to turn around to see who had chosen to disturb his lovely silence. But, in the end, he didn't. To reiterate his earlier observation - it wasn't as if he really cared that much anyway.

"If I were a serial killer - or a psychopath - you'd be a dead man," said Chris McClaren.

"Uh, huh." Brian didn't even bother opening his eyes.

"Did you eat?"

A semi-toast with the half-empty glass. "Uh, huh."

"Liquid diet, huh?"

"Finest kind."

McClaren grinned. It was always an unexpected pleasure to discover another Hawk-eye Pierce aficionado. "Not quite," he replied, as he moved forward and sprawled into the chair on Brian's right. "But it's early yet."

Something in his voice - something new that Brian realized he had not heard before - spurred sufficient interest to convince him to open his eyes just in time to see McClaren remove a small plastic container from his jacket pocket and set it on the table between them.

"What's that?"

"Your fondest dream."

Brian opened his mouth to dispute the claim, but the FBI agent beat him to it. "Except for that."

Brian grinned, as McClaren opened the container, and laid out the necessary accouterments. "All for me?"

"Fuck that. There's enough for two."

"Strictly for medicinal purposes, I suppose."

The FBI agent laughed. "Sure. Whatever."

"Your boss is going to be so disappointed in you."

McClaren's grin was roguish. "Only if she finds out we didn't save her any."

Brian watched as the fed assembled a fat joint, before pulling a disposable lighter from his pocket and igniting the toke. The aroma was like an elixir as the first plume of smoke swirled around them.

"I could kiss you," said Brian, as McClaren handed him the joint.

"Maybe later," came the response.

Brian couldn't quite suppress the chuckle that escaped him. "Magritte's pipe, my ass!"

He inhaled deeply and felt the first tiny rush expand within his body. Then he took another hit before turning to study the profile of his companion who was staring up into the night.

"I'm never wrong, you know." It was a simple statement of fact, and it was obvious that McClaren required no clarification.

"No. I don't suppose you are."

The FBI agent pushed back into his chair, and then went very still as he noticed that the blanket spread across Brian's lower half was slipping, revealing . . . skin. Lots and lots of smooth, unbroken, golden skin.

Shit! The man was fresh out of the hospital from a beating that should have left him so badly marked that nothing about him would be able to stir sexual interest in even the horniest individual in the world. Shit!

"Shit!" he muttered. "Why the fuck are you sitting out here naked?"

Brain simply shrugged. "What difference does it make, way out here in the backside of nowhere? I don't think I'm offending anybody."

He then handed the joint back and lifted his eyes just in time to catch McClaren's gaze and interpret what he saw there.

Hazel eyes darkened as he carefully, deliberately, turned away while he tugged the blanket back into place, and his voice was rough, almost hoarse, when he continued. "On the other hand, maybe I am. It's all right. You don't have to explain anything."

It was McClaren's turn to laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. "You think you got me all figured out, don't you?"

"It's not exactly rocket science." The answer was straightforward, sharp, clipped.

McClaren sat up sharply and turned until he was leaning forward, almost - but not quite - invading Brian's space. "You think this matters to me?" he asked, one hand gesturing toward Brian's face. "You think I can't see what's beneath it. See the man you were before this happened, and the man you'll be again, when it's all over?" He took a deep drag before handing the joint back to Brian. "Then you're not nearly as smart as I thought you were."

But Brian was still gazing out into the night. "You could always just close your eyes."

"You stupid fucker!"

McClaren darted forward then and wrapped his arms around Brian's shoulders and pulled that supple, slender body against his chest until their lips were almost touching. "You stupid fucker!" he repeated, before claiming Brian's mouth in a steamy, hungry kiss that had nothing of tenderness or uncertainty about it, a kiss that left them both breathless and reeling and left Brian realizing that he had seldom been kissed so thoroughly - or so well.

Brian blinked. "What was . . ."

"That was the kind of kiss that one horny man gives to another. The kind of kiss that I'm pretty sure you're more accustomed to giving than getting. But you need to understand something."

Brian stared at McClaren's beautifully proportioned face for a moment. Then he took the joint from the agent's hand and deliberately inhaled deeply, waiting to hear the rest of the story.

"Yes, OK. You're right. I'm as queer as you are. And I want the same things you want. And right now, the thing I'd like most is to fuck your hot little ass into next year." He grinned when he saw the denial rising in hazel eyes. "Or vice versa. We could argue about that later. But, in another way, you're wrong. No matter how much I'd like to fuck you, if I did that, I couldn't do what I'm supposed to be doing. If I'm fucking you, or - God, I can't even believe I'm thinking about it - letting you fuck me, then I can't do the most important thing of all. I can't protect you.

"That's the only thing that really matters. And if you think about it, you'll begin to understand why. I don't want to have to deal with that amazing blond twink of yours, and you can't even imagine how weird it is that I could be alarmed at the idea of having to answer to him if anything should happen to you. Nor do I want to confront your Italian-drag queen best bud, or the mother of your child who's trying to make herself believe she'll ever love anybody else the way she loves you, or that crazy loud-mouthed redhead who manages to resent you and love you all at the same time, or that amazingly lovely nelly-bottom who would probably lay down his life for you, or your eminently fuckable head of security who isn't interested in either one of us but would gladly take on the Russian mob to defend you, or any of the other few thousand individuals who care about you way more than they should. Or, last but certainly not least, my boss, who will have my head on a plate if I let anybody get close enough to hurt you.

"So, as much as I might like the idea, it ain't happening. And, just to be sure we understand each other perfectly, I'm also unwilling to provide the body for you to use to pretend that the one you really want doesn't matter to you. If things were different, I might - and that's a big might - be willing to work out a fuck-buddy arrangement with your tight little ass, but I'm nobody's substitute twinkie. So . . . are we clear?"

Everything went strangely still for the space of a brace of heartbeats, and then - unbelievably - Brian Kinney laughed and took another deep drag of the joint.

"I knew it," he said as he settled back against his chair, letting the blanket fall as it would.

"Knew what?"

"It's a sixth sense."

McClaren was trying - without much success - to stifle a rising sense of resentment. "What is?"

Brian looked up, and once more enjoyed the touch of the warm breeze against his skin. "I always know," he replied, turning to regard McClaren with a smug smile, "when someone is ogling my ass."

McClaren blinked.

Shit!

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