Chapter 21


Twilight was slipping toward true darkness by the time the front door of the diner sprang open before the determined assault of an excited six-year-old decked out in artfully faded jeans, an Ironmen t-shirt, miniature biker boots, and a horrendously expensive black leather jacket (horrendously expensive for a six-year-old anyway.) It was his favorite jacket, because it had been a gift from a very special someone, and because it allowed him to act as if he looked like that same special someone. Which he did, by the way.

His name was Gus Marcus-Peterson, but he sometimes introduced himself to new friends as Gus Marcus-Peterson-Kinney, not actually minding that it was a real mouthful, although he was very careful not to do so when his Mama was around. It was okay, though, when it was Mommie who was present.

He didn't pretend to understand why it should matter which name he used, but he had learned early on in life how to read his mothers' moods - when to indulge his urge to exercise his free spirit, and when to rein it in. He did not mention his daddy to Mama any more, because she always got this really pinched-up, squinty look on her face when he did, with lines like trenches forming around her mouth and eyes, and her voice getting all hoarse and rough. And sometimes she'd snap at him too, and get upset over stuff that wouldn't bother her at all at other times.

So he'd learned.

But right now, the diner was bright and filled with light, and there was only his mommie and Uncle Michael and Granny Deb present, so he felt free to race across the room and throw himself into his mommie's arms and shout out his demands.

"I love you, Mommie, and I missed you, and where's my Daddy?"

Granny Deb greeted him with a huge smile, but he did wonder why her lips were trembling - just a little - and why there seemed to be water dripping from her eyes. She was not really his granny, of course; he knew that. But she was J.R.'s granny, and she seemed to like it well enough when he joined his baby sister in calling her that. He didn't quite understand why he didn't have a real granny, but it was enough for him that he was loved, deeply and completely, by his moms and his daddy and so many other people.

And now, of course, he had a new Grandpa (new to him, anyway) to add to the group. He had been a little uneasy at first, when Leona - his babysitter - had introduced the gray-haired man as his grandfather and informed him that they would be traveling together - that 'Mr. Peterson' was going to take him to his mommie in Pittsburgh. But 'Mr. Peterson' had quickly knelt beside him and announced that his real name - to Gus -was 'Grandpa' and that he had been waiting a very long time for the chance to meet his grandson. After that, Grandpa had been very kind to him and smiled at him a lot, and he had quickly gotten comfortable enough to enjoy their drive down from Toronto. Plus his grandfather had stopped off repeatedly during the trip to buy him lots of cool things - egg McMuffins and hamburgers and French fries and Cokes (which Mama never let him drink) and ice cream sundaes and a bunch of Hot Wheels cars and a big bag of Oreos and chicken nuggets and even a DVD player to use in the car, with copies of Toy Story and Finding Nemo for him to watch from the comfort of his brand new car seat. Thus, the man's eagerness to please, along with some remarkably candid and precocious observations from the boy that had his grandfather choking with laughter, had provided the final impetus for them to form a new bond, and by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, they'd become bosom buddies.

"Jesus Christ!" whispered Granny Deb. "He looks more like Brian every time I see him."

Gus's smile was brilliant. He loved it when people said he looked like his daddy.

Ron Peterson raced through the door in pursuit of his grandson, slightly red-faced to have been outpaced by an exuberant six-year-old, obviously intending to apologize.

"It's all right, Daddy," Lindsey assured him. "I spend half my life racing around to try to keep up with him."

"He's a real live wire," he replied, pausing to dab his forehead with a handkerchief. "I haven't had a work-out like this since you were that age."

Lindsey swept Gus up into her arms and covered his face with kisses, much to his chagrin. He had reached that age where getting lipsticked by his mother was at the bottom of his wish list.

"Debbie, Michael," said his mom, after another round of kisses, "this is my father."

"Mr. Peterson," said Michael, rising and extending his hand.

But Debbie, as usual, was more concerned with substance than style. "Well," she said drily, studying the man's face as he shook Michael's hand, "it's about fucking time."

A quick grimace suggested that he didn't much care for her choice of language, but the flush that immediately flared in his cheeks acknowledged the accuracy of her observation. "Yes," he agreed, "it is."

She nodded and turned to take Gus from his mother's arms. "No matter how homophobic you are, how could you possibly resist Gorgeous Gus?"

The flush deepened, as he met his daughter's eyes. "I'm not, you know," he said softly. "Not really. I just . . . I guess I just don't understand, given what it costs, why a person would make that choice."

"It's not a choice, Daddy," she replied. "It's just . . . who I am."

He nodded, but still looked slightly confused.

"Want some advice?" asked Debbie, still cuddling Gus to her shoulder. "Stop trying to diagnose it or analyze it or understand it. Just deal with it, and get on with the task of living." Gus giggled as she tickled him gently. "And enjoy what you've been given."

"Where's J. R.?" asked Michael, trying not to sound resentful over the fact that Brian's son was here and getting all of Debbie's attention while his daughter was, apparently, still stuck in Toronto.

Lindsey did not exactly meet his gaze. "Mel thought it best for her to stay with Leona."

Mr. Peterson sighed. "I don't think she was able to put aside her distrust of me, to allow me to bring her daughter here."

"But she's my daughter too," Michael protested. "And Lindsey's."

Lindsey bit her lip and turned to regard him with a slight frown. "Thank you, Michael. And, in my heart, you're right, but, according to the law, she's not. I don't have any legal rights to J.R. I always think it's a little ironic - that Brian cared enough about Gus's future to give up his parental rights so Melanie could adopt him, and we could build a good life together, but somehow, that was never an issue with you. Or Melanie, for that matter. As far as J.R. is concerned, I'm just the wicked stepmother, no matter how much I love her."

"Why would you think that?" he asked, genuinely concerned over the hurt he heard in her
tone and the shadows he saw in her eyes.

But she chose not to respond, struggling to forget all the harsh words and the accusations she had endured from Melanie in recent months - harsh words almost always engendered by some contact with or disagreement over Brian. Lindsey had hoped that putting physical distance between their little family and the man who was Gus's father would serve to defuse Melanie's growing resentment of him, but it had not worked. Perhaps it might have if Brian had been willing to simply fade into the woodwork and turn his back on his only son, but that had not happened, and she was virtually certain now that it never would. Brian Kinney had not expected to fall in love with his son - had not wanted to become so involved in the boy's life - but it had happened anyway, without his consent. And it wasn't going to change.

Unless . . . given what he had endured here, there was no way of knowing what would happen from this day forward. Brian might choose to back away from Gus, but not for the reasons Melanie would have preferred. If he chose to do so, it would be because of his deep and abiding love for his son, not in spite of it. It was strange, Lindsey thought, that none of them had ever picked up on how fiercely protective the man could be, or realized how much he was willing to sacrifice to preserve the safety of those he loved.

And that was the other thing, she realized with a smile. They had also never realized how much, how deeply, he loved. Because, of course, he'd never said it. And never would.

"You know," Ron Peterson observed, as he slid into the booth beside his daughter, "there was a time, when you and Brian were so close, that I thought . . ."

"Christ!" laughed Debbie. "Not you too. Makes you wonder how many people got their hearts broken when they fooled themselves into thinking they might snag the mighty Kinney for a son-in-law."

She did not immediately recognize the revealing nature of what she'd said, until Michael turned to look at her with a sad, unflinching certainty in his eyes. "Present company excluded, Ma?"

The involuntary bloom of bright spots of color on Debbie's cheeks were the only answer she'd provide, but they were enough. "Come on, Gus," she said firmly. "Let Granny fix you a hot fudge sundae."

But Gus, in his own way, could be as single-minded and focused as his father. "Don't want a sundae. Want my daddy."

The jangle of the bell over the front door drew Lindsey's attention briefly, and, if she had not been so distracted by trying to figure out how to explain the situation to her son, she might have stopped to wonder why the two individuals who were strolling up to the counter had been in and out of the diner at least three times during the afternoon. But she wasn't really paying attention, and the couple was not unlike dozens of others who had wandered in during the day, so she didn't spare them a second thought.

Chuck Valentia and Ricky Domingue took their places at the counter and pretended to study the menu on the wall while their actual focus was concentrated on one obstreperous little boy who was beginning to tire under the stress of a long, eventful day.

"Gus, you can't see Daddy tonight," Lindsey tried to explain, being careful to project only serene thoughts and warm comfort. "He's not at home, and . . ."

"Then where is he?" he demanded, not really interested in excuses. He wanted his daddy, and he wanted him now.

Lindsey was still scrambling for an answer when deliverance - from a certain point of view - walked through the front door, and none of the principal players in this particular little drama noticed when four different individuals - two inside the diner and two outside the window - all swore under their breath.

Tommy Boyles pretty much summed it up for all of them. Fuck! If Kinney's enemies happened to walk into this scene right now, achieving their goal of destroying everything the man cared about would be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

But Justin, who had spent the late afternoon wandering the streets around Liberty Avenue and figuring out what he wanted to do, was only focused on Gus as they ran toward each other and came together when the little boy leaped into Justin's arms, chanting his demands as an unbroken litany. "Want Daddy, want Daddy, want Daddy."

Justin simply clasped the child close to his chest and whispered his response directly in the boy's ear. "Then it's Daddy you'll get."

As it happened, Michael was the only one close enough to hear the exchange. "Justin, you can't just . . ."

"No?" Justin was almost snarling. "Who's gonna stop me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Michael answered. "Brian's army, maybe?"

But Justin was undeterred as he looked around to meet Lindsey's gaze and flash her a smile that was not quite the one which had earned him his nickname - but came close. "If it's really time to fight for him," he said softly, "then the war starts right now."

He turned then to face Michael, knowing instinctively that it was time for the two of them to find a way to put aside their differences and join ranks if they were to have any hope of success. "What about you? Want to enlist?"

Michael did not hesitate. "Hell, yes."

The entire group rose then, and made a rapid exit from the building, leaving only Debbie to stare after them, mouth gaping, as four young toughs scattered at various points around and within the diner scrambled to figure out just what the hell was going on and how best to cope with it.

In the end, they could only roll their eyes, hope they were lucky enough to go unnoticed, and take off at a dead run to keep pace with the individuals they'd been charged to protect and defend.

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

"Shit! Is the woman completely brainless? Why on earth would she risk the kid's safety by bringing him back here?" Lance Mathis was obviously, thoroughly disgusted.

Drew Boyd was sympathetic to his cousin's dilemma, but he kept his eyes trained on the door to Brian's private room where Emmett was currently trying to work his way back into his old friend's good graces. Or, at least, to convince Kinney to tolerate his presence.

Boyd had stayed at Emmett's side throughout the afternoon, and watched fondly as the big Nelly-bottom analyzed his way through an interpretation of Brian's behavior so that, by the time darkness was imminent, he'd managed (he thought) to figure it out and decide that he was not about to allow himself to be manipulated. If Brian thought he was going to be able to bluff his way through this particular head-to-head, he'd better think again.

"Settle down, Lance," Boyd urged. "She's not used to having to think in terms of defending her kid against lunatics like these. And if you're right to think that the perps haven't tumbled to the fact that Brian has a son, or figured out how to find him if they do know about him, then it's a fairly simple matter to keep the kid isolated from his old man."

"Yeah? Well, any hope of 'simple anything' in this mess just went out the window. Young Taylor just hooked up with the kid and seems to be on his way here, to bring the boy to his father."

"Shit!"

"Exactly. Looks like we're going to have to rethink our options. I really thought Jared was right - that it would be better for Taylor to believe we'd eliminated him as a target. But now, I don't think that's going to work."

"Even with Brian putting on his big rejection act?"

Mathis turned around and peered into his cousin's face. "Did you believe him?"

"No," he admitted, "but I have something of an inside track. Emmett knows Brian very, very well."

"Better than Taylor?"

Boyd had to concede that it was unlikely anybody knew Brian better than his young lover. Which led him to believe Brian would have to take his performance to the next level if he were to have any hope of convincing his target audience.

Which raised an interesting question; what would the puppet-master try next?

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

As Emmett made his way into the room, eyes wide and filled with questions, Chris McClaren leaned back in once more, touching his lips to Brian's ear and breathing a quick message. "By the way, Stud, I don't speak 'boytoy', and, if I did, you'd be bored stiff in thirty seconds."

Brian barely managed not to laugh and had to suppress a groan as his abdominal muscles protested the contraction necessary for that control, as he turned to regard Emmett with cold eyes. "What part of 'Fuck off' do you not understand?"

Emmett continued forward, unfazed. "Charming, as always, I see. But just get over yourself, Brian. I've known you too long, and - regrettably - too well."

Brian blinked and ignored the quickly suppressed snicker of Cynthia's laughter. "You've been spending too much time around Debbie."

"Umhmm," Emmett agreed, not even trying to conceal his curiosity as he gazed at McClaren. "So aren't you going to introduce me to . . . Jesus, he's Goddamn gorgeous, isn't he?"

"Let me guess," laughed McClaren, as he stepped forward and extended his hand. "You're Emmett Honeycutt."

"How'd you know?" asked Emmett, accepting the handshake.

"Brian's told me all about you."

Emmett's eyes, bright with icy daggers, darted toward the bed. "Too bad I can't say the same. Who exactly are you?"

"More to the point," snapped Brian, "how is that your business?"

"Grumpy, isn't he?" said McClaren, without missing a beat. "He's had a rough day. I'm Chris McClaren."

"Grumpy is his middle name," replied Emmett, "but that still doesn't tell me who you are."

"He's a friend," said Brian, suddenly sounding weary and exasperated. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

"Actually," Emmett drawled, "there is. Such as how come we've never met before, if he's such a good friend?"

McClaren smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but it was Brian who answered. "Because my life is not an open book. Some parts of it are private, and nobody's business but my own."

McClaren seemed, at that moment, to forget all about Emmett and his questions as he moved back to the bedside and clasped Brian's hand with gentle fingers. "If you're not careful," he said softly, "your friend's going to think you're ashamed of me."

"He's not that stupid," Brian answered, his voice gone soft and gentle as he pulled McClaren down and lifted his lips to receive another kiss.

A bit of nuzzling and another whisper in the ear. "How'm I doing?"

This time Brian did allow himself a bit of a chuckle with his murmured response. "Surprisingly well."

"Okay," snapped Emmett, not even bothering to try to conceal his frustration. "I get the point. But I still want to know . . ."

McClaren straightened up and produced an exaggerated sigh. "My name is Chris McClaren, and Brian and I are . . . old friends. We met in New York a couple of years ago, when we worked together on an ad campaign. But we've only gotten to know each other well recently, when I got sent here on assignment. I'm a photographer, you see, so we move in the same circles. Professionally."

Emmett allowed his eyes to sweep down the photographer's sculpted body, taking note of pecs and abs and gluts to die for, not to mention the bubble butt and the discreet yet distinct swell of a healthy package, and the stunning clarity of those blue eyes accented by the bright blue collar peeking out from beneath the black leather jacket. When he answered, his voice was just slightly breathless. "I'll just bet you do. Well, let me be the first . . ." He glanced toward Brian and decided to ignore the gleam of annoyance flashing in the man's eyes,"or the second, perhaps, to welcome you to beautiful downtown Pittsburgh. I'd love a chance to get to know you better, and show you the sights."

Brian actually grinned beneath the cover of his bandages, thinking he couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to further develop his plot, even if he'd written the script himself. God bless Emmett Honeycutt! "Down, Boy," he said sweetly, noting that Cynthia had turned toward the window, undoubtedly to hide her own smirk. "He's already seen the only sight that matters. Namely . . . me!"

Then the room went totally silent as everyone in it recognized the irony of what he'd said - Brian, perhaps, most of all - and he couldn't quite suppress the little gasp that escaped from his mouth as Emmett fought to maintain his composure and not flinch away from the raw, ugly truth swirling through the room like a cyclonic dust storm. Cynthia continued to stare out the window, absolutely motionless.

McClaren was the only one who managed to maneuver around the awkward moment and continue the conversation. "Actually," he said quietly, "there's no need. I was born and raised right here in the Pitts, although I've been gone a long time."

No one - except McClaren perhaps - would ever realize how difficult it was for Brian to formulate and verbalize a reply. "You picked a good time to come back," he managed to murmur.

The FBI agent - in perfect character - made no attempt to touch Kinney or offer any kind of physical soothing, but he did move closer to the bed and prop his hip against it in a proprietary manner. "Good timing is one of my better traits," he replied, with a playful waggle of eyebrows. But his eyes were soft with understanding as he met Brian's gaze.

Brian found, to his surprise, that it was difficult to look away.

Shit!

Why was he suddenly so sure that things were about to get even more complicated than before?

Then there was a disturbance in the corridor outside the door, and Brian closed his eyes, realizing that his little mental observation had barely scratched the surface of how complicated life could get.

Fuck!

But there was abruptly no time to worry about that - no time to even consider it as the door flew open, and everything happened so quickly that there was virtually no time to react or prevent anything.

"Daaad-deeee!"

Logically, rationally, he should have recoiled from the small figure racing toward him - should have turned away, refused to allow himself any kind of emotional response. But there was no way he could do that. No way he could refuse to welcome Gus into his arms, even if the assault of the small body generated excruciating pain in all the wrong places, all the places so badly battered and damaged. And yet, he still held on to the writhing torso and the flailing arms and legs, and clasped them tight against him, ridiculously grateful for small gifts; for the fact that he could actually smell the unique, little-boy aroma of his son - traces of the French fry grease on his fingers and chocolate syrup on his breath, of the sweat of a childish body and the special toothpaste Lindsey always bought for him, of the baby shampoo she still used on his hair and the peppermint liquid soap that created the froth in his bubble bath. The scent was distinctive, and served to completely erase the lingering stench of bloody bandages and the sharp tang of antiseptics.

And, remarkably, for the fact that Gus knew instinctively where to find his daddy, not deterred for a moment by bandages or the physical distortions created by the beating his father had sustained.

And for the fact that the boy's penchant for non-stop chatter seemed to be in full operational mode, as he recounted the details of his journey and his day and his new grandfather and everything he'd eaten since he'd left school yesterday, and how he'd decided he'd love to be a spaceman like Buzz Lightyear and . . .

Brian laughed - and to hell with how much it hurt. "Hey, Sonny Boy," he almost shouted, borne up on the tide of his little boy's enthusiasm and forgetting everything else - almost.

Until the child went suddenly silent, and reached out with tiny fingers to stroke the bandages obscuring his father's face. "Does it hurt, Daddy?"

"Not so much," Brian replied gently, "now that you're here. Does it scare you?"

Gus simply smiled and shook his head. "You're still you, under there."

"Out of the mouths of babes," said Cynthia softly, her face touched by a gentle smile.

The room was suddenly very full, and the new arrivals quickly arranged themselves around the perimeter, shifting into a vaguely us-versus-them dynamic, with Emmett standing astride the only neutral ground.

Brian appeared not to notice, still caught up in the warm delight of being the focus of his little boy's interest, but everyone else was intensely aware of the stirring of adversarial attitudes. Especially between two particular members of the crowd.

Chris McClaren's smile was steady, but his eyes were wary as he studied the new arrivals - one in particular. He recognized them all, of course; he had reviewed photos and profiles of all the people who were important fixtures in Brian Kinney's life. But he was pretty sure he would have known them all anyway, Their expressions and their eyes and - most of all - the way they looked at Brian would have identified them at first glance, except for the older man who brought up the rear as they all stumbled in.

Dark hair and dark eyes, filled with a furtive, naïve hunger, laced with a deep, albeit hopeless need - that was obviously the old friend, Michael, longing for something he could never have. And the smartly-dressed blonde sophisticate who attempted to conceal the depth of her feelings by focusing on the little boy in Brian's arms instead of the man himself - that was Lindsey, suppressing the very same yearning but slightly more successful in her effort than Michael.

But the one who mattered most - the one for whom Kinney was apparently willing to give up his life - would have been unmistakable, under any circumstances. Justin Taylor was as beautiful as anyone McClaren had ever seen, exactly as he would have expected of the man who had managed to steal Kinney's heart, and the fire in the young artist's eyes only served to enhance his beauty, and to underscore the intensity of his intimate connection with his former lover.

The two just stared at each other for a while, while Lindsey and Michael chose to focus on the central figure in this drama.

Brian, meanwhile, was doing a masterful job of ignoring them all, looking past them instead to focus on the only individual in the group that McClaren did not recognize.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brian demanded, his eyes sharp and clear as he stared at Ron Peterson, knowing as he said it that his choice of words would annoy the man.

But Peterson surprised him.

"Getting to know my grandson," he replied, "and checking on his father."

Brian managed to convey a grin in spite of the bandages obscuring his face. "Well, fuck me, Freddie! I never thought I'd see the day when you'd refer to me as anything except 'that asshole who should have married my daughter'."

Peterson smiled. "I was kind of hoping you'd forgotten about that."

"Not likely."

The elderly man nodded. "I see your point." Then he moved forward and extended his hand to Brian. "You think maybe we could . . . start over?"

No one else in the room was paying much attention, but Brian heard something odd in the man's tone - something that made him wonder what he was really being asked. "I don't know," he answered. "Can we?"

But he did extend his hand and allow Peterson to grasp it. It wasn't much of a truce, but it would do, for the present. Brian thought he had enough drama going on his life at the moment; thus, any truce was better than none.

Meanwhile, Gus was going on with his soliloquy, while Lindsey was trying to convince him to relinquish his hold on his daddy and get down off the bed with Michael lending moral support, but with absolutely no hope for success as Brian was holding on to Gus every bit as avidly as Gus was holding on to him. Cynthia, meanwhile, had moved to stand by the head of the bed, her posture suggesting she was preparing to defend the castle walls, if necessary, and McClaren and Justin were continuing to stare at each other while Emmett stood by, so nervous that he actually resorted to wringing his hands.

Then everyone fell silent, coincidentally just as Justin stepped forward and looked directly down into Brian's eyes. "Is this him?"

"What are you doing here?" Brian's voice was cold, detached.

"Asking you a question." Justin snapped. "Is this him?"

Brian looked up at McClaren, hoping the agent was as good an actor as he apparently thought he was. Then he took a deep breath before replying. "Justin, this is Chris McClaren."

McClaren smiled. "The famous Justin Taylor," he said easily.

The twitch of Justin's lips was more smirk than smile. "So you've heard of me?"

"Actually, I read your reviews. I understand you're the new darling of the New York gallery set."

"I do all right," Justin retorted, "but that's surely not all you know of me."

"No," admitted McClaren. "We have . . . mutual friends, and I've seen your work."

"At the loft," Justin said, obviously pleased.

"Uhhh, no. At Kinnetik, actually. It's very impressive."

Justin turned to look at Brian, shadows rising in his eyes. "At Kinnetik? You . . . moved my painting?"

"It's an investment," said Brian, without inflection. "One that I expect to pay off handsomely some day, when you become the new Warhol, so I couldn't very well just discard it, could I?"

"But it was a gift - my gift, to you."

Brian took a deep breath as Gus twisted against him and managed to jab an elbow into a particularly painful spot on his torso. "More like a partial payment for the money I invested in your aborted education."

Brian was surprised that McClaren knew about the painting which had once hung in his loft - a painting Justin had done when they were still together, which was so filled with personal meaning that it had gotten more and more difficult for him to look at it; an abstract work filled with promise and hope and belief in the brightness of a golden future. After a while, it had become a reminder - almost tactile and certainly visceral - of all he had lost, and he had hired someone to pack it up and transport it to Kinnetik, where it hung now in the lobby. He had originally intended to put it in his office, but even that had proved to be too personal, too problematic.

Of course, the image of it was still with him - would always be with him. He had only to close his eyes to see it. And there were other reminders as well, of which Justin knew nothing. Reminders which absolutely no one knew about, although a quick look into the vivid blue of McClaren's eyes made him wonder. But those reminiscences he only indulged on occasion. When the mood struck him. In his mind, he termed such moments his lesbianic lapses.

"He's not your type," Justin said coldly, forcing Brian to look up and meet his gaze.

Brian shifted Gus to a more comfortable position before offering a response. "How the hell do you figure that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"He's nothing like me." Abruptly, the coldness was gone, and there was only a smug certainty, laced with humor, in the younger man's tone.

McClaren said nothing, but he did step closer to Brian, understanding that it was not his place to confront the young artist now, but sensing that this moment would be terribly difficult for Brian.

"Well, you're definitely right about that," Brian answered finally, sounding unutterably weary. "He's nothing like you. He knows how to figure out what he really wants and how to fight for it. And then, when he gets it, he knows how to hold on to it, how to be loyal."

The hurt that bloomed in Justin's eyes was like a dagger in Brian's heart, but he knew he must not yield to his own weakness. He must stay the course. And he was tremendously relieved when the hurt was quickly submerged beneath something that approximated contempt.

"Loyal? You think he's so loyal? To him - to all your pretty little tricks that fight for the chance to get fucked by the mighty Kinney - you're just the Stud of Liberty Avenue. Just a notch on their belts. Or, at least, you used to be, but let's see how loyal he is, now that what's on the outside is . . ."

And he stopped cold, his face going stark white as he realized what he'd almost said and prayed desperately that no one - especially Brian - would be able to finish the sentence for him.

But one look at Brian's face, as well as the faces of those around him, told him that he should have known better.

"Now that what's on the outside," said Brian in a soft, emotionless voice, "is as ugly as what's on the inside."

Justin opened his mouth to take it back, to do whatever it took to erase it, but, in the end, he knew it was too late. It hung between them like an oily shadow, and nothing would ever completely eradicate it.

He found that he couldn't think of a word to say, so he turned and ran.

"Daddy," said Gus, snuggling against his father's shoulder, "why Jus-sin crying?"

Brian turned to drop a kiss - slightly awkward due to the bandages - on his son's forehead. "Don't worry, Sonny Boy. Jus-sin will be just fine. He just swallowed something he didn't like, but he'll get over it."

"Maybe he will," snapped Lindsey, stepping forward to remove her son from his father's arms. "But will you?"

To her surprise, it was not Brian who answered, but Chris McClaren who moved to intercept her, preventing her from taking Gus from Brian; he stared at her, with eyes flecked with ice, and seemed to challenge her right to speak. "Maybe," he said firmly, stepping closer to Brian and helping him adjust his grip on his son, "you need to stop and figure out just where your loyalties lie, Ms. Peterson."

She glared at him. "I don't need anyone to remind me . . ."

"Don't you? Tell me then; did you hear what the boytoy just said - or rather, almost said? Did that register at all, or do you just automatically dismiss anything that doesn't fit in with your preconceptions? Do you always cast him as the poor little victim?" Then he snickered. "Jesus! No wonder he ran away."

"Now wait a minute," said Michael. "You can't just . . ."

"I'm having a really hard time believing this bullshit," McClaren continued, with a sardonic smile. "You're getting your knickers in a twist because the twink got his feelings hurt. Is that what you want to focus on, in spite of everything that's happened here? Jesus Christ! Do you really expect Brian to agonize and weep over the fact that Blondie is going into queen-out mode - something that he does pretty often, according to what I've heard. Is that really what matters to you?"

"He was really hurt," Michael said quickly.

"He'll get over it," McClaren retorted, "and maybe, in the process, he'll even figure out that weeping and wailing aren't going to change anything. You either sit and cry over things that are wrong, or you set out to make them right. One or the other. Not both."

Throughout the exchange, Emmett looked from face to face, trying to read the emotions concealed behind shifting expressions - sensing anger and resentment and uncertainty - and something else, something he could not identify, something that made him want to run from the room and find a quiet hole to crawl into. Things were . . . different. Things felt different, and he wasn't even sure the change was necessarily a bad thing. But it was enough to scare him, to make him wonder what would come next and whether or not their lives - all their lives - might be on the verge of a major transition, in a world which might never be quite the same.

Abruptly, Michael turned to face Brian, to stare at him with hard, accusing eyes. "Are you just gonna sit there, and let him shoot his mouth off like this? It's Justin, for God's sake. Your Justin."

Brian did not blink and did not flinch away from the smoldering anger he read in Michael's expression. He simply looked back, his eyes dark and unreadable. "That's the thing, Mikey," he said slowly. "He was never really my Justin, was he?"

"He could have been," said Lindsey, stepping forward and refusing to be intimidated or dissuaded this time, as she pushed past McClaren to pick up her son. Her voice was hoarse and rough with suppressed tears. "If you hadn't finally succeeded in pushing him away."

And they all went silent as time seemed to suspend itself, as the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Brian's answer. But time and the world - and everyone in the room - were doomed to disappointment, it seemed, for Brian said nothing, simply turning away and closing his eyes, apparently accepting Lindsey's final words as fundamental truth.

They all left then, except for McClaren and Cynthia, and Gus, wailing and begging to stay with his daddy, was the only one making a sound. Lindsey was enormously grateful that her son, in his exhaustion, required all her focus and attention, to comfort him for having to be separated from his father.

Otherwise, she knew, Justin would not have been the only one to exit crying. She didn't know which thing she found more difficult to process - that Brian had actually admitted that Justin had never truly been his, or that he had accepted her accusation without offering a word in his own defense.

In either case, it seemed that the man lying there in that hospital bed, wrapped up in a barrier of silence that nothing seemed to penetrate, had become a mystery, an enigma - someone none of them seemed to know.

Someone who was not Brian Kinney.


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


For a while, no one spoke at all.

Chris McClaren dragged an ugly easy chair to a spot near the door, positioning it so his body would restrict easy access, before settling in and closing his eyes.

And Brian remained motionless, barely breathing, so the only sounds in the room were the occasional beeps and blips of the medical monitors.

Finally, Cynthia could endure the heaviness around them no longer. "That was quite a performance," she observed. "Oscar-worthy, at least."

"Really?" answered McClaren, not bothering to open his eyes. "I'm holding out for a Tony myself."

Her smile was slightly venal. "No wonder you two hit it off so well - one snob to another."

She returned then to her post by the window, noting that the stars were quickly disappearing behind an approaching cloud bank. "Do you ever have trouble remembering  who you really are?" she asked, not quite sure why she was feeling an unexpected sympathy for the FBI agent, but unable to resist an urge to probe beneath that glib surface.

"No." Short, sweet . . . and slightly irritated?

The sharp chime of McClaren's cell phone served to defuse a strangely awkward moment.

As the agent rose and stepped into the corridor to take his call privately, Cynthia moved to stand beside the bed and gaze down at her boss who had not moved at all since the mass exodus had emptied the room.

"Brian?" she said softly, hoping he might actually have drifted into a peaceful sleep - but somehow knowing better.

"What?" he muttered, after a while.

"Are you . . ." She paused, recognizing the blatant stupidity of the question. Of course, he wasn't all right. "What are you thinking?" Better - though still not great.

Again, he was slow to answer, and when he did, it took her a moment to realize what he was doing.

"If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?"*

"That's . . . beautiful," she said slowly. "What is it?"

He turned in the bed to look up at her. "Just a scrap of verse that I always found interesting."

"You never cease to amaze me," she replied, a vague, unfocused anger sharpening her tone. "Here you sit, in the eye of a storm so fucking huge I can't even begin to take it all in, and you're waxing poetic - and philosophical."

He almost provided a knee-jerk response she would have understood perfectly. He almost said, "Pain management." But, in the end, he didn't. He just closed his eyes, wanting this infernal, eternal day to be over. And if, within that thought - and within the lines of verse that kept repeating in his head - there was also the specter of a deeper yearning, a desire to have an end to all the drama that had become his life, he would just worry about that later.

With that thought, he was suddenly conscious of the upsurge of the awful, invariably inappropriate gallows humor that had both saved him and doomed him throughout his life.

What better time to indulge my Scarlet O'Hara?

He almost smiled, but remembered - just in time - how painful that might be.

"The inevitable byproduct of a liberal arts education," he explained with a characteristic eye-roll, effectively dodging the question, and conceding that she knew what he was doing as well as he did.

"You and the fed," she observed, watching his face carefully - but in vain - for any sign of what he might be feeling, "could be the new Bogey and Bacall. That was a hell of an act."

"Gotta make it convincing," he replied, barely audible. Then he opened his eyes wide and looked up at her, and she felt the full force of the personality that allowed him to control so many things and people in his life. "So don't you go having second thoughts about your part in it. You don't want to fuck this up."

"I know where my loyalties lie," she replied sharply. "But you . . . Jesus, Brian, you really cut him up and left him bleeding. He didn't deserve that. Not just for being too young to know what he really wants."

He paused then, and his eyes narrowed, and she braced herself for what she knew was coming. Brian didn't like being crossed - not even by the people he trusted, especially under circumstances when he was dead certain that he was right. Like now. "It's not about what he deserves. What he deserves is to live, to be safe. To build himself a new, full, rich life, with someone who can be what he needs them to be. What - you'd rather it was him lying here like this - beaten and bludgeoned and mutilated? Fighting for his life. Think about that, Cynthia. What they did to me . . . he wouldn't have survived it, even if they'd stopped short of actually killing him. Which they wouldn't have, because they'd have known what it would do to me if he . . . " Deep ragged breath then, before he continued in a smaller voice. "And if, by some miracle, he did manage to live through it, how would he endure becoming . . . " He lifted one hand and made an all-encompassing gesture at the battered mass of his body, and there was no mistaking his meaning, "this?"

"And you?" she asked finally, reaching out to take his hand and refusing to relinquish it even when he tried to pull free. "What happens to you?"

He looked up at her then, and she could hardly bear to meet his gaze, to read the raw despair and wretchedness in his eyes. "If these bastards succeeded in taking his life - or my son's - do you really think I'd want to survive it? If they died, because of me . . ."

"Brian," she said urgently, "it's not your fault. None of this is . . ."

But she fell silent abruptly as she saw the steady, uncompromising gleam of certainty in his eyes. It didn't matter what she said, or what she believed. All that mattered was what he knew.

Like everything else in his life, it was his fault. It had always been his fault.

Chris McClaren chose that moment to re-enter the room, and Cynthia had to admit she was grateful for the interruption. Her devotion and loyalty to Brian were a central part of her life, and she would stand by him no matter what the consequences, but he wasn't the easiest person to deal with sometimes. Like now.

"Good news?" asked Brian, deliberately turning his back on his assistant and giving her a chance to regain her composure.

"Maybe," the FBI agent replied. "Looks like we might have caught a break in the case. Thanks to the detailed information provided by your good right hand there."

"Me? What did I do?" Cynthia asked.

McClaren grinned. "You provided the receipt from the jeweler for his Patek Phillipe watch, including the date and initials engraved on the back of the case. And these thugs who enjoyed beating the bejesus out of a 'pretty little fag' when they got the chance, might have been philosophically sympathetic to the purpose of the cretins who hired them, but when you get right down to it, they were just hired muscle who weren't going to pass up a chance to hock a $30,000.00 watch."

"So you caught one of them?"

"Not quite yet, but we got an ID. Not just on one, but two of them. For the moment, they're under surveillance, in the hopes that they'll lead us to bigger fish."

"And if they manage to slip out the back door while you guys are twiddling your dicks?" Brian's tone was sharp, almost acidic.

McClaren refused to rise to the bait. "You really don't have a very good opinion of law enforcement, do you?'

Brian and Cynthia exchanged rueful smiles, both remembering Brian's previous brushes with the law, not to mention his interactions with a certain highly-placed member of the Pittsburgh PD.

"You have no idea," observed Cynthia, still smiling.

But again, McClaren needed no explanation. "In actual fact," he answered, "I do. Your exploits are the stuff of legend, Mr. Kinney. Even in the ivory towers in D.C., we heard about the fall of Chief Stockwell, and the 'concerned citizen' who managed to take him down. In fact, I even assisted in the FBI investigation that led to his conviction - such as it was - so I'm fully aware of your contributions."

Brian shrugged, and quickly resolved not to do so again as pain exploded across his back and shoulders. "Sometimes, a gay man's gotta do . . ." Then he paused and took a deep breath, realizing abruptly that there were certain things - certain places in his past that he preferred not to revisit. "Anyway, shouldn't you avoid calling me 'Mr. Kinney'? Just in case. You never know who . . ."

And his point was immediately proven when a visitor from earlier in the day made a return appearance, moving into the room very slowly, timidly. Ron Peterson obviously understood that it would be wise to move cautiously, all things considered.

"Could I speak with you, Brian?" he asked quietly, his eyes moving from person to person within the room. "In private?"

McClaren sensed that Brian was about to agree to the man's request, but he acted quickly to contain the situation. "Mr. Peterson, is it?" he said softly. "I understand that you might have some private issues to explore here, but you need to understand this. Brian was brutalized and beaten and damn near killed by - forgive me, but - people who very likely share your general attitude toward queers like us. So if he wants to listen to whatever you have to say, that's up to him, but there is no way I'm leaving you alone with him."

"That's preposterous," Peterson protested. "You can't possibly believe I would do such a thing."

McClaren shrugged. "In point of fact, I don't, but I'd be willing to bet that the men who did might well be respected members of your social set. In case you didn't know, homophobia is one of the last socially acceptable prejudices in our great free country."

"This," said the older man with a sweeping gesture toward Brian's injuries, "can't possibly be acceptable behavior, for anybody."

McClaren nodded. "Glad to hear you feel that way, but I'm still not leaving him alone. No matter what."

Brian spoke up for the first time. "It's all right, Mr. Peterson. Chris and I - we have no secrets from each other. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. I promise."

Ron Peterson hesitated, but then he realized this was a battle he was not going to win, so he just nodded. But then he turned to look at Cynthia and waited.

Brian sighed. "Cynthia," he said slowly, "why don't you go home? Feels like you've been here for weeks, and your mother is probably in a panic, wondering what's happened to you. So . . . go home." He reached out then, and touched her hand. "And don't worry. The palace guard is on alert. I'll be fine."

She started to protest, started to insist that she was not tired, did not need to rest, would not dream of leaving. But then she realized that she really was almost exhausted - so exhausted she was probably not doing Brian any good anyway. So she nodded, gathered her belongings, and said her good nights, touching Brian's shoulder as she went, and watching as McClaren settled in at his side.

Still, she was watchful as she went down the corridor, and was relieved to note that two of Mathis' security people were patrolling the hallway, and Mathis himself was seated at a desk in a nearby alcove, studying a spreadsheet on a laptop computer. From what she could see, Brian was in good hands - not to mention what she couldn't see, and she was pretty sure there was plenty of that. She was certain McClaren was not at all the type to put his trust in random chance, and it was a good bet that his particular brand of security would not be obvious to the casual observer.

Brian would be fine. Brian had to be fine.

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

Despite the fact that Ron Peterson had tacitly agreed to McClaren's presence during the conversation he planned to have with Brian, he was markedly reluctant to begin to speak, and Brian gestured for McClaren to come closer.

"Hey, Baby," he said softly, struggling not to laugh when he identified the annoyance in the agent's eyes, "why don't you see if you can find us some coffee?"

"I don't think you're allowed to have coffee, sweet cheeks," McClaren replied.

"Shit! But you are," said Brian, very reasonably, "and I think our guest could use some caffeine. Plus I might be grateful - very grateful - if someone found a way to help me . . . break the rules."

The FBI agent almost refused, though he was impressed with Kinney's ability to manipulate the moment. But then he reconsidered. "OK," he said finally, "but the door stays open."

Peterson nodded, and turned to look at Brian, obviously grateful for the intervention.

"He's very determined, you know," Brian volunteered as McClaren hurried out of the room, "so you better talk fast."

Peterson took a deep breath. "So be it," he said. "And I guess there's no need to sugar-coat anything. For you. The truth is . . . I'm dying, Kinney, and I don't want . . ." He took a deep breath. "I don't want to leave my daughter without resources when I'm gone."

He stopped then, apparently gathering his thoughts in order to continue, and Brian took a deep breath. "Are you sure? I mean, doctors make mistakes . . ."

"It's pancreatic cancer," Peterson stated, and Brian took a moment to admire the man's courage and calm. "And they don't generally make mistakes about that."

Brian nodded. "I'm sorry, Mr. Peterson," he said softly. "What can I . . . what do you want from me?"

Peterson walked to the window to gaze out into the darkness. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for your trust - given our history - but I hope I can count on your discretion, at least."

"Within reason," Brian replied cautiously. "I won't lie to Lindsey, but . . ."

"And I wouldn't ask you to. But keeping something to yourself isn't the same as lying, is it?"

"Some people would disagree," Brian replied. "Some - and your daughter would probably be among them - would consider it a sin of omission. Why haven't you told her?"

"Because I haven't quite figured out how to do it. It's a hard thing, to hear that your father is dying."

At that moment, McClaren came back into the room carrying a tray bearing three steaming mugs, along with packets of creamer and sugar and plastic spoons.

"For me?" asked Brian, not quite able to suppress a surge of gratitude. He was pretty certain Matt Keller would have McClaren's balls if he found out about the contraband coffee, but he couldn't think of anything - within the realm of the possible - that he wanted more right that moment than a cup of freshly-brewed, aromatic blend.

"Just keep your mouth shut, if you're questioned," McClaren retorted, and proceeded to prepare Brian's coffee, exactly the way he liked it, prompting Brian to wonder - again -just how the agent could know so much about him, right down to the smallest details.

"So," said McClaren as he passed the tray to Ron Peterson, "how long do you have?"

Peterson managed, barely, not to drop his cup. "How did you know?" he demanded.

"I'm very perceptive," the agent replied.

"And he eavesdropped from the hall," Brian suggested.

"That too."

Peterson settled into the armchair by the bed, and sipped his coffee, relaxing for the first time in hours. Which was surprising, since Brian Kinney was probably the very last person he'd ever have considered a source of comfort. Nevertheless . . .

"They're saying six months - maximum. I think it will be less. There's a family history with this disease, and I'm not inclined to optimism."

Brian regarded him patiently, but it was soon obvious that the man was having trouble finding the words with which to explain himself. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Peterson. If you're wanting reassurance that Lindsey will be taken care of, you don't even have to ask. She will be. Not only is she one of my oldest friends, she's the mother of my only child. So I'll make sure . . ."

Peterson nodded. "I never doubted that. No matter how I might have felt about you, in the past, I always believed that you cared for her - and for Gus. And I've taken steps to make sure she'll be provided for, financially. As will Gus."

"You don't need to concern yourself about Gus," Brian said quickly. "My son is already well provided for and . . ."

"Please," Peterson interjected. "Please, just . . . indulge me. It appears likely now that Gus is the only grandson I'll ever have. Or, at the very least, the only one I'll ever have a chance to know. So this is not because he needs anything from me. I guess, in a way, it's because I need something . . . from him. I hope . . ." He paused then, and Brian saw that he was not quite as composed as he'd seemed, as his hands were trembling so violently that he had to set his coffee cup down in order to prevent spilling it. "I hope you'll allow me a chance to get to know him. Before . . ."

"I won't interfere," Brian assured him, but something in his tone said that the older man better mind his manners in the process, and put Gus's well-being above all else. "But that's still not what you wanted from me. Is it?"

Peterson sighed. "I've had a good life, Kinney. Mostly. Everything has worked out pretty much as I expected. A good life. A good marriage. Healthy kids. Plenty of money. The American dream. Except . . ."

"Except that your youngest daughter is a dyke," Brian interrupted, his voice suddenly cold, without a nuance of sympathy. "Bummer, huh?"

Peterson sighed. "I know what you must think of me, and I wish I could explain it so you'd understand things from my point of view. The lady at the diner - Debbie, is it? - called me homophobic, but, if I understand that term, it's not accurate. I don't hate homosexuals, Kinney. I just don't understand them. But I've come to believe that, in the end, it doesn't matter. I've finally realized that I don't give a damn who my daughter loves, or why. The only thing that matters is that I love Lindsey, and I can't resign myself to all the time I've wasted before reaching that conclusion."

He stood up then and moved back to the window. "And now I'm never going to be able to make up for lost time. It's ironic, isn't it? I'm going to die, and never be able to get to know that beautiful little boy, because I was a stupid shit."

Brian could not quite suppress a quick chuckle. Mr. Peterson, unlike his daughter who could, when she chose, swear like a drill sergeant, did not ordinarily indulge in cuss words. "What else?" He was sure there was more the older man needed to say - and that the hardest part was yet to come.

Peterson took a deep breath and turned to meet Brian's gaze. "I honestly don't believe that I'm a homophobe, Kinney. For example, I don't hate you. I don't pretend to understand you, and I'd prefer not to think about the things you do . . . sexually . . . but I don't hate you. I don't really hate anybody; it's just not in my nature. But . . ."

Brian and McClaren exchanged glances, knowing that the crux of the matter was at hand.

Again, Peterson inhaled deeply, before just spitting it out. "But I really, really can't stand that bitch my daughter chose to marry." Then he slumped back into his chair and seemed to hunch over, prepared to ward off the attack he was sure was coming.

Thus, he was completely caught off guard when Brian laughed. "You say that as if you expect me to be outraged and come charging to her defense." Then he chuckled again.

"Well . . . yes, I suppose that's exactly what I expected. I mean, you're both gay, and . . ."

"Mr. Peterson," said McClaren with a smile, "Adolf Hitler was straight. Jozef Stalin was straight. Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Sadam Hussein - the list is endless. So - do you like every straight person in the world? Is that your only criteria for deciding whether or not you like someone?"

Peterson actually blushed. "I guess I never thought about it like that. Pretty stupid, huh?"

"No. Just typical," said Brian. "So, what exactly is it you want from me?"

"I just want to be sure that Lindsey has someone she can turn to, if she needs help or advice or even a shoulder to cry on. She doesn't share her personal feelings with me any more. Why would she, after all, since I haven't been there for her . . . in far too long? And her mother - well - there are some bridges that just can't be rebuilt once they're burned. At any rate, I don't think things are going all that well in her partnership, and I don't trust Melanie Marcus to be there for my daughter. I may be wrong, of course, but I don't really think so. I think she's a petty, vindictive, self-absorbed . . ."

He fell silent for a while, and Brian resisted a thoroughly venal impulse to encourage him to continue.

"Anyway, that's what I want from you, Kinney. I want you to promise to be there for her, when no one else will. To take care of her, if she can't take care of herself. And - just coincidentally - to be the father that my grandson needs."

Brian nodded. "And," he said slowly, "you don't want me to tell her that you asked."

The older man grinned. "You know Lindsey, maybe even better than I do. Think about how she'd react if she knew."

"No, thanks," Brian retorted. "I'd rather not."

Peterson nodded and moved toward the bed, right hand extended. "Thank you, Brian. If I may call you that. If you'd rather I didn't, I'll certainly understand."

Brian simply stared at him for a moment, before slowly lifting his hand. "You didn't have to ask, you know," he said softly. "I'd have looked after her anyway."

Peterson smiled. "I think I understand that . . . now.

"I wish you the best, Brian. I know this has been a nightmare for you, but I hope it all turns out well."

Brian nodded, and started to turn away. Then he paused, and glanced up to meet McClaren's eyes as a new thought occurred to him.

"Let me ask you something, Mr. Peterson," he said suddenly. "Did you mean it when you said you wanted a chance to get to know your grandson?"

He was watching the older man's face as he broached the question, waiting for the response. When it came, when a warm spark of undiluted joy flared in the man's dark eyes, Brian sighed and felt a strange compulsion. He was not ordinarily a praying man, but he felt a strange urge to offer up devout thanks for a perfect resolution to a prickly problem.

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

Chris McClaren wondered - idly - how many cups of coffee he'd drunk since his arrival at the hospital. Then he decided he was better off not knowing.

He had managed to grab a few hours of sleep, stretched out on the plastic instrument of torture that masqueraded as a daybed in corner of Brian's private room, but he never rested well when he was on assignment. Especially when he was not quite able to believe that all possible scenarios had been anticipated and prepared for. He was relatively certain that Brian was safe and his son was safe and his . . . whatever Justin Taylor was to him was safe, but 'relatively certain' was never quite enough to grant him a peaceful night's sleep. Something was still nagging at him, although he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

At any rate, it was not quite dawn when he rose and checked on his charge (reminding himself that it would be equivalent to taking his life in his hands to refer to Kinney as a "victim") and found him still floating in a drug-induced haze. He had wakened twice during the night, rigid and trembling in pain, but the nurses had been quick to administer fresh doses of morphine, and he was currently resting easily.

McClaren spent a minute gazing down at his bandaged face, visualizing how he had looked before and trying not to visualize how he would look now.

Fuck!

He had not expected to like Kinney, and he had schooled himself from the beginning of his career to remain uninvolved in the traumas of the people he was charged to protect. But Kinney was unlike anyone he had ever met - completely unique. An individual who refused to take refuge in apologies or regrets or excuses, who insisted on facing life without embroidery or embellishment. That kind of bold, bare-faced honesty was something completely new in his experience. It didn't exactly make him like Kinney, but it did make him insatiably curious to know what lay beneath the surface of such a complex personality; it also made him uncertain of being able to predict what the man might do next. Thus, it had been a long time since anyone managed to intrigue him so intensely.

The FBI agent took a minute to splash water on his face and wandered out of the room, nodding to the private security guard who was patrolling the hallway before continuing down the hall to the waiting room where the coffee maker was waiting. Along with a rumpled, sleepy-looking young man.

McClaren sighed, hoping he'd get a chance to swallow a few hits of caffeine before having to face the wrath of an incensed, blond drama queen.

Shit!

Justin Taylor was sprawled in a corner chair, his legs extended across a plastic bench, his head braced against a wadded-up jacket, still wearing the same clothes he'd worn the night before, only slightly the worse for wear. And he was staring at Chris McClaren with undisguised hostility.

McClaren swallowed a sigh, and poured himself a hefty dose of freshly-brewed battery acid which he preferred black and bitter. Then he sat down and regarded Justin Taylor with a steady frown.

"Are we going to have to fight this out," he asked finally, "or are you prepared to be reasonable?"

"I don't think there's anything reasonable in this whole mess," Justin retorted, his tone cold and churlish.

McClaren nodded. "Okay, then. You obviously have something to tell me. Or something to ask me. So let's just get it over with."

"Are you for real? Is this thing between you and Brian - is it real?"

McClaren sipped and studied that beautiful face, noting that the incredible blue eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. "Why is that so hard for you to accept?" he asked, in lieu of a direct response.

Justin sat forward, and braced his forearms against his thighs. "It took me fucking forever to get through his guard, to get inside his walls. And I can't believe . . ."

"So you got in," the FBI agent said quickly. "But once you were in, you decided not to stay. So why should it matter to you if I . . ."

"I never left him. I never could."

McClaren met the blond's gaze, and didn't bother to try to conceal the pity in his eyes. "Who are you trying to convince - me or yourself? Look, Kid . . ."

"I'm not a kid," snapped Justin, jumping to his feet. "And if you think he's ever going to forget me, you're just fooling yourself. He loves me. He's always loved me. You'll never mean as much to him as I do. Never."

McClaren rose slowly, and squared his shoulders, carefully guarding his expression so that it would not reveal how much he sometimes hated the things his job required him to do. "I'm not going to argue with you, Taylor. The bottom line is that he doesn't want to see you. You believe whatever you like - whatever makes you feel better - but you stay away from him."

"You're going to make sure he goes on feeling that way, aren't you?" Justin accused.

"You've done a pretty fair job of making sure of that yourself, you know. But Brian is a grown man. Nobody tells him what to feel or how to think, and maybe it's time you learned that."

"I'm not giving up," Justin almost snarled. "You keep that in mind." Then - unaccountably - he smiled. "You tell him I still love him - I'll always love him - and I don't give a shit what he looks like, on the outside. He'll always be beautiful to me. So you just watch your back - or your front - or whatever. Because I will come for him. If you really want him, you're going to have to prove it."

McClaren barely managed to suppress a grin, admiring the young man's spunk, even as he regretted the necessity for continuing the confrontation between them. He rather thought he could grow to like this stubborn, determined, hard-headed little fucker. "I'll remember."

He turned then and hurried back toward Brian's room, resisting the urge to turn around to check on the young man's reaction, and noting as he went that the individuals charged with protecting Taylor were exactly where they were supposed to be. Justin Taylor was not his responsibility, and driving a wedge between him and Kinney was the very best thing he could do for both of them right now. So why did it make him feel like such a miserable shit?

He slowed as he moved down the corridor on his way to a conference with Lance Mathis and a morning briefing from his boss, suddenly caught up in thoughts of how these two - Kinney as he had been and Taylor as he still was - how magnificent they must have been together, what a vision of beauty and grace they must have formed - light and dark, ingénue and sophisticate, positive and negative. Yin and yang. Perfect compliments.

All destroyed now, by the slash of assassins' blades and blows of molten iron and the vicious hatred of people who could neither understand nor tolerate such beauty.

Fuck!

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

He came awake quickly, roused by the murmur of voices and the singularly unpleasant sensation of having someone peel the skin from his face, inch by inch. Okay - not really. But that's how it felt, nonetheless.

Brian opened his eyes and looked up into the steady eyes of Nurse Beck, and wondered for a moment if the woman even existed outside the hospital setting, for it appeared that she was always around when he required attention. But he was grateful, nevertheless, for her hands were flawlessly sure and gentle, and he knew instinctively that the process of removing the bandages covering his face would have been far worse had someone else undertaken the task.

"Good morning, Gorgeous," she said gently. "Glad to see me?"

"Not unless you come bearing an eighth of chronic," he muttered.

"Not quite," she grinned.

"How about a nicotine fix?"

"Fond of our addictions, are we?" This time, she actually laughed.

"You have no idea," he replied with a huff of exasperation, but his tone held nothing of hostility or resentment. He was just Brian - being Brian - and both Nurse Beck, and the doctor who was looking over her shoulder, knew it.

Unlike the other person in the room, who was standing at the foot of the bed, looking on in silence.

"How's the pain, Brian?" asked Matt Keller, his eyes fixed on the monitor screens, noting elevations in blood pressure and pulse rate - readings which suggested that the patient was far from comfortable. "We need to hold off on the meds for a bit, if you can handle it."

Brian closed his eyes. "I can handle anything you can dish out."

"Of course, you can." That was Beck again, obviously immune to his snarky attitude.

He elected to remain silent as she finished her task, discarded the soiled bandages, and spent a few minutes gently cleaning away the residue from his face. It was only when she stepped back that he got his first clear look at the individual who stepped up to take her place.

"Brian," said Matt Keller, "this is Rick Turnage."

The patient was quiet for a moment, studying the surgeon's face, and noting idly that he really must be in bad shape if he couldn't work up much interest in a man who almost defined masculine beauty. Then he dredged up a sardonic smile. "The miracle worker," he muttered. "Nice to . . ."

"Don't speak!" Turnage snapped, eyes tracing the patterns of injury on the newly-exposed face. "I need to assess the damage."

Unperturbed, Brian turned slightly to meet Matt Keller's eyes. "Why do I feel like a BMW with a crushed fender?"

"I said . . ." Turnage began.

"I heard you," Brian retorted. "But, unless I'm mistaken, I'm the patient here, and you're the doctor, and that makes me the paying customer. So you might try asking for my co-operation instead of barking out orders like a fucking drill sergeant."

Matt Keller tried not to chuckle - and failed. "Dr. Turnage," he said, still grinning, "meet Brian Kinney. AKA - your nemesis."

But Turnage barely appeared to notice the words of either his patient or his fellow physician. Instead, he was busy retrieving a large tablet from the portfolio he had brought with him. He then proceeded to extract a charcoal pencil from a zipper bag, and adjust the lamp on the bedside table to shed light directly on the patient's face.

"What are you . . ." Keller demanded, preparing to step forward and intervene, if necessary.

"Shut up!" Turnage muttered as he began to move the charcoal across the paper with sure, bold strokes.

"What are you doing?" asked Brian, in a tone of voice that promised a complete lack of co-operation if he did not get an answer that was to his liking.

Turnage huffed an exaggerated sigh. "I'm drawing your face."

Brian's eyes were suddenly huge, and even Turnage, normally as sensitive and intuitive as granite, could not help but note the despair rising within them.

"Not as you are," he said firmly, without a nuance of either empathy or sympathy in the tone, "but as you should be. Will be, when I'm done with you."

"Wouldn't a photograph suffice?" Brian demanded.

"No - and would you please just . . . stop talking."

Matt Keller leaned forward, grinning. "He did say please."

"Fuck off!" Brian retorted, but the spark of humor in his eyes served to dissipate the shadows of despair, so Keller was content.

For the next few minutes, the silence in the room was broken only by the rough rasp of the charcoal against the textured sketch pad, but it didn't last long. In a surprisingly short period of time, Turnage paused, took another minute to study the ruin of Brian's face, before nodding and laying his pencil aside.

"Are you done?" Brian asked, not bothering to try to conceal his annoyance. "Am I allowed to see it?'

Turnage stared at the patient for a moment before answering. "You're allowed. In fact, you'll need to approve it, before we proceed."

Then he lifted the pad, took another moment to examine it to make sure it met with his satisfaction before turning it around for the patient's inspection.

Brian just looked at it, saying nothing. Then he reached out and extended one finger, just touching the rough surface and tracing the line of the subject's jaw. "How . . . how did you do that?" he asked finally, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

Turnage did not smile, did not offer vapid assurances. He simply explained it as he saw it. "It's still there. Your face, I mean. The bone structure, the foundation - in spite of the swelling and the fractures and the distortions. It's still there. It just needs . . . restoring."

Brian was staring, looking directly into his own eyes, seeing the face he had seen in the mirror every day of his life. The likeness was uncanny, since he knew perfectly well that it bore almost no resemblance to what he would see if he were to look into that same mirror at this very moment.

"And you can do that?" he asked, the tremor in his voice expressing his doubts. "You really think you can . . ."

"I don't think, Mr. Kinney," Turnage answered sharply. "I know. But it won't be quick, and it won't be easy. We've got a lot of work to do, you and I, and you're going to have to trust me."

Brian quickly shifted his eyes to meet the gaze of Matt Keller, relying on their intimate connection to convey what he did not want to verbalize. Keller smiled and nodded. "I told you, didn't I? He really can undo what they did to you." Then he glanced at Turnage, and his eyes went hard and cold. "And if he fucks it up, I'm going to make sure the whole world knows about it."

Brian smiled, and closed his eyes, content with his old friend's assurances. Reflecting that the old adage - "It takes one to know one" - had been proven accurate once again, he recognized that Turnage was a prima donna of the first order, who would rather walk naked through an inferno than be forced to acknowledge failure.

There were no guarantees, but he found that, for the first time since the beginning of this ordeal, he was able to allow himself a tiny inkling of hope.

Maybe - just maybe - life, as he knew it, was not quite over, after all.

"So," said Turnage gruffly, "when can we leave?"

"Leave?" echoed Keller.

"Leave?" asked Nurse Beck.

"Leave?" That was Chris McClaren, just returning to the room from his morning briefing with his boss and Lance Mathis.

"Leave?" Brian opened his eyes to stare at the surgeon. "Where the fuck am I going?"

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*Limits - Jorge Luis Borges

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