Chapter 52


He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.

 A. E. Housman

Brian sat in the conspicuously ultra-chic wingback chair that was situated in the corner of his hospital room and gazed out on the beautifully manicured grounds of the institution. One glance would have been enough to confirm - if he'd had any doubts - that he was definitely not in Pittsburgh any more.

Not that Pittsburgh did not have its share of well-maintained, perfectly landscaped public buildings. No. Virtually every city in Pennsylvania could point with pride to settings noted for horticultural brilliance. Thus, the difference was not in the degree of effort expended nor funds invested nor imaginative design exercised; it was not a question of excellence, but rather a matter of exuberance. One simply could not plan or engineer the euphoric explosion of life renewing itself that occurred so spontaneously and naturally under the nurturing rays of a southern sun in the spring.

Yes, he knew it was a thoroughly stupid thought, just as he knew that - come August - that benevolent light would intensify to such a degree that it would become hard-edged and deadly. But for now, for this singular moment of spring, he could appreciate the eruption of life - the outburst of color and riotous health of a thousand different varieties of flowers which he could not have named to save his life.

It was literally a pageant of renewal, of new life, new hope, new promises . . . if one should choose to allow them.

He deliberately turned away from the window, reaching for his coffee cup and wishing desperately for something stronger.

Nearby, perched on the freshly-made bed, enjoying the silkiness of sheets that had never seen the inside of a Medline warehouse, Justin watched his lover stretch as sunlight streamed obliquely through the window, sparking glints of auburn in Brian's hair and tracing gold across the contours of his face - perfect contours, restored thanks to the natural healing power of the patient and the undeniable skill of the surgeon who had taken on the task of restoration. Brian had been very lucky.

Life wasn't fair. If Justin hadn't known that already, he certainly knew it now. That a man could look like this, could come back from the kind of mutilation he had endured and resurge even more beautiful than before . . . Justin rather thought this particular chain of events proved the existence of a benevolent God, although he knew the uber-Christians of the ultra-right would disagree whole-heartedly. They would see this exquisitely beautiful man as the Anti-Christ, the devil wearing an angel's face.

Then he laughed. He could live with that, and he was pretty sure Brian could too, although he did spare a moment to wonder if it would ever bother Brian at all to be so judged.

Then he laughed again, at the silliness of the thought.

"What's so funny, Sunshine?"

Justin slid off the bed, adopting a deliberate, provocative slink as he moved forward and lowered himself - very gently - to straddle Brian's lap. The instantaneous physical response pressing against his crotch and the sly lip bite that was so intensely Brian Kinney encouraged him to nestle closer. "Life is sweet," he murmured, burying his face in the velvety darkness below his lover's jaw-line.

Moving with an ease almost as fluid and natural as that he would have exhibited prior to his injuries, Brian shifted and turned to devour the lush, bee-stung lips on offer, and the two of them forgot everything in that moment. It mattered not in the least that they were framed against the bright glare of morning, centered behind a field of glass and bathed in a wash of sunlight - visible and beautiful to anyone eager enough or curious enough or wise enough to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy the view.

Brian deliberately drew a deep breath, inhaling the essence of the incredible sweetness pressed against him, noting - somewhere beneath the conscious layers of his mind - that no one else in the world smelled like Justin. He was grateful it was a natural fragrance, owing nothing to chemistry or pharmaceutical enhancement. Eau de Justin. Bottling it would reap fortunes; but then it would no longer be exclusively, unmistakably Justin, so that was a revenue source best left unexplored. He had read somewhere - probably in one of his off-the-wall, iconoclastic fictional explorations of possibilities - that male pheromones would become more and more intense and impossible to resist as years and decades and centuries passed. He didn't find it hard to believe; he was holding the proof of the postulation in his arms.

Arms he was steadily tightening.

When he shifted just enough to pull away slightly, he looked up and found himself drowning in tides of deep blue. "I want you," he whispered. "I want to be inside you."

Justin's laugh was guttural, almost harsh. "There's no lock on the fucking door."

Brian grinned. "Says the man who is the star attraction of Babylon's nightly backroom floorshow."

"Was," answered Justin, licking at his lover's lower lip. "Was the star attraction. These days, I'm . . . privately engaged."

Brian considered for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yeah. You are. But guess what. The door from the hallway might not lock, but the one to the bathroom does. Ergo . . ." He paused for one deep, tongue-thrusting, mind-blowing kiss, "no nasty old letch is going to catch sight of your gorgeous little ass, except me, of course."

Justin smirked, a slightly venal gleam flaring in crystal blue eyes. "But you're not exactly at full strength these days, you know. Are you sure you can . . ."

It was Brian's turn to laugh. "The day I can't stand you against a shower wall and fuck your brains out is the day I take a swan dive from the top of the Chrysler building. So don't just sit there, Sunshine." The laugh became an unapologetic leer. "Get in there and assume the position."

Justin grinned - and did as he was told.

The combination shower/tub enclosure was nowhere near the size of the huge glass cylinder at the loft, but it would do for starters. Justin quickly adjusted the temperature of the streaming water to the super-hot setting Brian always preferred and shucked his own clothes efficiently, not bothering to put on any kind of striptease. He had better things to do. But divesting Brian of his robe and silk pajamas . . . aah - that was something else altogether. Justin slowed his frantic movements to an easy deliberate pace, his hands warm, caressing, lightly stroking and teasing as he loosened the sash of the robe and eased it down Brian's shoulders, gradually exposing the deep V of flesh - paler than usual, but still perfect. At that point, growing physical need took over, and clothing became nothing but a barrier to be instantly discarded, at least one piece of it irretrievably damaged. Only when Brian was leaning against the shower wall, tall and bare and beautiful, enjoying the steady beat of steaming water against his chest, did Justin pause to appreciate the result of his frenzy.

He knelt, still and motionless, and looked up to take in every detail of the body towering over him.

Perfection restored - long, lean lines, beautiful musculature, creamy skin, flawless face with perfect, symmetrical features, without blemishes or marks or scars. Except one.

Justin reached up and touched the roughened scarlet abrasion that stood out so starkly on the creamy expanse of skin below Brian's ribcage. His fingers explored gently, as he lifted his eyes to examine the expression on that sculpted face. For his part, Brian was simply looking back, content to enjoy the visual feast while basking in his lover's careful scrutiny.

"Ugly, isn't it?" The Kinney drawl was just a bit more intense than usual.

Justin's smile was gentle. "It's like Elizabeth Taylor's mole."

Brian blinked. "Say what?"

"The contrast just emphasizes the perfection of all the rest."

Brian folded his lips, but there was a bright flicker of laughter in his eyes.

"But that's not why you kept it."

No response except for a winsome smile, accompanied by a classic Kinney eyebrow-lift.

At that point Justin decided it was time to stop talking, stop considering, and start doing.

Brian gasped as his young lover leaned forward and swallowed his massive erection, taking obvious enjoyment in the contour and the taste and the sheer size of the organ. He took a moment to remember the first blow job Justin had ever performed on him; it had been incredibly sweet and a bit awkward - even clumsy - but somehow even more mind-blowing for that. But Justin had always been a quick study, had always learned rapidly and well and had not required a great deal of practice or instruction to achieve perfection in this endeavor as in so many others.

A combination of rhythmic sucking and complex tongue action - a particularly delicious talent of the younger man's - not to mention the intimate strokes of fingers exploring and probing the dark, tight entrance to his body, quickly brought Brian to the edge of orgasm. But he was not ready yet; he had much more in mind than a quick, explosive climax. He pushed Justin away roughly, lifted him to his feet, steadied him (Brian not being the only one close to explosive decompression) and maneuvered them both out of the shower, using his feet to spread his robe across the tile floor - creating a cushion for his lover's back.

Then he lowered Justin carefully, taking time to retrieve a bottle of liquid soap from the counter, and grabbing more towels for additional padding. In the end, they managed to create a cozy little nest for themselves

"Slow down, Sunshine," he whispered, as he knelt between Justin's knees and leaned forward, fitting himself to his young lover, crotch to crotch. "When I said I wanted to be inside you, I wasn't talking about your mouth." He then lifted up enough to be able to drop a line of quick kisses down the inside of Justin's thigh, pausing to explore the soft blond curls circling a painfully hard cock before pulling back to lavish the same attention on the other thigh. By the time he completed that second exploratory journey, Justin was writhing with need and moaning softly. Brian chuckled as he dipped two fingers in the slick, liquid soap, and divided his attention between preparing Justin to receive the mass of his erection, and licking and suckling at that beautiful, slightly arched cock.

"That's . . . enough," Justin gasped, as he felt the deliberate stroke of Brian's fingers against his prostate. "If you don't fuck me - right now - I'm going to explode all over you."

Brian's laugh was soft and slightly breathless, but he wasted no time setting himself in position to obey, draping Justin's knees over his shoulders to obtain maximum penetration and contact, while still able to lean forward to cover that irresistible mouth with his own..

"Open for me, Sunshine," he whispered, as he pressed forward and felt the tight-swollen head of his cock overcome the resistance of that puckered ring of constricted muscle to slip into the silken passage that reached for him, ready to swallow him. "Let me in."

Justin groaned, then caught his lips between his teeth, reality exploding into sparks of incredible light as Brian pressed forward, gently, easily, but inexorably sliding in, filling Justin, probing deeper, exploring further, joining them together as no one else ever could or would.

Abruptly, Justin pushed Brian back just enough to be able to meet his eyes. "Mine!" he growled, emphasizing the word by a fierce tightening of his abdominal muscles, creating pressure that shot through Brian's body like an electrical charge. "Always . . . and forever . . . mine." Each word underscored by a perfect contortion of that perfect body.

Brian went very still and remained that way for several breathless seconds, staring down into eyes that would not allow him to dodge the question or pretend he didn't know what he was being asked.

A lifetime aversion to commitment in any form teetered in the balance, weighing against a love that he wanted to deny, needed to deny, but - ultimately - could not deny.

At last, he nodded. "Yours," he whispered, pushing in, sliding deeper, claiming territory no one before him had ever touched, and making sure, with each withdrawal, to stroke that ultra-sensitive nub that sent sparks exploding like a chain of fireworks through Justin's loins. "Only yours."

Later, he would remember the rush within him as he'd lingered on that brink, remember those words . . . and wonder what he'd been thinking; wonder what he'd done.

But not now. Now there was only Justin, around him, beneath him - devouring him, engulfing him, encompassing his entire world in the incredibly beautiful heat of the moment.

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

It was roughly fifteen minutes later when Rick Turnage strode into the room, prepared to amaze and confound his patient, any attendant friends and acquaintances, and his entourage of interns, residents, nurses, students, and associates with the degree of his accomplishment and his skill. Brenda Herring brought up the rear of the small procession, too busy examining Brian's medical chart to pay much attention to the group around her or her employer's histrionics.

No expectant audience, however, was sitting in the room, waiting with bated breath for the surgeon's appearance. In fact, it appeared to be empty.

Thus, there was no one present to look up as he and his retinue entered; no one to notice his arrival and respond with eager anticipation, although - in truth - expecting anything 'eager' from Brian Kinney would have been pushing the envelope beyond the scope of possibility. Still, the physician wasn't accustomed to playing to an empty house. Especially when . . . it only took two seconds to realize the room was not really empty after all, as confirmed by the sounds emerging from the in-suite bathroom. Not to mention the grins on the faces of several of the interns and associates in his group.

Kinney had been in residence for most of the week, and it had taken far less time than that for the entire staff - along with a sizable percentage of the patient population - to figure out exactly who and what he was. Some were delighted; some were appalled, but no one was indifferent.

Turnage opened his mouth to demand that his patient present himself for immediate evaluation, but he was just a beat too slow, as a young, strong, vibrant voice rose in a raucous semi-howl. "Brian, God, Brian! Harder, harder . . . now, now, now, n-o-o-o-w-w-w-w!"

The only response was a deep, long drawn-out guttural rumble that was not quite a laugh and not quite a growl, but something half-way between the two.

Next came a brief silence, and then . . . harsh, shuddering breaths, followed by shared laughter.

Squaring his shoulders, Turnage stepped forward, fist raised to bang on the bathroom door, but once again, he was forestalled, as the door from the hallway swung open, nudged by the heavy-laden cart that Trina Thomas and Emmett Honeycutt pushed into the room, accompanied by a cloud of mouthwatering aromas which made everyone present realize that lunchtime couldn't come soon enough and probably wouldn't offer anything as delectable as whatever was lurking under the silver covers on this cart.

Trina paused and regarded Turnage and his retinue with raised eyebrows. "Where's Brian?"

Turnage was not one to be out-snarked. "That seems to be the question of the hour."

Simultaneously, Emmett yelled out, "Cut it out, you two, and put your pants on. You aren't going to believe what Trina and I have created for your culinary delight. The French may never recover from the shame."

At that point, the opening of the bathroom door, exposing the muscular frame of Brian Kinney - bare-chested and towel-wrapped - took away some of the impact of Emmett's announcement and Turnage's annoyance.

"Present and accounted for," said Brian with a grin, "and hungry."

Trina and Emmett smiled, their expression speaking volumes to say they both knew perfectly well what Brian and company had been up to, and how they had worked up an appetite, but neither chose to voice the observation. Brenda Herring pretended not to notice, but had a hard time suppressing a quirky grin of her own.

Justin, shielded by the broader physique of his lover, just managed to wriggle into a pair of jeans that were only one size too small, before following Brian out of the bathroom.

"What's for lunch?" Neither medical need, a potential audience, nor any sense of embarrassment or impending doom would ever be enough to suppress Justin's appetite.

Emmett stood very straight, doing his best impression of a French maitre D. "Poulet Moliere a la Trina and Emmett," he announced. Then he grinned. "We've been collaborating."

"Do I get wine with that?" asked Brian with a smile, noting - but ignoring - the intensity of the frown on Rick Turnage's face.

"No," snapped the surgeon. "You do not. And, if you could bring yourself to spare a few minutes of your time, I need to run a few more tests, to make sure . . ."

"Doc," drawled Brian, moving forward and settling on the edge of his bed, and pulling Justin along with him, "you've already tested everything except my sperm count." Then he grinned. "Which is just fine, and you can ask Justin if you don't trust my judgment. So what else . . ."

But Turnage was not in the mood to play games, and did not like being an object of ridicule, even in the most incidental manner. "Do you really want me to go into that?" he asked, surprisingly softly. "Because I can, if that's really . . ."

Brenda Herring moved to the side of the bed, her expression - while sympathetic - informing the patient that Turnage was definitely not kidding.

"No," snapped Brian abruptly, shifting his weight so he was sitting braced against the stack of pillows on his bed. "No. Let's keep this between you and me. Everybody else . . . out."

"Now wait . . ." That was Justin.

"Now wait . . ." That was Emmett.

"Now wait . . ." That was a chorus of voices rising from the surgeon's retinue.

Turnage sighed, recognizing the futility of resistance and giving up any hope for entertaining his entourage. "Five minutes," he conceded gruffly. "That's all I need."

It was a dazzling red-headed intern, complete with pouty lips and generous cleavage, who made a point of stepping forward to fluff the patient's pillows and claim his attention. "Too bad," she said with a smile. 'I was really, really looking forward to this examination."

Brian grinned - thoroughly pleased with himself - while Justin glared, eyes filled with shards of ice.

"Down, Tiger," laughed Emmett. "Trust me when I tell you that you're not his type."

Her pout was textbook, and Turnage could not quite suppress an urge to smile, as Brian's grin morphed into easy laughter. Spotting something in the young woman's eyes that reminded him of a certain blonde member of his circle of intimate acquaintances, Brian leaned forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. "But if anyone could ever convince me otherwise, it would be someone like you."

She grinned, and dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. Justin, by this time, was livid.

"Five minutes," Turnage repeated, losing patience.

The group - protesting volubly - allowed itself to be escorted to the corridor by Nurse Herring, who remained in the room and made sure to close the door behind them completely, eliminating any possibility for eavesdropping. In the hallway, everyone lingered for a moment, talking among themselves, uncertain of what to do next. Except for Justin, of course, who didn't talk, didn't discuss, didn't do anything but glare at the closed door and fume.

Within the room, there was an uneasy silence.

"Was this really necessary?" Brian asked finally, choosing to look out toward the glowing morning rather than meet Turnage's eyes, noticing that the nurse resumed her stance at his bedside. He deliberately ignored the gentleness of the smile on her face.

The surgeon ignored both question and tone, choosing instead to step forward and subject his patient to a brief, physical examination, his fingers skimming over newly healed skin and probing areas still slightly sensitive, before using his stethoscope to monitor Brian's heartbeat. But it was obviously only a ploy to allow him to get close enough to study deeply shadowed hazel eyes.

"To answer your question," he said finally, very softly, "no, it probably wasn't necessary. Because you already know what I'm going to say. Don't you?"

Brian sighed. "Is that your subtle way of asking me if I've noticed that it's getting worse?"

The surgeon shrugged. "I don't worry much about subtlety. And neither do you. And you don't need me to tell you it's getting worse."

Brian paused for a moment, before turning to look up directly into eyes that might just rival Justin's for blue intensity. "So what's next?"

"Colorado."

Brian chuckled. "You act as if it's a foregone conclusion. Don't I get a say in this?"

Turnage did not flinch away from the icy glare that belied the laughter. "No. Because your pride and your stubbornness won't save you now, Brian. You can't will this away. If you don't act - and act now - you're going to lose your sight. And I have an idea you're too proud to allow anybody to know about that, so - for now - I'm keeping quiet. But . . ."

"I don't see that you have a choice, Doc. There are laws about . . ."

Turnage leaned forward, deliberately pressing his hand against the puckered scar that was so brilliant against Brian's pale skin, a scar that was still sensitive enough to cause Brian to flinch slightly.

"Fuck the laws!" Turnage hissed. "You, Mr. Kinney, are the best work I've ever done. You're my fucking David. My Pieta, and I'll be damned if I'll stand by and let you just throw it away. You push me too hard, and I'll have that little blond pit bull on you in a New York minute. So your best bet is . . . don't push me."

At that point, Brenda Herring stepped forward, her eyes warm with concern and affection. "He's right, Brian. You need to do what he says, not because he's going to do something stupid and enlist reinforcements to convince you, but because, as usual, he's right, which may be annoying as hell, but that doesn't change the truth of the matter. You need to do this, and you need to do it now. Every hour you delay . . ."

"What?" said a new voice, as a tall figure strode into the room. "Every hour he delays . . . what?"

"Do you have any appreciation for the concept of privacy, Agent McClaren?" demanded Turnage. "Or doctor/patient confidentiality?"

"Sure." The answer was easily given, and completely unconcerned. "But in this case, it doesn't apply. Until the day I'm no longer responsible for protecting his life, he doesn't get to have any secrets from me."

Brian looked mutinous, but didn't bother to voice his objection, knowing his complaints would be noted - and ignored.

"So," continued the FBI agent, "what is it that he needs to do - now?"

Turnage answered, but deliberately addressed his response to Brian. "I spoke to Andrew Griffin last night, and he's set up to receive you at the clinic and begin the battery of tests he needs to run before he can finalize plans for your treatment."

Brian looked up and surprised a look of something that might have been alarm - and might not - in Chris McClaren's eyes. He smiled just a bit, before turning to regard the surgeon sternly. "How long will the tests take?"

Turnage shrugged. "You have to remember that these are tests Griffin himself devised. Nobody else does them, or even knows exactly how to do them, so I can only give you an estimate. Based on what he's told me, I'd say 72 hours, more or less."

"And after that?"

"After that, what?"

"You said he has to 'finalize plans for treatment'. How long will that take?"

"Christ, Brian!" snapped Turnage. "How the fuck do I know?"

But Brian was not going to be deterred. "Best guess, Doc. I need to know."

"Why?" In terms of stubbornness, Brian Kinney had met his match. "Why do you need to know? If you're going to let him treat you, then you just have to accept . . ."

"I'll accept what I have to," Brian replied, "but there are things I still have to do. So I need to know - both the time frame and the odds."

Turnage looked - for just a moment - like he was going to slip into one of the emotional tempests he frequently used to manipulate associates and subordinates. But in the end, he didn't - not because he felt any reluctance to inflict his bad temper on those around him, but because he figured (correctly) that it wouldn't work on this group. So instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded his patient with a rare candor.

"Don't do this, Brian," he said slowly. "Don't push the people who care about you away, out of some kind of perverted notion that you have to do this to save them. You're not saving them; you're only hurting them."

But Brian's eyes were hard and cold as he studied the surgeon's face. "You an expert on that, too, Doc?"

Brenda Herring stirred, looking as if she was on the verge of intervening, of putting a stop to this line of questioning, but Turnage didn't give her the chance. "As a matter of fact," he replied, "I am."

Brian looked up then, hearing something in the man's voice that surprised him - and intrigued him. He knew others resented the physician for his arrogance and his overbearing manner, but those things had never really bothered Brian much; in some ways, he and the doctor had a lot in common. But he had never expected Turnage to lower his personal barriers and expose anything of his private nature. So this - whatever it turned out to be - might be worth hearing.

"Do you realize," the surgeon continued, turning so he could look out into the glorious beauty of the spring morning, "that I'm on the verge of being the most famous, most successful plastic surgeon in the country? And it wouldn't be much of a stretch to extend that to the entire world. I've spent my whole professional life striving for that, always reaching with all my strength and concentration and will power to get to the next level. And now - here I am. I've reached the peak, and that means I can do anything I want. My picture is on the cover of the most prestigious medical journals, and I get a fistful of invitations every single day, to address international conferences and join the boards of the most exclusive, highly regarded medical institutions in the world. For my work with disfigured children in Latin America, I've got more honors and awards than I've got room to display. I've got more money than God, a stock portfolio Warren Buffet might envy, a number of houses scattered around the globe, my own private jet, and a little black book that includes phone numbers for movie stars and Vogue cover girls who just love the prestige of being seen on the arm of a world famous surgeon, because it's so much classier than swanning around with the latest matinee idol, isn't it?"

Brian, interested despite himself, drew a deep breath. "And?"

The physician paused and appeared to be considering whether or not to answer. Then he looked up, his eyes hard and demanding, as he addressed both his own nurse and the FBI agent regarding him with thinly veiled hostility. "Would you both excuse us, please!"

When McClaren looked as if he were about to protest, Turnage's gaze grew colder. "Honestly, Agent McClaren. Unless you think I'm going to grab him and take him with me in a suicide pact as we fly through the window, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Do you? I mean, if I wanted to kill him, I've had plenty of chances to do it in such a way that he'd have died on the operating table, and you lot would have never known why. Right?"

McClaren hesitated, but allowed himself to be drawn toward the door by Nurse Herring, although the glints of anger in his eyes made it clear that he was not happy about it.

Only then, when they were alone, did the surgeon offer an answer to Brian's question, an answer so softly spoken Brian could barely hear it. "The thing is that . . . it's not enough. It doesn't make up for what I gave up to get it."

"And what was that?"

Turnage's smile was more than a bit rueful. "Two ex-wives, neither of which was a particularly great loss." He flushed slightly and avoided meeting Brian's eyes. "I have a weakness for voluptuous bodies with pretty faces and miniscule IQ's. And please don't ask me to explain why. I just . . . I never had time for anyone who could challenge me. I always thought that kind of thing was just an obstacle to keep me from reaching my goal. But I also have two children, Brian. I see them once in a while, and they're usually very polite. They've been well trained to say all the right things and behave in the right way, but it has nothing to do with how they feel about me. Daddy is, after all, King Midas - the source of the beach house in the Hamptons and the apartment on Park Avenue, country club memberships and Italian sports cars and French designer fashions. In short, all things posh and beautiful, so they know better than to mention that they have no clue who I really am and no interest in learning. Neither of them is stupid; they have my genes, after all. But they're exactly what their mother brought them up to be - vain and shallow and materialistic. When they grow up, they'll do charity work, of course, but not because they care about the plight of the less fortunate. They'll do it because it's what's expected, what society decrees should be done by the rich and famous, but they won't give a damn what it really means. And I realize now that it's too late to introduce myself to them and too late to make a difference in their lives.

"I also have a twin sister - the person who was the center of my world throughout my childhood. The person who was always there for me, who loved me better and knew me better than anyone else ever could.

"I've only seen her once in the last eight years." He paused, and there was just the slightest hitch in his voice when he continued. "What I did to damage that . . . well, it doesn't really matter what I did. It only matters that I did it, that I turned away from all of them, in pursuit of what I thought I wanted. I always thought there would be time - once I'd achieved success - to go back and make it right. But . . . " He sighed and shifted then to look directly into Brian's eyes. "You always think you'll have time to fix things later. But you just . . . you run out of time, Brian, and it happens when you're not even looking."

Brian smiled, but it lacked his customary sardonic wit. "I'm told - by self- proclaimed friends who claim to know - that it's never too late."

"Yeah, well, your friends are stupid."

This time, Brian laughed aloud, sharply and brightly enough to be heard in the hallway where more than one ear was as close to the door as one could get without being accused of flagrant eavesdropping. Justin Taylor and Chris McClaren exchanged wide-eyed looks of confusion, while Brenda Herring allowed herself a tiny smile.

"So," said Brian, suddenly much more relaxed and comfortable in the surgeon's company than he'd ever been before, "that's why you get involved in the charity work, isn't it? To make up for what you've lost in your private life."

Turnage grinned, trying to regain some measure of his customary air of confidence. "Don't be silly. I do it because I'm such a fucking great humanitarian."

Brian laughed again, louder still, generating something approaching panic in the hallway, and making it almost impossible for his listeners to resist an urge to charge into the room.

The two of them grew quiet for a time, and both were surprised that it was a comfortable silence, without rancor.

"You never answered my questions," Brian pointed out after a while.

Turnage sighed. "That's because I don't have the answers. And yes, before you can say it, I really, really don't like being in that position. I don't know the odds, because I'm not the expert here. What I do know is that, in his own way, Griffin is every bit as capable and determined as I am." Then he smiled. "A God complex isn't always such a bad thing, you know. So the bottom line is that he will fix this - if it can be fixed."

"Timeline?" Brian replied. "I need to know."

"Best guess. If you go do the tests he needs, you'll probably have a week or two before he's ready to proceed with treatment. But do not, under any circumstances, try to delay beyond that. I've done everything I can for you, Brian. Your body is perfect again - barring your one stupid little souvenir, which I could still fix if you ever change your mind. But it would be a shame if you let yourself get to the point where you can't look in the mirror and enjoy the view."

"And the treatment? How long for that?"

Turnage sighed again. "I don't even know what the treatment entails. I know there are surgical aspects to it, but beyond that, it's all experimental, bordering on revolutionary. So . . . weeks, at least. Months, more likely."

Brian nodded, eyes shadowed and darker than they should be. "And no guarantee that it'll work."

It was not a question. "No," admitted Turnage. "But if you don't do it, then you will lose your vision. And that is a guarantee."

"All right," replied Brian quietly. "Set it up so I can go directly there when I get out of here." Then he grinned. "Do I get to use your jet again?"

This time it was Turnage who was startled into a burst of laughter. "Jesus! Of course, you get to use the jet, but only because I've got a vested interest in seeing you make a full recovery. Don't get it in your head that it has anything to do with a compulsion to kindness. And so help me God, if you ever repeat any part of this conversation to Keller, you're going to lose a lot more than your sight. I wonder if anybody ever succeeds in telling you no?"

But the smile on Brian's face faltered then, and he didn't offer an answer.

"You're not going to tell him," the doctor said softly, "are you?"

Again, no answer, but then, Turnage realized he really didn't expect or need one. He already knew.

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

"So tell me," drawled the acidic voice as Ted held his cell phone to his ear, "are you even allowed to talk to me, considering that you're currently lurking in the king's castle?"

The accountant suppressed a sigh. "I am not lurking, Melanie. I'm working. And it's nobody's business who I talk to on my cell phone."

"Are you sure?" she scoffed. "How do you know your office isn't bugged?"

There was just the tiniest hint of a hesitation before he answered. "He wouldn't do that."

Her snort of laughter was ample evidence of her opinion on what Brian might or might not do. "When are you going to stop defending him, and see the truth, Teddy? He's not the hero you think he is."

"I've never thought he was a hero," he snapped, ignoring the insistent little buzz in the back of his mind that insisted on reminding him that - for him, at least - Brian had, occasionally, played such a role. He went on, speaking a bit louder in order to drown out that annoying little whisper. "I just have to find a way to show him that his belief in the almighty Cynthia is misguided, and I'm the one who has his best interests at heart. After all, I'm the one who's still here working when everyone else left hours ago. So I just have to make him see that I've always been the one."

Her sigh was more impatient than sympathetic. "Teddy, how in the world do you think you'll manage to do that? Cynthia is always going to be there, saying exactly what he wants to hear and stroking that mighty ego. That's what she does, you know. If you really want to get back in his good graces, that's what you have to do. Get down on your knees and worship at his Gucci-loafered feet. If you're really willing to go to any length to be granted access to the crumbs that fall from his table. Personally, I don't know why you even want to. It's not like you really need him, and he certainly doesn't deserve . . ."

"Mel, stop!" he said quickly, his voice harsh, almost strident, as he decided to address the question of what Brian might deserve, and ignore - as best he could - the question of his own needs. "Look, I know he's treated both of us badly. We have every right to resent what he's done to us, but . . ."

"But," she snapped. "But what? After what he's cost us, how can you . . ."

"It's not like he had to twist our arms, is it?" he interrupted. "We made our own choices."

"Yeah," she snarled, "but who went down with the fucking ship, while Lord Kinney sits aboard his cozy little yacht and watches us drown?"

"I know. Really, I know, only . . ."

"If you're actually going to sit there and defend him," she said, her voice gone ice cold, "then I'm not going to listen to it. I've got better things to do, like trying to figure out a way to keep that bastard from using his fucking money to force me to let Michael interfere in my daughter's life. But then I guess I should have expected this, shouldn't I? After all, you don't really have much to lose, do you? No child that can be used against you, and not much in the way of personal ties that might make you vulnerable. After all, if Blake decides he's had enough of your bitching and whining and chooses to opt out of your little domestic arrangement, there's always someone else waiting in the wings, isn't there? Hell, maybe you can coax Emmett back to your bed; he's usually willing. Oh, but wait! He's got his big, bad NFL stud muffin now, doesn't he? But don't sweat it, Teddie. Fidelity has never been in the picture for you guys, has it, and, if worse comes to worst, you can always take up semi-permanent residence under Brian's desk so you can be ready to suck him off whenever he needs it. Right?"

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead to ward off the headache he felt stirring at the base of his skull. "Mel, you shouldn't say things in the heat of anger that you'll regret later. And maybe you should stop and think about your own personal history, before you start ranting about anybody's failures in fidelity. You know you don't mean that."

"The fuck I don't. And don't you dare lecture me about fidelity. Lindsey betrayed me - first with the fucking artist and then - then by defending him, by taking his side against me, by giving in to her longing to spend her life in his fucking bed. And I'm tired of having to waltz around and bow to everyone's perceptions of the mighty Kinney. I don't understand how you can delude yourself into thinking you'll ever worm your way back into his good graces. For God's sake, Ted, you committed the one true cardinal sin; you outed his precious Gus to the world. And if anything happens to that kid because of what you did - anything at all - than you're a dead man. That's the bottom line."

Ted drew a deep breath. "You know, I didn't exactly do that alone. And I thought that Gus . . . I thought you cared about him too. But maybe you just can't get around how much he reminds you of Brian. More with every passing day, I think. But the bottom line is that you're wrong. I will find my way back. All I have to do is show him how much he needs me, how much I can do for him, how much better off he is with me, than without me. And I already know how to do that."

She was silent for a moment, obviously considering her response, and resisting an urge to explain or defend her shifting allegiance to the child who had once been one of the most important people in her life. "You're delusional, Ted," she said finally, wearily. "You don't cross Brian Kinney and come back from it. He's no good at forgiveness."

Ted sighed, suddenly besieged by memories he would have preferred not to have. "Isn't he?" he replied. "Sometimes I . . . I wonder if he's not better at it than any of us."

This time, she actually snorted, obviously running out of patience. "And what - exactly - have we all done to need forgiving?"

The accountant almost gave her an answer - a list he knew she would resent intensely and dispute angrily. But she could dispute all she wished; that would not change the truth of it. He sometimes wished he were blessed with a less brutally honest memory, because he would prefer to forget some things, particularly whatever debts he and his friends and acquaintances might owe to Brian Kinney. It should be easy to forget them, because it was certain that Brian himself would never bring them up. So why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he just let them go, and forget all the details, the little circumstances that seemed unimportant in themselves, but loomed so large when added together? And then he wondered - but only briefly - how Melanie's memory could be so selective. The answer, of course, lay in the vitriolic nature of her perceptions of Brian, But while she had evidently found a way to deny fundamental truths, he was not so skilled in the art of denial; he could not refuse to remember that, when all the extraneous emotional trivia was set aside, Melanie had reaped major blessings from many of Brian's actions, and it shouldn't matter that the benefits to her had been incidental, or that Brian would probably not have bothered to spit on her if she combusted spontaneously. Should it?

He drew a deep breath, knowing what he needed to do, but finding he had little taste for it. Nevertheless, it had to be done if he were to have any hope of succeeding in his campaign to regain what he'd lost. He couldn't afford to waste his time worrying about these details. He had a goal to achieve, and he knew exactly how to do it, for he knew - better than most - that Brian had more than one Achilles heel. Yes, Justin and Gus were the center of the man's life, but he had other weaknesses. His first priority might be the well-being of the people he loved most, but he also had a profound fondness for his privacy, his luxurious lifestyle, and the thing that provided him the opportunity to have it all.

Brian Kinney liked money. And Ted Schmidt was deep into a complex plan to make sure his employer would always have plenty of it - a plan he considered fool-proof.

True, Brian might never love Ted, which mattered not at all. Ted didn't need his love - had never even spared a thought about how to obtain it. Well, almost never. But Brian would be eternally grateful to anyone who could make sure that his lifestyle choices would never be limited by a lack of funding.

Brian Kinney was going to wind up an exceptionally rich man, and Ted Schmidt was going to be the person who made it happen, with a little luck.

But if he were going to succeed in his plans, if he had any hope of regaining what he'd lost, he had to make some hard choices. After all, loyalty to a friend or acquaintance could not compare to loyalty to himself and the person who would control his future. Could it?

"Look, Mel," he said slowly, "I know how you feel about Brian. And I understand it completely. You blame him for all the bad things that happened in your marriage and your life. But he wasn't holding a gun to your head, was he? You were glad enough to use the money he provided to enable all of you to live a better life, weren't you? You only objected when things didn't go your way, and . . ."

"Okay, Ted," she said dryly, "I get it. In order to worm your way back into his inner circle, you've got to distance yourself from anyone who's on his shit list. Right?"

"No, of course not, but . . ."

"But," she interrupted sharply, "maybe it would be better if we didn't see each other for a while. Or appear to be conspiring against the Master. Right?"

"Well," he said softly, "when you put it that way . . ."

There was a pause then, and both hesitated to say more, sensing that they were standing at a crossroads, and their next step might be critical to whatever the future would hold. "You're fooling yourself, Teddie," she said finally, slightly surprised that she was really feeling a sense of loss, of friendship betrayed. "He's never going to give you what you want. Never. You might have conned yourself into believing that you were a charter member of his private club, but you never were. And you never will be."

She fell silent with a sigh, realizing she was wasting her breath. No matter what she did or how much she might deserve his loyalty, she would never be able to compete with the golden boy, aka fucking Brian Kinney - the man who had taken away her partner, her son . . . her life.

This would just be one more thing she could blame him for; by this time, the list was almost infinite.

"Please, Mel," he said softly, "don't be that way. We're still friends. Nothing can change that. It's just better if . . ."

"I haven't been in a closet since I was a kid, Ted. And I'm sure as hell not going to go back into one now, just so we can keep our friendship on the QT. So it looks like you've got a choice to make."

He didn't say anything; he tried to not even breathe too loudly.

"Yeah," she said finally, wearily. "That's what I thought."

"Mel . . ."

But he was too late. She was gone.

He sat motionless for a while, fighting an urge to call her back, to grovel and beg. He didn't have that many friends; not true friends anyway. Lots of acquaintances; lots of people who turned to him for favors and advice and financial guidance, but not true friends, people who had no interest in using him. But Melanie. He closed his eyes and huffed a small sigh. In some ways, she had used him too, as a buffer against the slings and arrows flung at anyone who dared to stand against Brian Kinney, and - as a result - he had garnered more than his share of bruises.

He would miss her, though - miss having someone to run to whenever he had another complaint about Brian, because he had always known that she would inevitably take his side. Never once had she suggested he might want to rethink his viewpoint. That, in itself, had been reassuring.

But there were other things that would more than make up for losing a sympathetic ear.

Moving slowly, he reached down and unlocked the bottom drawer of the credenza behind his desk and extracted a thin manila folder. Remembering her semi-snarky observation - and only feeling a little bit paranoid - he was careful to shield the contents of the file with his body, as he went over the information provided there once more. Looking for the catch, for the detail that would render his plans untenable.

But there was nothing. Perhaps it wasn't quite as certain as he wanted to believe, but he honestly couldn't see how it could fail, especially when he considered the source. Always providing he could convince Brian to trust him again, to allow him to proceed with the plan. Of course, Brian could choose to take care of the details himself, if Ted divulged everything, showed him the full scope of the project. But the accountant was counting on the fact that Brian had never had much interest in handling the nuts and bolts of financial dealings - had always preferred to leave such matters in the hands of his financial advisers. Like Ted. But that had been before . . . before one fatal mistake had torn down the trust that had existed between them.

He had to rebuild that trust, and this . . . this would provide the building blocks to do that.

He closed his eyes, offering up a silent prayer of thanks, for he knew he'd been incredibly lucky. He had been in need of a miracle, and he had stumbled across exactly that. He didn't bother trying to fool himself into thinking he had discovered this potential treasure by virtue of his cleverness or his skills; he had simply been in the right place at the right time. And - for once in his life - known the right people. Even Brian would not be able to deny that, although he might have some initial misgivings. But those would surely be dismissed as trivial once the man realized what a bonanza awaited him.

Now, Ted just had to perfect his timing, and get everything in place. It had to be perfect.

When his cell phone rang again, he almost ignored it, fearful Melanie might have reconsidered. He honestly regretted that his relationship with her might prove to be a casualty of the plan he was hatching, but - for the moment - her action, equivalent to walking out in a huff - might be to his advantage.

But it wasn't Melanie on the phone. It was Blake, who sounded just slightly put out when Ted decided to answer after a half-dozen rings. "Where are you? I thought we were going to the Lodge for dinner."

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry, Honey. I got busy and . . ."

"Ted, it's after eight, and you left the house at seven this morning. What on earth can be so important that you . . ."

"Look, Blake, I'm not ready to go into it, OK? This is just . . . it's something I have to do, if I'm ever going to be able to get my life back."

Blake was silent for a moment, except for a heavy breath. "Your life? That's funny. I had this weird idea that I was your life, Ted. Isn't that what you told me - back when you had some interest in building our future together ? Now - now, you seem to be obsessed with the idea that you can rewrite the past somehow. And that . . . that can't be done, Ted. You can't go back and unmake a mistake. The only thing you can do is try to avoid making the same mistake again. Brian is . . ."

"Is what? Is going to just magically forgive and forget and allow me back into his life? Is going to trust me again? You don't know Brian, Blake, and I don't know why you'd assume that you do. You've never been close to him, and you don't know how it feels to . . ."

"To what? To betray someone who believed in you. Better think again, Ted. I know that feeling better than anybody."

"That is not what I did."

Another beat of silence. Then Blake sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice was heavy with grief. "Teddie, if you want this whole mess resolved, you have to first be honest with yourself. Using anger and resentment as a refuge against your own feelings, and spending all your time placing blame . . . it's not going to solve anything, and ultimately, it's only going to result in more anguish for you. I want to help you get through this; I really do. But I can't help if you refuse to look at the whole picture."

"You think this was my fault." Ted's reply was icy, strident with rage. "You think he was right not to trust me, and to blame me for . . ."

"I think he had a right to hold you accountable, Ted. And so do you. That's what this is all about. Deep in your heart, you know you made a mistake, even though you never meant to. Your motives were above reproach, but . . . I'm sorry, but your emotions got in the way, and you acted without thinking things through. And now, now you're so desperate to excuse yourself, to cover your failings and rewrite what happened, that you're doing it again. You're refusing to man up and . . ."

"Man . . . up?" Ted laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Is that really what you're saying to me. The ultimate twink is going to tell me to 'man up'? That would be funny, if it weren't so pathetic. You know who you remind me of right now? Emmett Honeycutt. Neither one of you have the balls to take control of a situation. And you think you know anything about Brian Kinney? You don't have a clue - no more than Emmett does. Emmett's just fooling himself into thinking he means anything to Brian. Brian uses people; that's what he does. And when he doesn't need them any more, he just throws them out with yesterday's garbage. That's what's in store for Emmett. But I'll be damned if I allow that to happen to me. I'm going to show him and you. He's going to learn just how much he needs me, and you . . ."

He paused to draw a deep breath. "I guess you just have to figure out which side your bread is buttered on. I really thought I was taking good care of you, but I guess . . ."

"Really?" Ted was surprised when Blake interrupted him. "Is that really what you thought, Teddie? Because I thought we were taking good care of each other."

When the line went dead, Ted had to fight off an urge to throw his uber-expensive I-phone across the room. Then he had to fight off an equally powerful urge to get up, go into Brian's office and retrieve a full bottle of Chivas Regal from the perpetually well-stocked bar and proceed to empty it methodically.

But he didn't. He couldn't afford to fall off the wagon at this point. He had too much to lose.

And he hadn't really lost Blake; he was sure of that. Blake would come around in time. If nothing else, he would be enticed back into Ted's arms by the overpowering smell of success, once his plans came to fruition. Nothing was a more powerful aphrodisiac than power, after all.

Blake would sulk for a while, but, in he end, he would understand his errors; he would understand that his partner was blameless, a victim of the evil machinations of that scheming woman and those of Brian's entourage who supported her. He would applaud when Ted emerged triumphant from the battle that lay ahead.

Blake would see the light; he would understand. He must. Otherwise - well, otherwise didn't bear thinking about.

Ted returned to his compulsive perusal of the information in his ultra-secret file, visions of Brian's look of amazement and undying gratitude in his head as he examined his options.

He could hardly wait.

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

In Toronto, spring was still an ephemeral wisp of promise, not yet realized beyond an occasional bright, comfortable afternoon. And night was still a relentless process of darkness leaching away any scrap of the warmth of the day.

Melanie knew she should have gone home already, that lingering here in her office was not going to remedy anything, especially since the only way it felt like "her" office was because everyone else was already gone. As much as she liked to maintain that she was still the same person, personally and professionally, the simple truth was that the Canadian government did not consider her sufficiently trained to practice law in Canadian courts. For the moment, she was limited to assisting the licensed barristers of the firm, and it mattered not at all that she was brighter, more knowledgeable, and better trained than 75% of them.

Adding insult to injury, she was currently earning less than half of what she had pulled down in Pittsburgh.

It hadn't mattered in the past. Lindsey's income had offset some of the loss, and . . . well, she didn't dwell too much on where the rest of the money had come from. It had come, and it had served its purpose, in providing a good, comfortable life for her and her partner and their children, in a pleasant, spacious family home.

And now - now she was left facing the bitter truth; she could not afford to continue to pay the rent on the house they had shared.

She loved that house. It had been perfect for them, just as their life had been almost perfect.

And now Brian had taken it all from her, and the thought of him gloating over her losses was almost as painful as the losses themselves.

She didn't waste any time evaluating the logic she'd used in arriving at her decision to blame him for everything. It was his fault; it had always been his fault.

She spent a few minutes thinking about something she almost never allowed herself to think about: what her life would have been like had she never heard of Brian Kinney - how different her marriage to Lindsey would have been if he had never infected her lovely, high society wife with a hopeless need for his approval (and an equally hopeless lust for his affection); how perfect it would have been to watch her son being born if his biological father had been some nameless, faceless sperm donor instead of the infamous Stud of Liberty Avenue. Deliberately, she stopped at that point, ignoring how great the financial burdens would have been without Brian's contributions. That was something she didn't wish to acknowledge.

And now - now she had to deal with the barracuda Brian had found to challenge her in court. The name Liam Quinn had meant nothing to her at first, but it sure as hell meant plenty now. She had spent the entire day researching Brian's new attorney - a man known to many in legal circles as "The Shark" - and she wanted to believe that what she had learned hadn't frightened her. But she couldn't quite pull it off.

She had gradually come to the reluctant conclusion that her options were becoming more and more limited. If she couldn't get any help from those who'd previously supported her in her guerilla warfare with Brian (and she wasn't particularly optimistic, especially after her conversation with Ted) she was going to have to resort to more extreme measures.

If only there were some plausible course of action which didn't involve taking her daughter and disappearing into some Godforsaken backwater village in the perpetually twilit regions of Alaska. Otherwise . . . well, there was also what she privately termed the Eastern option; she'd never had the slightest interest in exploring her ethnic origins, but, in the end, she might have no other choice. Brian Kinney was proving to have very long arms, but even he couldn't reach into the staunch fortresses of Tel Aviv. Only - she really didn't want to go to Israel, even though her nemesis had once pointed out that she'd have been a perfect candidate for Mossad training as a toddler. And she had to admit that the idea held a certain appeal, given what she'd like to be able to do to those who made her life miserable.

But she knew she was being silly. Mossad and motherhood definitely did not mix, in the first place, and she was too old, in the second. Another painful admission

Besides, she didn't want to go to Israel. She didn't like sand.

So she needed to find another way, another approach. Another source of assistance. She rubbed her temples with rough fingers, understanding she really had no choice. She needed an ally, and there was only one who would even consider listening to her appeal; one with whom she still had an automatic "in"; one who, through an incredible ability to practice self-delusion, might be able to withstand the systematic assaults perpetrated by Brian's relentless lawyer.

She took a deep breath before dialing a familiar number.

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


Dinner had been surprisingly good, thanks to Emmett and his determination to always be prepared for anything. Even though he was currently hundreds of miles away from home, playing nanny to both Brian and Justin, he had not failed to prepare for his absence. The proof lay in the freezer residing in the pantry of the semi-palatial residence recently purchased by star quarterback Drew Boyd. As of this particular moment, the retired football player/cum part owner of the Iron Men football franchise was still the sole proprietor and owner of the house, but - with a bit of luck - that was only temporary. He hoped.

In the meanwhile, until he was able to convince his lover to stop being silly and forget his foolish pride and accept joint ownership of the home which had - essentially - been bought for him, Drew saw no reason not to avail himself of the fruits of Emmett's compulsion to dote on the man he was beginning to identify as the love of his life. That doting - fortunately - included making sure Drew never went without an exquisitely prepared meal and never had cause to go looking to find someone to cook it for him.

Thus, on this lovely spring evening, feeling his solitude a bit too keenly, Drew had extended an invitation to members of Emmett's circle - and one newcomer - to join him for dinner.

Preparation had consisted of little more than thawing and warming the dishes Emmett had prepared weeks ago, but the looks of satisfaction on the faces of the diners indicated that nothing more had been required. The main dish - Beef Carbonnade with Sauce Bordelaise- was a relatively new result of Emmett's culinary experiments, enjoyed by all, but the true hit of the night was a concoction which had come to be known as Emmett's signature creation - a vegetable dish called corn maque choux. Neither Drew nor Emmett knew exactly what the term 'maque choux' might mean; while it was a dish well known in New Orleans and Cajun country, Emmett claimed that the term was actually Indian in origin. But in the end, it didn't matter that no one understood the meaning of the words. It only mattered that it was truly a dish to die for, and Liam Quinn obviously agreed, having gone back for seconds and then thirds before the meal had ended.

A savory side dish of potatoes lyonnaise - also a product of Emmett's advance preparations - a huge salad provided by Debbie, and the mocha cheesecake that Michael and Ben had picked up from their favorite bakery rounded out the meal perfectly, and Quinn had contributed three bottles of Cakebread 2008 Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon, which might not quite measure up to the finest French reds, but came very close. In addition, it had a lovely rich black cherry/black current bouquet which all of the diners enjoyed immensely.

As they all sat back from the table, well stuffed and trying not to groan, it was Quinn who raised his glass of the excellent vintage, took a moment to appreciate the aroma, and offered up a toast to the absent chef.

"To Emmett!" he proclaimed.

Debbie, Michael, Ben, and Drew all lifted their glasses, and the light in Drew's eyes was bright and more than a bit proprietary.

"I don't think my waistline could tolerate too many meals like this," the lawyer continued with a rueful smile.

"Yeah?" said Drew with a smile. "He'll consider that a challenge, you know. If he can't make you run screaming for the nearest gym to compensate for inches gained, he'll take it as a personal failure."

Quinn laughed. "I can see that Pittsburgh could be hazardous to my health."

"So," said Debbie, pleasantly sated and only slightly resentful that she had overindulged in something not drowning in marinara sauce, "does that mean you'll be staying on?"

The lawyer smiled, but there was something not quite right - not quite warm - in his eyes. "I doubt it, Mrs. Novotny. Most of my work is in New York and Washington. And when I say there are hazards here, I'm not just talking about my waistline."

Ben and Drew - and even Michael - were perceptive enough to avoid further questioning, but subtlety had never been Debbie's strong suit. "What else? This is a great city, and - with your connection to Brian - you're already part of the in crowd. So what's . . ."

Liam Quinn thought he'd never in his life been so glad to hear a phone ring, even if it wasn't his own. The harmonic ringtone - Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive - was enough to break Debbie's train of thought so she fell silent mid-question.

It was Michael who fished his cell out of his pocket.

With one "hello" and one split second of silence, it was obvious that the caller was not someone he'd expected to hear from. Another second and a slow blink and it was equally obvious that he was alarmed, bordering on frightened.

Everyone had gone silent - fortunately - so no clatter of voices betrayed the fact that Michael was not alone.

"Melanie," he said finally, with a soft sigh, "I'm not sure we're supposed to be . . ."

He paused, obviously interrupted, which gave Liam Quinn the opportunity to lean forward, extract the phone from Michael's clinched fingers, lay it on the table, and engage speaker mode. A quick look of resentment, followed by reluctant acquiescence, was Michael's only response.

". . . pected you would bow down and let Brian's mouthpiece run roughshod all over you and keep you from even talking to me, even though I'm the mother of your only child. Probably the only one you're ever going to have. But that's not important, is it? Because I'm not Brian fucking Kinney - your one true love. Tell me, Michael, does Ben know that - in your heart - there's only one man who'll ever be enough for you? Only one man who can demand that you bend over and . . ."

"Stop, Mel." Michael's voice was hoarse and harsh, and broken with tears waiting to be shed. "Just stop. You think I haven't thought about all of this - that I've somehow forgotten that you're J.R.'s mother and I need to be a part of your life if I've any hope of being a part of hers. You can't really believe I don't know that."

"Then what are you doing?" she demanded, not allowing him a moment to think. "Why are you turning your back on me, on us?"

"I'm not," he sighed. "I love my daughter, and I'll do anything I can - for her and for you - in order to give her a good life. I honestly don't know what you expect from me, Mel, or why . . ."

"I expect you to remember where your loyalty lies," she retorted. Then she did pause to draw a deep breath. "And I expect you to help me put my life back together. For her and for me. It can still be OK, Michael, because . . . because they'll listen to you. Even he will listen to you."

Michael lifted his eyes then to meet the steady gaze of Liam Quinn, who hesitated only briefly before nodding his encouragement; Michael suppressed a sigh, understanding that whatever Melanie had to say needed to be heard - by him and by the man who would ultimately represent him in court. But that didn't make him feel any less guilty for allowing her to continue. "Mel, what do you expect me to do? I'm sorry, but you know Lindsey isn't going to listen to me. And I don't know what I'd say to her, even if she would. You have to realize . . ."

"Oh, don't strain yourself, Michael." Her voice now was almost a snarl. "I know full well they've convinced you that I don't deserve any sympathy or mercy in this mess; that Lindsey and Gus have been victims of my greed and arrogance, and that Brian . . . Jesus! That Brian has behaved like some kind of fucking saint. And if you're stupid enough to believe that bullshit, then I feel sorry for you. But that doesn't change anything where J.R. is concerned. Listen to me now. In order to get her - not to mention my so-called partner and her mini-Brian - to a safe place, I had to give up my ability to earn the kind of money required to keep us all in the manner we enjoyed before. As I'm certain your legal beagle has told you, I can't even practice law here in Toronto - not until I've completed a new course of study here and re-qualified, assuming I can pass the bar exam here, and that'll take at least another year. And since Lindsey took to her heels and abandoned me, my income has been drastically reduced. Now, how am I supposed to support our daughter? Do you want us living in some tacky, rat-infested housing project, with me working two jobs to put food on the table and hiring some illiterate high school drop-out to babysit her? Is that what you want?"

Michael sighed. "No, of course I don't. And I'll do anything to prevent that. But, Mel, you also know I don't have the kind of money you used to get from . . ."

Her laugh was bitter. "From Brian? You think I don't know that, Mikey? She never said it, but I'm not stupid enough that I didn't know. And I'm sure you all think it was because he loved his son - and Lindsey - so much, but that wasn't it, you know. It was about power - his power over us. With Brian, it's always about power."

Michael was silent for a moment, meeting Quinn's gaze again, and noting a quizzical look in the lawyer's eyes. "Then tell me what you want me to do, Mel. I will do anything I can - anything - but I just don't know . . ."

"He loves you, you know." She did not sound like she was happy to admit such a thing. "Not like he loves Justin, of course; that's more like an obsession, accompanied by a certificate of title. But he really does love you. It might be the only pure, unselfish feeling he's ever had. Which means he'd do almost anything for you. If you asked him nicely."

"And exactly what . . ." Michael had to pause to swallow around the lump in his throat. "What do you want me to ask him?"

She was not so quick to answer this time, and Liam Quinn wondered if he was the only person who understood that she was trying to find a way to swallow her pride. "If you make him see . . . you know, Gus will still think of J.R. as his sister, no matter what happens between me and Lindsey. If he sees that, then will he really want his pride and joy to have to watch his sister grow up in poverty?"

"There is another way, Mel." Michael was a bit surprised to find a tiny thread of steel running through his tone. "You could come back here. You have a good professional reputation here, and there are plenty of law firms that would be glad to hire you. And Ben and I would be glad to contribute to help you cover J.R.'s expenses. That way, you wouldn't . . ."

"Wouldn't what? Wouldn't be beholden to the Mighty Kinney? True enough, I guess. But it also means he gets everything to work out his way. He gets to ignore me and my daughter like we don't exist; he'll use his money and Lindsey's feelings to keep her and Gus away from me, and he'll walk away from this entire debacle without ever paying the price for his . . ."

"For his what, Mel? Are you still determined to act as if he betrayed you? Do you ever stop and remember what happened to him - how he looked when they brought him into the hospital that night? What on earth could he have done - could anyone have done - to deserve that?"

He was surprised when she sighed. "I should have known you'd see it that way. Faithful little Mikey, always hanging around waiting for him to toss you a bone. Are you ever going to grow some backbone and . . ."

"I think," he said firmly, "I just did. I've already told you that I'll be there for my daughter and for you. But I won't betray my best friend either. Because that's what he is, Mel. Whether you believe it or not doesn't change anything. I let myself forget that once, and I won't do it again. It almost destroyed us both. But look, I don't want to fight with you over this; I just want what's best for J.R, and now you have to decide if that's what you want too. Which means more to you - defying Brian and getting some kind of petty revenge against him or giving our daughter the best life you can? That's what you have to decide."

"And what if I decide that her future is best served by exploring our ethnic roots? My father has plenty of ties in Israel, Michael. Just think about that, when you're telling yourself you're doing the right thing, the noble thing, by standing up for your childhood hero. Think of what you're risking; then ask yourself if he'd do the same for you. Maybe that'll console you enough so it won't matter that your daughter could wind up on the other side of the world and far beyond your reach."

She hung up then, slamming the phone down to the accompaniment of a particularly vile curse.

For a moment, no one at the table spoke, and Michael went deathly white as he closed his eyes and fought to breathe.

Ben moved quickly, leaning over to wrap comforting arms around his husband's shoulders and press gentle lips against his temple, but it still took a few moments for Michael to regain some modicum of control, while Debbie sat wringing her hands, for once at a loss for words - or maybe just questioning whether or not she should speak her mind in present company.

Finally, Michael took a deep breath, and looked up, his eyes shadowed with dread as he zeroed in on Liam Quinn's solemn expression. "Can she do that?" he asked.

"No," Liam answered quickly. "That's already been addressed. In the first place, Brian was quick to realize she would probably resort to this kind of threat, and, in the second, that was one of the first things I checked out when he retained me to represent you. Frankly, I doubt she'd really try it. I've done some background checks on Ms. Marcus, and it's pretty obvious she's fond of her creature comforts. That's not to say she isn't devoted to certain causes; she is. But she's never really shown much interest in practicing her religion or exploring her ethnic/religious origins.

"But none of that really matters in these circumstances. The courts have already issued an injunction preventing her from leaving the country with J.R - which is only a matter of form, since you share custody. No one can legally transport a child across international borders without the consent of both custodial parents. Their passports have already been flagged."

"But J.R. . . ."

"Is still in Florida with her grandparents. And likely to stay there for a while, I think. Remember, Ms. Marcus was only allowed to take her to Toronto in the first place because you agreed to it. Under the circumstances, she'd find it difficult to do it again."

Michael sighed. "God! I didn't want to disrupt their home. I just want my daughter to be safe and happy and not too far away. If Mel finds a way to . . ."

"She won't, Michael."

"But if she does . . ."

"Look," Liam said firmly, "the only possible way she could manage that would be to go outside the law, and, if she does that, she forfeits her license to practice in this country and most others. Do you really think she'd risk that? From what I've seen, her whole life has been about pulling herself up and gaining the respect of clients and peers. She won't."

Michael finally nodded. "But if she does," he said softly, "I'm going to hold you accountable."

Quinn smiled. "I can live with that."

"And so will Brian."

A quick flicker of something flashed in the attorney's eyes, but he kept smiling, as he got to his feet. "I'll just make one phone call, shall I? To make sure all the precautions are in place."

"Yes." Debbie was eager to have him seek privacy elsewhere, and grant the same to her and her son. "You do that."

Quinn - being nobody's fool - was pretty sure he could guess how the conversation would go in his absence, but he moved away anyway. It was not part of his job description to run interference between Debbie Novotny and her offspring; that he would leave to Michael himself and his spouse, who was looking like a lowering thundercloud as Quinn left the room.

The lawyer found his way into a cozy den, a room with raw silk walls in hues reminiscent of fine whiskey or brandy, and took a seat in a leather chair with a splendid view of the brilliantly illuminated free-form swimming pool beyond the broad sweep of glass doors. He lifted his phone to dial the number of his assistant, knowing she would be instantly available to follow his instructions, no matter the time of day or her circumstances at the moment. Her fiancé had often bemoaned the fact that they would probably never get a chance to reproduce as their lovemaking was almost always interrupted by a demand from her boss.

But not this time, for his phone rang before he could dial.

"Liam Quinn."

"Good evening, Counselor."

The attorney settled back into the silken softness of the leather upholstery, and took a deep breath before answering. "Agent McClaren. How can I help you?"

"Me? Why would I need your help? Your client, however - that's a different thing."

"Sorry." Quinn was not quite successful in suppressing a smile. "What does Brian need?"

McClaren did not answer immediately, and Quinn heard the rasp of a match. "You know that'll kill you one day, don't you?"

"Yeah, well, blame your client. Before this, I'd kicked the habit - almost."

"Then you know he's a dangerous man."

"Yeah, I do." It was obvious in the laconic tone of his voice that he knew full well that Quinn was not really talking about the health risks of tobacco.

"So . . . what does he want?"

"How do you feel about conspiracies?"

Quinn laughed. "Depends on what I have to do, and who I'm conspiring against."

"You alone?"

Quinn hesitated, not quite sure he wanted to answer that question and not quite sure why. "For the moment. Why?"

"Because this has to stay between us, or he's going to have both our heads on a plate. Understood?"

"Yes. What do I have to . . ."

"He's going to be in one place for a few days, but needs to appear to be in another. And because of the nature of where he's supposed to be, you're going to need to be out of sight - elsewhere - as well."

Quinn thought about it for a moment. "You're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

McClaren did not - quite - laugh. "Okay. Here's the scoop. For all intents and purposes, he's going to be in Washington, appearing before an FBI sub-committee investigating the details of his attack. And for that, he'd probably want you at his side. Ergo . . ."

"Okay. Now where's he really going to be?"

"He'd consider that a need-to-know situation."

"Yeah, well, if I'm going to contribute to the subterfuge, I need to know why. So I repeat - where's he going to be?"

The FBI agent hesitated, but only briefly. "A medical clinic in Colorado. They're going to run a series of tests."

"What kind of tests?"

"If he wants you to know that, he'll tell you."

It was Quinn's turn to hesitate. "If I come to the clinic, would I have access to him?"

"Don't see why not. He's not having surgery or anything; it's just tests."

The lawyer huffed a soft breath. "Tests, huh? Tests he doesn't want anyone to know about, so I repeat - what kind of tests?"

There was a long pause, a heavy silence without any indication that it would end anytime soon.

"So," Quinn continued finally, "you're not going to answer me."

"It's not my story to tell." Succinct, sharp, unyielding.

"You take trust issues very seriously, don't you?"

"My job." Again, volunteering nothing.

"All right," Quinn agreed with a small sigh. "I do need to talk to him about several questions that have come up, so is there any reason we can't kill two birds with one stone?"

"Don't see why not."

"So I will have access?"

"Yep."

"And . . ."

"And what?"

"How about you? Will I have access to you?"

Liam Quinn could almost hear the smile that touched that sculpted face, and the answer was an unexpected slow drawl. "Now why, Counselor, would you need access to me?"

The attorney chuckled. "You protect him your way, and I'll protect him mine. But I think it's better if we at least try to work together."

And Chris McClaren wondered why he found that idea vaguely alarming.

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

"All set," McClaren reported, as he re-entered the hospital room, "legal beagle and all." Brian was sitting up against a stack of pillows, going over documents faxed by Cynthia for his approval, but he looked up then, his expression projecting a silent question. The FBI agent said nothing more, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes - reassuring volumes.

"All set for what?" That was Justin, only slightly interested, but playing his role perfectly as expected, keeping an eye on everything that might remotely impact Brian Kinney.

Since the blond was currently standing at the window, studying the sharp shifting patterns of black and white in the silhouette of a weeping willow against a rising full moon, only the FBI agent had a clear view of Brian's face; thus, only he noticed the very slight narrowing of shadowed hazel eyes as the patient prepared to answer. "Washington," he said finally, very softly.

Justin's quick turn to face his lover was lacking anything of his usual grace, as was the squawk he made before finding his voice to echo the word. "Washington? What the fuck's in Washington?"

"Cherry trees, the White House - rich, corrupt politicians." Brian's response was flat, almost disinterested.

"For you, smart ass," Justin deadpanned with a huff that betrayed his lack of patience. "What's in Washington for you?"

Brian looked to McClaren, his face partially averted so that only the FBI agent was able to see and translate the plea in those dark eyes. A quick flash of anger in his own face informed Brian, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to owe his primary bodyguard a huge debt of gratitude.

"Well," drawled McClaren, "while I'm sure Stud Muffin here could find all kinds of ways for the two of you to play tourist and enjoy the amenities - like a leisurely fuck on the roof of the Kennedy Center or in the cockpit of the Enola Gay at the Smithsonian - in this particular case he won't have time or opportunity. He's got to appear before an FBI investigative sub-committee bright and early day after tomorrow."

"But I thought the investigation was happening in Pittsburgh," Justin protested, ignoring McClaren and speaking directly to Brian.

"So it is." The FBI agent replied, deliberately stepping forward so Justin could not quite avoid seeing him. "On the local level. But there are bigger issues involved. Brian's attack was just the tip of the iceberg, and the powers-that-be want to make sure they don't miss anything. The deeper this investigation goes, the bigger the names involved and the darker the purpose. So they want to talk to Brian personally."

Justin didn't look particularly pleased, but decided - with only a quick flash of irritation in his eyes - to drop his objection and move on to more pleasant topics. "So where are we staying? The Saint Regis? The Hay-Adams?"

Brian's smile was that of an adult indulging a child and guaranteed to annoy his young lover. "We," he said, very deliberately, "are not staying anywhere, since I am the one going to Washington, where the FBI is going to tuck me away in some luxury penthouse/safehouse for VIP witnesses under their protection, and you are going back to Pittsburgh, where you have lots of things to do."

"Now wait . . ."

"Come on, Sunshine. You know you have commitments waiting for you - paintings that you need to finish; a new studio to suss out. And . . ." he paused and smiled a very special smile - the one reserved for Justin and no one else, "a new life to plan for us - together. We're going to need a house, you know."

"Britin?" Blue eyes were suddenly alight with hope.

But that could not be. Brian - almost against his will - had kept an eye on the country house after he'd sold it and knew there was no going back, since it had been converted into a very successful bed and breakfast, and its new owners were raking in big bucks from it. "Not possible," he admitted. "But there are plenty of other places. Or - if you like - maybe we could find a perfect spot and build our own little Xanadu. You could even design it, if you like."

Justin's eyes were suddenly huge. "Me? Really?"

"You. Really. And don't even think about claiming you've never thought about doing something like that, because I know you too well to buy that. So you need to go to Pittsburgh, and I need to go to Washington where I'll be closeted morning to night with a bunch of stern, fat old men who'll bore me to tears until I can shake free and come home to you. Just knowing you're waiting for me . . . that's what I'll need to help me get through it."

Justin looked up then and saw that Chris McClaren was pretending to watch the last scenes of the Law and Order, SVU episode playing on the flatscreen TV, but his posture betrayed that he was actually listening to what should have been a private conversation. Justin sighed, and added an eye-roll for emphasis. "They won't all be stern, fat old men, will they?"

Brian grinned. "Now be reasonable, Sunshine. You wouldn't begrudge me a little eye-candy, would you? Just a bit of sweetness to keep me from going stir-crazy."

"Yeah?" Justin gave in with a crooked smile. "I guess I can live with that."

And for one brief, barely there moment, McClaren turned and allowed his eyes to meet those of the man whose life he was sworn to protect - the man who could never be any more than that. The glance said nothing; it also said everything.

"When are you going?"

"Turnage is supposed to release me in the morning, and the feds take over from there."

"So they're going to fly you to DC on a government jet?" Justin turned to McClaren for confirmation.

"Something like that," replied the FBI agent.

"And why am I only hearing about this now?"

McClaren decided to indulge in an eye-roll of his own. "Because the powers-that-be don't feel obliged to keep the rest of us in the loop until they're ready to crack their whip. We only just heard from them this evening."

Justin nodded - reluctantly - before turning back to face Brian. "So . . . after tonight, I won't see you again until next week?"

"I'm sure you'll survive," Brian observed with a smirk.

Justin was quiet for a moment. "Okay, then," he said finally. "Time's a'wastin'."

"Meaning . . . what?" McClaren looked confused.

"You need to go." Justin's tone was firm - reasonable, but unyielding.

"No, I . . ."

Brian, spotting the gleam in his lover's eye, chuckled his appreciation. "I think he's serious, McFed. You really need to go."

"But I . . ."

Justin moved toward the bed, eagerly pulling his shirt over his head before unzipping and stepping out of his jeans, to stand for a single moment, poised within the golden cone of light cast by the bedside lamp - gilded, nubile, and beautiful. "Either go now," he almost purred, "or get ready to watch. Makes no difference to me. Either way, I'm about to say good-bye to the love of my life, in such a way that he'll be thinking of me every minute he's away. When I'm done, he may never walk again."

"Shit!" McClaren really, really didn't like having Brian out of his sight, as he knew that he was completely responsible for the man's well-being.

"Not to worry, McFed." Justin's voice was silky and taunting. "I promise to take excellent care of him, if you'll just be a good boy and guard the door."

McClaren didn't so much walk out of the room as stalk, muttering obscenities under his breath. But he paused for one second as he reached the door and looked back, and there was a flicker of pain in his eyes - there and gone almost before it could form. He knew he would probably never see anything more beautiful than the tableau spread out before him. Ultimately, he turned away quickly, unwilling to see more; unwilling to know what would come next.

"You really shouldn't treat him like that," said Brian as Justin climbed into the bed and lowered himself to sit astride his partner's lap. "He's just doing his job."

"Yeah?" Justin breathed, leaning forward until he was close enough to share Brian's breath. "I'll apologize tomorrow. Now why don't you just shut up and let me do mine."

Ordinarily, just because he enjoyed being contrary and because, perversely, he usually reveled in a good, rousing fight with Justin, Brian might have argued, but this time he was completely distracted by a lapful of gloriously naked skin and soft irresistible lips that covered his own, as strong, insistent fingers stroked his chest, wandered down towards his crotch, and completely blew his mind.

Time enough to pick a fight later.


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